Chapter 10

Bloody hell, Nylander cursed to himself.

Just when he'd gotten the woman talking, she'd shut herself up like a clam. All right, then, he'd find another way. "What's your name?"

A laugh startled out of her and earned him a confounded side glance. "You know my name. I'm the Dowager Viscountess St. Alban. Lady St. Alban to you."

He could hardly contain a sarcastic snort. She'd been something other than a lady to him less than a fortnight ago. But they weren't acknowledging that. Right. "You can't have more than twenty-five years on you. Such an aged name for a young lady."

The long length of her spine went ramrod straight above the trot of her horse. That couldn't be comfortable. "I fail to see how my age has anything to do with my name."

"What's your given name?" he asked, trying the question a different way.

What had started as a ploy to keep her talking had turned into genuine curiosity. What was the woman's name, anyway?

Her head canted to the side, and he couldn't help noticing that, above her high collar, her neck was as graceful as a swan's.

"Why do you want to know my given name?"

"I'm wondering if it matches the one I have in my head."

She stabbed him with a glare that would've been described as murderous in a dark alley. "And what name would that be?" The question came low and wary.

He gave her a slow appraisal from head to boot. "Gertrude."

"Gertrude?" she all but shouted.

"Not Gertrude?" he asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

"Most certainly not," she huffed.

Another name occurred to him. "Obedience?"

She stared at him as if he'd sprouted two heads. "Do I look like an Obedience to you?"

"Perhaps not." This was fun. "I can't imagine any Obediences riding about in men's trousers."

"I'll have you know that these trousers are specially fitted to me, which makes them, in fact, ladies' trousers."

"No doubt about that, milady," he said, his voice gone to gravel in his throat.

His gaze raked up said trousers from shiny boot up the length of long, slender thigh. The woman was correct. Her trousers were, in fact, well-fitted.

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear his mind. He wasn't here to think about her particularly well-fitted trousers and what they were doing to the crotch area of his. He shifted on his saddle, hoping to adjust himself. Buttercup snorted in warning.

A splotch of red had crept above her high collar. Her Highness blushed in the specific way of redheads, like a subterranean wildfire sprung to the surface, sudden and full-blaze. It made her less elevated. Less lady, more woman.

"One more guess?" he asked.

Her lips pinched together and her gaze trained straight ahead, she nodded.

"Mildred."

"Mildred?" Incredulous eyes swung around to meet his. "You truly think my name Mildred? I'm beginning to wonder if I should feel insulted."

"I'll have you know that I've met many a lovely Mildred in my time."

"I don't care about being—" She hesitated. "Lovely." Her eyebrows drew together. "Since you likely won't stop with these ridiculous names, I shall tell you. My given name is Calpurnia."

"Calpurnia?"

"Does that come as a great surprise to you?"

"In truth, I thought you might be a Rosalind."

"A Rosalind? After the Shakespeare character?"

"Aye."

"Because I wear men's trousers?"

He nodded.

"You read Shakespeare?" The question sounded like an accusation.

"Not regularly."

Calpurnia was a strong name, a graceful name. An unexpected name. In all honesty, he'd half-expected one of those others to be correct. But he could see now that Calpurnia was the name that fit this woman.

"Callie," he murmured, half under his breath. He liked the sound of it.

Her head snapped around. "Why would you call me that?"

"Seems more natural than Calpurnia. That name carries considerable heft." The honesty fell from his lips of its own accord.

"That was the intention of it." She trained her gaze straight ahead. "My father didn't allow anyone to call me Callie, not even my brothers on a tease. Only my mama was afforded the liberty. Callie is the name of the girl who serves pints at your local public house or shovels coal into your fireplace. A Callie doesn't ascend higher than the lower-to-middling classes. Calpurnia, on the other hand, well, with the right connections and a large fortune, a Calpurnia can rise all the way to the upper tier of Society and elevate her entire family with her." An acid note sounded in her voice. "Through a strategic marriage, of course."

"This happened when you became the Viscountess St. Alban?" Nylander wanted this to be clear as glacial water. It was another layer peeled away from this woman.

Her mouth pulled wide into the semblance of a smile. "Social status achieved."

The mood took a strange turn from playful exchange to dead serious admission. It wasn't difficult to intuit the marriage hadn't been a happy one. Truth be told, he wanted to know more.

To what end? He was here to find out why this woman had made a deal with Jack Le Grand last night. He wasn't here to sort out capital "L" Lady problems.

Every Lady he'd ever met had a variation of this problem: all the money in the world, but a toad for a husband. And they wanted nothing more than to use Captain Nylander to soothe the problem into submission for the amount of time it took to reach climax.

Just like this one had done. Right.

"How about you?" she asked.

"How about me?"

"What's your given name?"

"John," he stated flatly.

Her brow lifted. "John? That's all?"

"What did you expect?"

A smile that contained no small amount of wickedness pulled at her mouth. That smile nearly knocked him from his horse. "Honestly?"

He nodded. Honesty was all he wanted from her.

"Ragnar."

His brow furrowed. "Ragnar?"

"Or some such Viking name from the tales one hears as a child." Her gaze went soft, and she pulled her reins, drawing her mount to a stop. "Oh, look at that. It's glorious every single time."

