Chapter 11

"Should feel like you're running on a cloud."

Callie took the boot in hand and turned it over, testing its weight. She peered inside, then touched fingertips to soft, springy wool. "This is marvelous, Jane. How did you manage it?"

Callie bent to untie the laces of her boots and kicked them off her feet. Her stockings quickly followed. She wanted to feel the cloud against her skin. She slipped one foot, then the other, inside, and her eyes involuntarily drifted shut in bliss.

"Well, pet, it wasn't too tricky once I had the idea." Jane loved to explain her creative process in detail. "I separated the upper part of the boot from the sole and cut the wool to the exact shape. Then I sewed it all together. You'll see a bit of wool peeking out along the edge, but it shouldn't make any difference in the wet. Wool is impervious to the elements. Do you like them?" she asked, uncertainty in the question.

"Like them?" Callie's toes wiggled around in luxury. "Jane, you're a genius."

A shy smile lit across Jane's round face, a light blush pinking her cheeks. "Shall I fetch us a spot of tea?"

"I would enjoy that," Callie replied while the other woman retreated to the kitchen. Jane wouldn't want her to follow, so she remained in the cozy drawing room, her feet luxuriating in her friend's glorious invention.

Her friendship with the efficient, trustworthy Mrs. Jane Smith still took her by surprise. Callie had never been one for the deep attachments so many other girls and women cultivated with one another. But when she'd arrived at the Grange upon her marriage to Georgie and found herself in need of a necessary, and private, item, a servant had directed her to Smith's Emporium in the village. The store was rather less grand than its name suggested, but one could find a surprising number of goods within its narrow walls. It was there Callie first met Jane.

From the outside, Jane fit perfectly into the conventional world she inhabited. A petite, smiling woman, the sort who drew one in, not with her physical beauty, but with the beauty that shone from her warm eyes and smile. She took a diminutive role in the family business, was the mother of two boys and two girls, and employed a house maid like the prosperous business owner she was. Yet Jane wasn't entirely conventional, which was where her friendship with Callie had begun.

That first day, Callie had walked into the shop, not at all comfortable with asking for her necessary, and private, item. After circling the emporium's wares for a period of time that was beginning to foreground itself, Jane had sidled up to her and asked sotto voce, "Is there something special you'll be needing?"

"Well, I," Callie began and paused. "I need a pair of trousers." She paused again. "With the thinnest fabric possible."

Jane's head canted to the side. "For the viscount?"

How Callie wanted to say yes, but it wouldn't do. Georgie was three inches shorter than she and three stone heavier. "No."

"Is it true then?" Jane asked, a twinkle in her eye, her tone conspiratorial.

"Is what true?" Callie asked, fearing the answer.

Jane glanced around to make sure they were alone before leaning closer. "That you hie across the heath like a rabbit fleeing a wolf beneath the full moon?"

Callie opened and closed her mouth, mortified heat suffusing her body. "I think I'll go?—"

Jane wrapped a staying hand around Callie's forearm. "No, pet, stay. Pardon my bluntness. It's one of my principal faults." She released Callie. "Now tell me about these trousers you're needing."

Callie explained that the pair she'd been using for years, cast-offs from an older brother, had become so threadbare that they'd begun to fall apart.

Jane's eyebrows drew together in concentration as she paced around Callie in slow circles, appraising her for a full minute. At last, she stopped. "Come back for a fitting at three o'clock sharp tomorrow."

"Oh, I don't need them fitted to me," Callie said in a rush. "A general size will do."

"Oh, no, it won't," Jane protested. "You're dealing with the best seamstress between here and London. I'll not be selling you a pair of ill-fitting trousers. Besides, I'm curious."

"Curious?"

"Since you run in them, mayhap we can make a modification or two that will render them more comfortable. Do you ever get abrasions when you run around?"

"Oh, um," Callie stammered, this turn of conversation taking her quite by surprise. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Jane nodded her head and uttered an affirming, "Mm-hmm."

