Chapter 14

"But I… you," Callie stammered.

"Would you humor a guest of the estate?" Nylander asked, knowing full well he had her there. Good manners dictated that a considerate host indulge the request of a guest, no matter how odd or inconveniencing.

On a huff that might have been petulant, she stood and gestured toward her vacated stool. "Of course."

He stepped forward and stopped. Knowledge lit within her eyes. The stall wasn't wide enough for them to switch positions without close proximity. It was possible their bodies would brush against one another, probable, even. Tension, deep and sinuous, coiled inside Nylander, anticipatory, ready.

He inched forward. She inched forward.

He stepped to his left. She stepped to her right.

She emitted a nervous laugh and darted in the other direction at the same moment he did.

Another nervous laugh sounded, this one less amused by their unexpected pas de deux. Her skittish gaze held his for a heartbeat, and he went still. She pressed her back flat against the wooden slats of the stall, her message clear. Only a narrow gap existed between cow and wall, and he was to step through it without touching her.

Into the opening, he moved, and she shuffled sideways, the front of his body and the front of hers now separated by inches. Her face averted, her chest heaving, she looked as if she would fuse with the boards at her back, if it meant not having to touch him.

In this strange way, they maneuvered around each other, he stepping forward, she sidling over, her movements stuttered against uneven boards. He wouldn't be surprised if a splinter wedged its fine tip into her back.

He caught her scent—citrus, apple, fresh, clean—and time slowed. Into the slim inches that separated them pushed that night. Her breath released on a trembly exhale, and chills raced along his skin, raising fine hairs as it went. That exhalation, its particular tenor, its particular tremor, pushed him to push her. Her continued denial of that night, of this now, poked something ugly into life inside him.

He would be known. He would be acknowledged.

"There was a woman," he rasped.

Wide eyes met his. She had the look of a trapped animal. "We do abound."

"In my room." His voice was no louder than a muted rumble. But it didn't need volume, so close were they. A musky scent mixed into the air. It was coming from her. It was the musk of fear.

"Your former nurse, Liza Bickle, is a woman."

"Not her," he said, pushing toward the edge. He wanted her to jump off and speak the truth aloud. "A different woman."

"I—" She hesitated, the heavy throb of her pulse visible above her high collar. "I went into your room." She swallowed. "We spoke. I helped you. Then I went back to my room."

'Twas true these were all facts, but there was one more fact she was excluding: her return later.

"Aye," he replied. Reason stepped in and bade him say no more. What did he hope to accomplish by bringing her shame into the light? Further, what did he hope to gain? "I reckon 'twas naught more than a dream," he finished. The charge in the air fizzled and went flat. He felt oddly deflated.

Her eyebrows drew together, and she blinked. Then she slipped past, breaking free of their dance, of him. "You'll want to roll up your sleeves." Control replaced the wobble in her voice with each word she spoke. "Otherwise, you'll soak them with milk spray."

He nodded and unbuttoned his cuffs, releasing the reckless moment to the past. As he rolled his sleeves to his elbows, he caught Callie's eye snagged on his anchor tattoo. "I believe you're familiar with my tattoos?" Did the woman really have such delicate sensibilities? "Not many gentlemen possess tattoos, I suppose." He didn't like the way the word gentlemen sounded like a sneer from his mouth.

She gave a small shrug. "I wouldn't really know, but—" She hesitated. "Can I ask you a question?"

He nodded.

"Where did you get your tattoos?"

He ran his fingers across the faded black anchor. "This was my first. Got it when I was sixteen in Le Havre. It was infected for six weeks."

"Did you get your others in Le Havre?"

He shook his head. "They're from places I've visited. Siam, New Zealand, and a few others."

Her head canted to the side, genuine curiosity writ across her features. "Why would you do such a thing over and over again?"

He couldn't help laughing. She seemed so perplexed. "It isn't as serious as all that. I think of them as the transportable souvenirs from places I've traveled. Evidence of my time at sea."

"But," she began, hesitant, "they must've been painful."

"Like bloody hell," he said. "Some more than others. It depends on the method for delivering the ink into the skin."

"Do they still hurt?"

He shook his head. "They just feel like skin. Would you like to see the others?"

Her mouth gaped open and instantly snapped shut. He'd gone too far. She gestured toward the stool. "You'll want to grab a teat between thumb and forefinger at the base of her udder."

He did as instructed.

"Not that one."

He dropped his hand and darted an inquiring glance over his shoulder.

"It's already been milked. Each teat needs to be milked to prevent mastitis."