He tore his eyes from her and wrestled Buttercup to a fitful stop. Not a hundred yards in the distance stood row upon row of apple trees, heavy with ripe fruit, the rising sun peeking through lush green boughs in a warm golden glow. It inspired awe, stillness, and reflection. It was magic. This view wouldn't get old in an eternity of years.

A short series of three sharp barks broke the spell, and Her Highness's dog, Chance, shot down a narrow bridle path and disappeared into the orchard.

A gasp and a short cry emerged from her. "Look," she cried out, pointing. "Cows!" Then she, too, was off like a shot, spurring her horse faster with each stride.

Nylander squinted into the distance and, at last, saw what she and the dog were on about: in the aisles between the rows of trees lay several cows on their sides, their chests rising and falling in quick, shallow pants. He squeezed his knees to spur Buttercup on, just as Kip had instructed, but the infernal animal simply craned his neck and pinned him with a stubborn glare. The only thing preventing Nylander from jumping to the ground and coaxing the animal forward was the doubt that he'd be able to remount the beast.

"Oh, come on, Buttercup," he bellowed. To his amazement, the surly brute jolted into motion. He only just tightened his grip on the reins before he was left in the beast's dust.

By the time he caught up to Her Highness, she'd already dismounted and was kneeling beside a groaning cow, her hand rubbing along the animal's great, round stomach. "They've gotten into the apples. See how her belly is distended with gas?"

As if to illustrate her point, the cow farted the greatest gust of wind Nylander ever had the dubious pleasure of observing. He'd been raised on ships surrounded by men well-versed in every crudity known around the world. It was saying a great deal.

Her Highness didn't bat an eye. "There must be a dozen of them." Her eyebrows drew together. "How did they get here?"

"Strong breezes unlock gates all the time round these parts, I'd wager." It was as good a guess as any.

"That may be true, but it's more than a simple gate between these cows and this orchard. You saw the lay of the land. The way the pastures are configured…" she trailed, lost in her thoughts. "And the location of the barn where these girls would've been… It doesn't make sense. They couldn't have just wandered over."

"Are you saying that someone deliberately led them here?"

Her eyes flew up to meet his, and he saw the truth there: it was precisely what she wasn't saying. Her gaze shifted. "No, of course not."

She was lying. He had no doubt of it.

She gave another cry of distress and raced toward another afflicted cow. Every hair on his body stood on end, root to tip. Such a cry could easily be mistaken for a different sort of cry… a cry of exquisite distress the moment before a woman broke in release.

Hercry of exquisite distress before she broke in release.

He gave his head a good shake and tamped down his body's response before dismounting from Buttercup and following her on foot.

"She's choking." Her Highness dropped to her knees beside the afflicted beast, whose eyes were rolling back in her head, frantically swallowing and getting nowhere.

Her hand wrapped around the cow's chin and tipped the animal's head back, her eyes closed as she felt along its throat. "There." She frowned and seemed to arrive at a decision. "I don't think there's any other way."

"Any other way?" Slow dread crept along the question.

"She has an apple lodged in her throat."

"Should I fetch the animal surgeon?"

She shook her head. "There's no time for that. Besides, I've heard it's been done successfully."

The creeping dread solidified in his gut. "What is it?"

Her dark eyes locked onto his. He saw decision there. Determination, too. "We must pull it out."

Exactly what he thought she'd say.

She shrugged off her coat and unbuttoned her right sleeve before rolling it up in a series of jerky motions. "You will hold her head while I—" She hesitated. "While I reach my hand down her throat and pull the apple out."

"Won't she bite you?"

Her eyes narrowed on the animal. "I don't think so. Cows are docile creatures. But, um"—her certainty faltered—" perhaps you wouldn't mind holding her lower jaw in place?"

Nylander gave a curt nod by way of answer and began rolling up his sleeves. Just as she turned to her task, her eye snagged on his forearm and she stilled for a silent heartbeat, long enough for him to catch the look. His anchor tattoo. Which was the worst offender to her ladylike sensibilities? The tattoo? Or his bare skin?

She bent over the cow's head and, in a slow, soothing stroke, brushed her fingertips between the animal's eyes to the side of its mouth, where she began feeling around. "I think it would be best if you straddled her head. Use your knees to keep her immobile and her jaw open."

Nylander nodded. It was a good plan.

He maneuvered around the distressed cow, careful and slow, but it wasn't only for the animal that he exercised caution. It was for Her Highness, too, who had positioned herself directly across from him. His body's awareness of hers on high alert, he placed his feet to either side of the beast's head and met Callie's gaze, no more than a foot from his. "Ready?"

Her eyes wide and tense, she nodded, her tongue nervously skating along her bottom lip, leaving behind a thin sheen of moisture that had him transfixed for a long beat of time. He blinked to speed it away and wedged his fingers inside the cow's mouth, one hand taking hold of its upper jaw, the other the lower, readying himself to pull them apart. "The next time she belches, I'll secure her mouth open. Got it?"

Callie nodded.