Mr. Smith strode into the store, and Jane's face returned to the distant affability of a friendly proprietor. "Remember, your ladyship, three o'clock sharp tomorrow for your fitting."

And, like that, their friendship was struck.

Every time Callie came to Jane with a problem with her trousers for chafing or her boots for blisters, a twinkly light entered the woman's eyes and a secret smile curled about her mouth. Jane enjoyed helping Callie defy convention. Further, she delighted in being a co-conspirator in the defiance.

It was the one act of rebellion in Jane's otherwise perfectly conventional life, and Callie was immensely grateful that it was she who inspired it. The woman was lightning with a needle, possessed of a rare combination of imagination and skill. Callie had yet to present her with a problem she couldn't solve. She liked being Jane Smith's little rebellion.

Jane bustled into the room, bringing with her tea, her specific aura of good-natured energy, and baby Pris, bright blue eyes trained on Callie, contented thumb stuck in her mouth, and affixed to Jane's chest with a series of criss-crossing straps. "Little pet woke from her nap," Jane said in a sing-songy voice meant for the babe.

"You're sure it isn't painful for Pris to be stuck onto you like that?" Callie asked. She still hadn't grown accustomed to this strange device that Jane had constructed.

"Not in the least," Jane breezed, setting the tea service onto a shiny, walnut sideboard with a light clink. As if to illustrate her mother's point, Pris's thumb popped out of her mouth and she started blowing bubbles of delight while her chubby legs kicked out. "Since she started crawling, it's the only way I can get any work done."

"Oh, that reminds me," Callie said, reaching into her reticule. She pulled out a small jar. "Mrs. Bailey made a fresh batch of apple sauce this morning."

"Pris, you see that? Your auntie Calpurnia has brought your favorite."

Pris expressed her delight with another round of slobbery bubbles, and Callie's insides went light with warring feelings of joy and longing.

Jane set the jar aside. "Now, Calpurnia, word has it that you have a visitor at the Grange."

Callie indulged an inward groan. The brightness of the room dimmed a few shades. "'Tis true," she had no choice but to admit.

A muted hum on her lips, Jane prepared the tea before settling across from Callie with Pris still strapped to her chest, twin sets of saucer-like eyes staring out at her with curiosity. "He's the talk of the village, you know," Jane stated.

"I can only imagine."

Jane brought her teacup to her lips and blew, cooling breath rippling the surface of the tea. "I've yet to see the man, mind you, but I've heard him described as a Viking by Mrs. Mayhew and as an angel warrior by Miss Patchett." Conspiratorially, she sat forward. "Mrs. Finch said he was too handsome to look at directly."

Callie swallowed a great, scalding gulp of tea, avoiding a coughing fit by sheer strength of will. "I'd say all those descriptors hit the mark."

Jane slumped back in her chair and exhaled a breathy, "Oh, my."

An intolerable, dreamy silence followed. Callie decided to insert some reality into this conversation. "The man is utterly insufferable."

"How so?" Jane wasn't immune to the lure of a good gossipy chat. Callie liked that about her friend more than she cared to admit.

Callie held Jane in her thrall as she gave an abbreviated account of how Captain Nylander had ended up her "guest" at the Grange. "Or Nylander as he insists on being called," she said finishing up.

"Simply Nylander?" Jane asked.

Callie nodded. A secret smile formed on Jane's lips. A shiver had possibly run up her friend's spine. For pity's sake.

That she'd omitted the part about Lord St. Alban wanting to sell the Grange to Captain Nylander, or even that St. Alban wanted to sell the estate at all, was of no consequence. No need to worry Jane about an event that wasn't going to happen.

"But what is it that makes him insufferable? Isn't he a useful sort, being a ship captain and all?"

Callie swallowed another gulp of tea. "I suppose he has his uses."

An image popped into her mind: his forearm muscles, hardened steel rippling beneath his skin, struggling, straining, to hold the cow's jaw open. He'd been quite useful at keeping her arm intact.