He pointed to another. "This one?"

She nodded. "Now squeeze."

No milk flowed. Not even a drop as it remained stubbornly dry. Unaffected, the cow continued chewing her cud.

Callie stepped closer until he felt her hovering over his back. He might've felt her breath whisper across the nape of his neck, and a shiver might've purled up his spine.

"Release the teat and repeat the steps, slowly."

Again, he followed her instructions, and, again, no milk.

"Ah," she breathed into his ear. His loins tightened. "I see what you're doing wrong. Here"—she reached around and covered his hand with hers—"like this." Her thumb and forefinger wrapped around his thumb and forefinger, and she squeezed. "Not all of your fingers at once, but in a wave motion." Middle, ring, and pinky fingers squeezed, one after another in sequence. Middle, ring, pinky… middle, ring, pinky. "See?"

His mouth gone dry, he nodded.

"Mind to keep squeezing and releasing thumb and forefinger to allow more milk in." Her hand dropped from his, and a pang for its loss stole through him. "Try it."

He was tempted to fail again, just to have her touch him again. Instead, he followed her instructions and succeeded in coaxing a thin stream of milk. A little chirrup of triumph sounded in his ear, and, before he could register the action, his hand shot up and caught her wrist.

The instructive moment transformed into one he understood well, propelled by an elemental urge. She went still and watchful, and what he saw in her eyes took him by surprise.

If he was reading her correctly, she wasn't opposed to the possibility of where this moment could lead them. In fact, she might be more than not opposed.

He tugged, and she swayed forward. His thumb rubbed light circles on her wrist, and she exhaled. "Captain Ny?—"

"Nylander," he growled.

"I believe," she whispered, "you've gotten the knack of it."

Still, he held her in his grasp.

Still, she didn't pull away.

"I have the knack of a great many things."

Even as thebreath froze in Callie's lungs, her heart beat a rapid tattoo, sending blood zinging through her veins. All the better to deliver the feeling to every cell in her body.

Desire.Her knees weak with it. Her skin alive with it. She was helpless against it.

A not-too-distant shout spiked through the air. Then another, and another, until it became a riot of shouting. She shot upright and broke from his grasp. Later, she wouldn't countenance the pang that had streaked through her from the loss of his touch.

"Do you hear that?" she asked, her feet already on the move.

"I believe the dead can hear it," she heard close at her heels.

"It's coming from the cider house."

Only a truly terrible occurrence would warrant the level of shouting that could be heard through stone walls from hard men who never spoke a word more than the moment required.

Driven by panic, Callie cut across the stable yard, between the dairy and cart shed, the straightest line to the cider house. She crashed through the closest door, which opened onto the first floor fruit loft. The crisp, floral scent of crushed apple met her nose.

Her feet took the short flight of steps to the ground floor two at a time. No one stood at the cider press. She kept running. She reached the end of the loft, and the barn opened above and around her. Ahead, the horse who pulled the millstone was being led away, allowing her a view of the accident.

The stone wheel had tipped off its circular track, and a worker was trapped beneath, with Will and Cam attempting to prevent the great stone from slipping farther and crushing the man. Jess was his name, and he had a young family at home depending on him.

Callie's stomach dropped to her feet, her voice caught in her throat. If those men didn't get that stone off Jess in the next minute or so, he would be crushed. Will and Cam's strength couldn't hold forever. Just as she hurried forward to lend whatever paltry help she could, the Viking rushed around her. She'd forgotten about him.

"Not like that," he shouted as he moved forward. "You'll throw out your backs trying to lift the stone that way." He wedged his massive body between the two men. "Like this."

He crunched into a tight ball and wedged his shoulder beneath the stone.

"You," he called out to Will, "grab him." Jess had gone eerily silent. "And when I count down and say now, you pull him out. And you," he said to Cam, "position yourself on the other side, like me. And use your legs to lift. Everyone understand?"

The men nodded and scurried into place, each understanding they had one shot at this. That if they lifted the stone and allowed it to come back down on Jess, it would mean his life.

Nylander was good at directing people. Beyond good. He was a natural-born commander. Unlike her, who hadn't been able to utter a word of command since she'd entered this room.

She'd never been comfortable with that side of her role. She enjoyed the work of planning and implementation, but she didn't enjoy the leading. An undercurrent always ran below the men's acceptance of her orders, as if it were unnatural to take direction from a woman. They'd never once looked at her the way they were looking at Nylander, with appreciation and not a little bit of awe as he inched his shoulder farther beneath the stone. A small note of envy tinged through her, accompanied by a begrudging gratefulness. Her feelings were all set to odds when it came to this man.