He steadied himself and waited for the inevitable. At last, the cow discharged yet another belch. He averted his face from its noxious stench, even as he pulled her mouth all the way open and held. "Now," he barked, the syllable a rough command, every muscle from fingers to forearms to biceps to back straining to hold the cow's mouth wide.

Callie started to insert her hand and hesitated. He knew what that hesitation meant. She would have to trust him. Her eyes met his.

"I'll not let go, not until you're safe."

She gave a barely perceptible nod, sucked in a shaky breath, and plunged her hand into the cow's mouth.

He'd expected her face to screw up in disgust, for her to have a woman's reaction to it, but she didn't. Instead, she committed fully to the task. She sidled her body around, toward his, so her arm could slide deeper inside the cow. He caught her faint scent of citrus and apple blossom over the cow's stench.

"It's so strange," she began, as if she was talking to herself. "I can't feel… There… There it is," she said, her face awash in relief. Amazed eyes cut toward his. "I've found it."

"Can you get it out?"

Her face scrunched in concentration. "I just need to…" She shifted further around so that the entire left side of her body was pressed against his right, her shoulders and her hips digging into him for leverage as her arm dove deeper.

His body sprang to awareness, even as he attended to his one task, which was to ensure this cow didn't remove her ladyship's arm at the shoulder, for that was how far she'd sunk inside the great beast. It was entirely possible this woman would climb all the way inside the animal, if that was what it took to save it.

By now, she was panting hard, her breath puffing in and out, and he realized his was, too, in rhythm with hers as they strained toward their mutual goal: the removal of the stubborn apple.

"If I can get my fingers around…" Her movements became more subtle as she turned, the front of her squeezed hard against him. "There it is… I have it."

So close was she now, that when she'd spoken that last bit, her lips brushed against his throat. Her hot, humid words sent a shiver racing down his spine. A raw intimacy lay within this moment, unlike any he'd experienced with any other living being.

"I'm removing my arm now," she said. She hadn't noticed his reaction.

Her arm began emerging from the distressed, farting beast, slowly, by increments, so as not to harm the animal. Her body shifted away from his, too, and the ache of loss shot through him.

How long had it been since he'd had her? Since the night at the coaching inn, which was what? A fortnight past? Even though he regularly abstained longer than that when he was at sea, that night had left his body primed for more, reducing him to a man who lusted after a woman, who baffled and bedeviled him, through a putrid fog of cow farts.

Her hand appeared, clutching a mangled, slobbery apple, glistening in the newly risen sun. She tossed a triumphant smile his way. Muscles strained to their limit, he held the cow's jaws until he'd stepped over and behind the wild-eyed beast. Then he let go and jumped back.

The cow vented all her frustration and annoyance in a long, "Moo!" She kicked her legs a few times to gain momentum before rolling to her feet. Immediately, her confusion seemed to fall away, as if not much of any importance had just occurred, and she ambled off, presumably to swallow another apple whole.

In tacit agreement, Nylander and Callie collapsed to the ground, both panting, enervated heaps. An exhausted smile played about her lips. "I imagine your arms feel like jelly."

He made a show of trying to lift them before letting them flop to the ground. She exhaled a gusty laugh and slumped against the tree at her back. He'd never seen her so relaxed, so un-self-aware. He rather liked this Dowager Viscountess St. Alban.

His eyes drifted shut, the symphony of dawn surrounding them. The musical trill of birds risen with the new day. The sough of a gentle, easterly breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. The short in and out of her breath, soft and subtle and, oh, so familiar. Again, an ache, sexual and distinct, pulsed through him, and he instantly tamped it down.

His eyes blinked open and slid over to meet hers, already upon him. Something he couldn't identify resonated in their depths. Time slowed.

Of a sudden, as if the ground had turned to molten lava, she broke the contact and shot to her feet, busily dusting off her trousers. Time picked up its pace.

She spared him an impatient glance. "I must retrieve some men to get the cattle back to the cow house. Will you be able to ride?"

Nylander's arse protested beneath him that it wasn't getting back onto a horse today, perhaps ever. Besides, it seemed Buttercup had found other matters to attend elsewhere. "I prefer to walk."

This pulled a commiserating smile from her. "Best walk now while you can. Tomorrow, it won't be so easy."

From his low vantage point, he watched her grab her horse's reins in one hand and place a sure foot in the stirrup. On a quick hop, she swung her other leg across the animal's back and mounted in a swift, sure motion.

His prick jumped. Her ladies' trousers did quite a fine job of outlining the contours of her arse. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Thoughts like that would get him nowhere. Not with this woman.

Just before she spurred her horse into a gallop, she called over her shoulder, "And you can find your way back on your own?"

"I'll manage."

Without another word, she sped away, leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts and an orchard full of groaning, belching, farting cows who had their own worries. He rose, one slow increment at a time, his muscles already growing stiff. She receded into the distance, and he shook his head.

He couldn't help it, he half-admired the woman. She was capable. She was brave. The woman had heart. She didn't shy away from doing what was right when the moment required it.

And that was what had him stumped. Why had she done such a wrong thing by making a deal with a man like Jack Le Grand?

The circle of the Dowager Viscountess St. Alban, Callie, didn't square.