"It's just now that he's recovered, he turns up everywhere." The complaint emerged sour and pettish. "You don't have him hidden in your pantry, do you?"

Jane giggled like a girl in the schoolyard sharing a naughty joke. "Tell me more."

Callie proceeded to tell Jane about the way he'd made himself indispensable to Mrs. Bailey in the kitchens. Apparently, the man had amazing abilities with egg gathering, chicken coop repair, and root garden upkeep. She'd even heard the word magical applied to his butter churning abilities. "I can't seem to escape him, except when I run, of course."

Jane clasped her hands before her, the picture of rapt delight. "I did wonder at you arriving two hours before your usual time today. And at my back door. You gave Dorrie quite a fright, I can tell you."

Callie grimaced. "Please offer her my apologies. I didn't know how else to slip the man. Somehow, he turns up everywhere I am."

"Are you sure," Jane began and stopped. Was that a blush pinking her cheeks? "Are you sure he's not interested in you?"

"Interested? How—" Callie stopped. Her eyebrows drew together. Jane meant… Oh. "Interested in me?" Incredulity swelled up, and she barked out a hearty laugh. The idea was so ludicrous, it defied belief. "It's clear you haven't laid eyes on the man."

"Why is that?"

"Men like Nylander don't notice women like me," she stated with a lifetime of accumulated certainty.

Jane's head canted to the side. "You're a compelling beauty, pet," she said in that straightforward way she had.

Distress furrowed Callie's brow. "Me? A beauty?"

"Have you never taken a look at yourself in the mirror?"

"Oh, Jane, please let's not speak of this." Callie's discomfort grew roots.

"I'm sure Shakespeare could say it better, but your hair is the deep red the sun gets just before it sets in the western sky."

"Oh, I don't know, Jane, you might give Shakespeare a run for his money. My hair is orange."

"Oh, pish," Jane dismissed. "And I've always envied your height with those long legs of yours."

"Two spindly sticks. That's what my legs are."

"And the bones of your face are fine. Even your freckles are dainty and charming."

Callie harrumphed in dismissal. But her heart raced, and heat flushed up.

"If none of that is true," Jane continued, "then you must ask yourself a question."

"What is that?"

"Why is the man following you about?"

Callie went still. She'd been so annoyed with the blasted man that the question never occurred to her.

"Well, pet, it's clear as day to me that the man is besotted with you." Jane sat back in certain satisfaction. Somehow, Pris managed to mirror her mother's expression.

Callie set her teacup down in a too-loud clatter. "Jane, I just remembered a pressing engagement back at the Grange."

She shot to her feet and bolted toward the front door and the blessed freedom of the outdoors. Anything to escape Jane's absurd, erroneous, impossible conclusion. It was too much. The man didn't even remember their night together.

She was halfway through the entrance when she stopped dead in her tracks, instantly realizing her mistake. She should have left by the back. Not twenty feet away, he stood across the bustling High Street. Their eyes collided and held. Surely, the pummel of her heart against her rib cage would leave bruises.

"Calpurnia," she heard behind her, "you forgot your boots."

Callie swiveled and snatched the boots out of Jane's hands, hoping to make it fast so Jane wouldn't notice the blasted man, who was now ambling toward them.

"Why if it isn't Lady St. Alban," she heard at her back.

Her stomach curled. He'd already reduced the distance between them in half if the proximity of his voice was any indicator.

Lady St. Alban. Two days ago, he'd called her Callie. His voice had been a low, attractive rumble in his chest as if her name had brushed across crushed velvet to reach her. That rumble had made her knees go weak. It felt as if he'd claimed her name, and a deep, intractable part of her responded to the claiming.

Jane lifted onto her tiptoes and peered over Callie's shoulder. Her eyes went round as saucers, and Callie suppressed a groan. "Oh, my."

It was too late.