"Three," he barked, his left palm flat on the ground, his right gripping the stone at his shoulder. "Two"—his back muscles bunched into hard readiness beneath his shirt—"One"—the breath caught in Callie's chest. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't, not if she expected to meet the eye of any man who worked her land ever again—"Now!"

On a loud roar, the muscles of Nylander's back, his great thighs and arms, tensed, his entire body strained in the concentrated task of relieving enough of the stone's weight off Jess so he could slip out. The stone shifted an inch, maybe two, but it was enough for Will to give a tremendous heave and pull Jess free.

"'E's out!"

Mirror images of each other, the Viking and Cam scuttled out from beneath the unwieldy stone and allowed it to drop to the ground with a sickening thud. Callie's breath released. Body flat on the ground, Jess groaned in pain and clutched at his right shoulder with his left hand.

"I'd say it's yer collarbone that's broken," Will said. Cam nodded in agreement.

Jess closed his eyes and groaned again.

"You know what that means," Will continued.

"Aye," Jess grunted.

"Let's get some whiskey in you before it begins."

Before it begins. The words, ominous and grave, sent a shudder through Callie.

Jess rolled onto his uninjured side and, with the assistance of Will and Cam, made it to his feet by slow, arduous increments. Callie started to follow when she noticed Nylander hanging back, an assessing eye on the wheel mill. His eyebrows were drawn together in concentration, one might even say concern.

"What is it?" she couldn't stop herself from asking.

"It's just that—" He hesitated.

"It's just that what?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, likely."

An alarm bell clanged through Callie. What wasn't this capable, natural-born leader of men not telling her?

"How old is this wheel mill?" he asked.

"It was brought in before last year's harvest. This is its second season in use."

He squatted beside the broken plank and ran his fingers down its smooth length to the break. "This wood has been compromised. Mayhap it was rot or a boring insect." He sounded unconvinced by his own words.

"Rot isn't possible. It's practically new. I inspected every board and joint. They were solid as the stone they held."

He nodded, distracted, deep in his thoughts. "Unless?—"

"Unless?"

Dread filled her belly. What he wasn't saying was exactly what she didn't want to admit to herself, much less hear voiced aloud.

"Unless"—he shook his head—"it was the sea air."

Callie's fists clenched at her sides. While she didn't want to hear her worst fear confirmed aloud, she certainly didn't wish it withheld from her.

"The men will need all the help they can get setting that collarbone." Nylander had unfurled the long length of his body and was already on the move.

"You know how to manage a broken collarbone?" What didn't the man know?

"I've set a few in my day," he said over his shoulder, and was gone.

She stood, flummoxed, astonished, and, oh, impressed. Of course he'd set a few collarbones in his day. The man wasn't only a natural-born leader of men, he was a natural at everything he set his hand to. He'd ridden Buttercup on his first try. He'd milked a cow on his first try.

Well, setting a broken collarbone was where she drew the line, content to leave it to him and the other men. It was a grisly business that she had no stomach for. Her eye returned to the broken beam, and acid curdled in her belly. First the cows in the orchard, now this. A man had very nearly been killed. Something wasn't right. Perhaps…

She couldn't finish the thought. It couldn't be the pirates. Why would they sabotage their own interests?

Mayhap it was a disgruntled tenant who wanted her gone. She'd thought she'd reached an accord with the locals these last few years, but there might be a hold-out now making his voice heard. But would someone on the estate risk one of his fellow workers' life? Releasing cows into the orchard to eat apples could be a harmless prank. Not this, though.

Or was it the most recent addition to the Grange… Captain John Nylander? Had he discovered that Lord St. Alban would sell him the Grange if she failed? Wouldn't he benefit the most from sabotaging her primary source of income? Even scare her away in the process?

Except, he didn't seem the type to use underhanded tactics to reach his objective. But she didn't know him, not really. And he'd been following her so closely…

What if the Viking was sabotaging her efforts, her livelihood?

Sudden doubt sprouted and grew quick roots inside her: she wasn't certain she could best him.

But she must try. She must fight. She must draw out what the man knew. Tonight. Not sometime in the indistinct future, but tonight. She must hit this head-on and hard.

She would ignore the quake of anxiety rattling through her.

And she would forget what had passed between them in that stall. That, perhaps, she'd felt neither mannish nor unnatural. That, perhaps, she'd been wanted. Figments of her overwrought imagination, surely.

She would tend to matters grounded in reality.

Tonight.