Unable to avoid the situation any longer, Callie sucked in a bracing breath and swiveled to face reality in the form of the approaching Viking. He stopped before them and offered a short bow, like a gentleman at ease with anything life threw at him. She couldn't quite summon the same quietude, not with Jane at her side, ogling the man like she'd never seen one.

In all honesty, it was likely she'd never seen a man like this one.

Callie cleared her throat. "Mrs. Smith, may I introduce Captain Nylander to you?"

"'Tis my pleasure, good sir." Her words were as bouncy as her curtsy. Pris clapped. Traitorous baby.

He nodded, his massive form diminishing Jane's front door stoop. "The pleasure is mine."

Jane looked as if her knickers had melted off her body. Just as Callie thought to slip past and leave the two to their graceless salutations, Mr. Smith stepped up to join their awkward, little party, a questioning light in his eyes. Breathless and flustered, Jane introduced her husband to Captain Nylander.

"My dear," Mr. Smith began, "might you be in need of a lie-down? You appear flushed."

"Right you are, Mr. Smith," Callie inserted. "I think we might all be in need of one. Now, if you will excuse me…" she trailed. She slipped past the trio and down the front steps, her heels a swift click-clack across the worn cobblestones of High Street.

Not a dozen footsteps later, she heard them, his footsteps quick at her heels. She wasn't getting away so easily, it appeared. Really, it was strange the way the man kept appearing at her side. Was there something to Jane's words?

No. That wasn't it.

Then why was the blasted man following her about?

He drew abreast of her and slowed his pace. Apparently, they were to walk together. She may as well ask him the question that had her curious. "Does that happen to you often?"

"What is that?"

She almost snorted. "Truly, you jest."

"I fear not."

"I'll have you know that Jane Smith is one of the most logical, curious, and plain-spoken women I've ever known. Yet upon meeting you, she was reduced to a tongue-tied puddle of jelly."

"You heard her husband. The woman was feverish." The Viking's tone had gone hard and oddly flat.

"Feverish?" Callie couldn't contain an unladylike snort. "That's certainly one way of explaining your effect on the woman."

Although she was neither touching nor looking at the man beside her, she sensed a gathering tension in him, as if all the muscles in his body had clenched into a tight fist. She couldn't help feeling she'd been unkind in some way. Strange. Most men would rise to her observation like a rooster in the hen yard. Yet for this man, the subject seemed like a raw spot that she'd scraped with a fingernail.

Tense silence filled in the space between them, and Callie was at a loss for how to bridge the distance. Fortunately, the Viking had better manners than she. "This is my first time seeing Upper Wyldcombe Lacey in the daylight. Is it always this busy?"

"Everyone is preparing for the Duke of Muck."

"There's a Duke of Muck?"

"The Baptism of the Duke of Muck," Callie clarified. "It's our town's harvest festival."

"Interesting name for it."

"It's mixed up with a bit of town history. But I can't imagine you'll be here to see it as your recovery seems well on its way."

She wasn't being subtle about her desire to see him gone. But the time for subtlety was past. High time the man cleared out.

He pointed toward a cartload of apples trundling up the street from the opposite direction. "Are those apples from the Grange?"

She shook her head. "They're from neighboring landholders. In fact, I believe those apples are headed for the Grange. We're buying apples from everyone who will sell to us."

"For your cider?"

She nodded.

Every ten steps or so, a villager acknowledged, "Your ladyship," with the tip of a passing hat or a sheepish smile. Callie responded with a gracious nod, which was all that was expected of her. The Viking at her side elicited more than a few lifted eyebrows accompanying the morning's greetings.

Once they'd maneuvered past a makeshift grouping of fruit and vegetable sellers, shouting their wares, he cleared his throat. "I believe this is the first time I've seen you dress like a?—"

"Woman?" Sudden humiliation, hot and bright as an August sun, streaked through her. Straight. Flat. Tall. Mannish. Unnatural. The words flung themselves at her in familiar refrain.

Clearly, the man didn't remember that there had been one occasion when he'd seen her not only as a woman, but as a desirable one, too.