Chapter 20

"Have I given offense, Lady St. Alban?" Nylander asked.

Her eyebrows drew together, and she blinked once. Hurt flickered in her eyes, and he knew why. It was his use of her proper name, spoken like a formality.

Bloody hell. He couldn't stomach the idea of hurting a woman. In the past, it was a consideration that might make him soften and pursue a different path, one that would take her hurt away, even if for a few blissful moments.

"Can't you see that you and I don't suit at all?"

She'd established the rules of this game, not he. He would stay the path he was on. This morning, he'd walked to town and posted his letter to Jake. Now all he could do was wait and keep digging at the truth.

"'Ello?" he heard behind him.

Callie peered over his shoulder. "Yes, Pete?"

"Pierre," the man corrected. "I shall be known by my true given name henceforth." His French accent grew thicker with each word he spoke. "Along with this alembic still, I was brought here from Charente as a lad of fifteen years to operate it by the Second Viscount St. Alban. When he died and it fell into disuse, I did, too. But now it and I are of use again, and we shall not squander the moment. Now"—he clasped his hands together on a single, papery clap—"if you're done arsin' around, let us work."

Callie's mouth snapped shut. Nylander knew better than to allow the laugh building in his chest release. Likely, she'd never been spoken to in such a manner, but Pierre was the sort who could get away with it. It was difficult to become too upset with a fussy perfectionist well on the other side of ninety years when he was as passionate about his trade as this man clearly was.

She made to step around him, and Nylander braced himself for the brush of her shoulder against his arm. Yet she managed it without touching. Disappointment shot through him, even as he inhaled her. There it was. Fresh citrus… apple blossom… her.

She stopped in front of Pierre, and instead of upbraiding him, she said, "Tell me what to do."

"The last five barrels of cider must be rolled off the wagon and placed beside the pot to be ready for tomorrow's distillation. You"—he crooked a finger at Kip—"come with me to learn how to clean the water bath and remove the blockages."

Kip sprang forward on the eager, springy legs of youth, a direct contrast to Pierre's slow, deliberate shuffle. That left only Nylander and Callie and the deafening silence between them.

"Well?" she said, the first to break it. "You heard the man. Time to stop arsin' around."

Humor shone in her eyes, and Nylander felt himself respond to it, despite everything he'd learned of her lies and betrayals. Right now, it was only him and her, and those other matters felt less important.

They made their way to the wagon, the ramp already in place off the back, and stared up at the pyramid of oak casks already tipped onto their sides. "We take them top to bottom," he said, pointing to the stack. "The top two will need to be pushed out, placed flat on the wagon bed, then tipped back onto their sides and rolled down the ramp. I'll position myself below. You guide from the top." He caught her skittish eye. "Got it?"

She nodded and followed him up the ramp. She seemed content to let him take the lead. Surprising. But was it? She was the most pragmatic woman he'd ever met.

He squeezed between the wagon wall and one of the casks, placing his feet at the head of the cask and his back against sturdy oak. "Call out when I've pushed it halfway."

After a silent one—two—three count, he pressed his feet against oak with all his might, the muscles of his thighs and his back straining, the stubborn cask refusing to budge.

"Halt! I see the problem," she called around the cask. "There are wedges between the casks. Let me just…" she trailed. "I've got them. Now try."

Nylander settled in and readied his muscles. Another quick one—two—three, and he pushed. This time the cask inched forward, increment by slow increment, until, again, she called out, "Halt!"

His heart beating the hard thud of exertion, he went still and let his breath catch up with him. He poked his head around the cask. "It's there?"

She nodded.

He unwedged his body and met her at the foot of the cask. "Now, let's rock it forward, gently, and let gravity slide it down."

She took his orders in silent assent. In unison, they grabbed hold of the base of the cask and quickly developed a rocking rhythm. At first, nothing happened, but soon the cider inside the barrel developed a wave-like motion of its own, creating a momentum that had the barrel sliding onto the wagon bed in a matter of minutes, them guiding it until it lay flat.

Cheeks flushed, the light of accomplishment in her eyes, she exhaled a short, breathless laugh. "I thought we would be sloshing around in cider wash and explaining ourselves to Pierre."

Nylander smiled. He liked the way she looked right now. "Ready to tip it onto its side and roll it down?"

A smile on her lips, she nodded. This woman enjoyed hard work. Employing the same method of using the momentum of the cider to move it, they tipped the barrel onto its side and rolled it down the ramp, her guiding from the top, him steadying from below to the exact spot designated by Pierre. Then they tipped it upright and repeated the process with the remaining four barrels in silence.

Words were unnecessary when they worked together. They just had a natural rhythm. It had been that way from the very beginning. The choking cow in the orchard. Even the milking in the cow house. They worked well together. It was when they were at their best.

Well, that wasn't precisely true. There was something else they were even better at together.

Bloody hell.

"Pardon?" she broke into his thoughts, confusion writ across her face.

Had he cursed aloud? Bloody hell.

She gestured toward a barrel. "This is the last of the lot."

"Aye," he grunted, gruff.

She positioned her body behind it. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," he returned.

Down the barrel rolled and completed its journey with its fellows. They heaved it into an upright position, their task complete. Across the barrel, Callie removed her leather work gloves and swiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her bare hand. But she'd missed a single bead: the one trickling down the space between her sweet breasts. Awareness charged into the moment, and he went rock hard.

Knowledge suffused the air; the knowledge of Adam and Eve.

The entire time they'd worked together just now, they hadn't touched. He'd made sure of it, guarded against it, and he was certain she had, too. To avoid just this sort of moment.

But, now, it mattered not, as the specter of their sexual history loomed large, the elephant in the tiny room of their short relationship. For here was the difference between now and the orchard and the cow house: now they openly shared the knowledge of what it was to touch one another. No amount of avoidance would change it. In fact, avoidance only intensified the feeling. Every nerve, every molecule, every cell notched into higher awareness, primed for a touch of skin on skin. Another bead of sweat trickled down the ivory column of her neck and disappeared into the V of her shirt.

How he would love to cool her off.

How he would love to make her hotter.

"Lady St. Alban!" a voice called out. It was a child's voice.

Her eyebrows drew together, and she stepped around the barrel. "Jim? How did you know to find me here?"

A boy of some ten years rushed up to join them. "Mrs. Bailey told me."

It was possible Callie's eyebrows might form a permanent crease above her nose. She actually believed her brandy operation was a secret. For a woman so sensible and canny, she could be incredibly naive. A swell of protectiveness crested inside him.

"Ma said your final fitting is to be tomorrow."

"Tell her"—Callie darted a quick glance his way—"I'll be there at my usual time."

Like that, the openness of minutes ago snapped shut with finality. She wasn't speaking the time aloud because she didn't want him following her. Right.

"Yes, milady." The boy turned on his heel, his feet already kicking up dust.

"Stop by the house," she called at his retreating back, "and take some of Mrs. Bailey's fresh shortbread to your ma."

That left just the two of them again. Nylander couldn't help asking, "Final fitting? I didn't think you overconcerned with fashion."

"This fitting has naught to do with fashion."

He raised an inquiring eyebrow and waited.

"The master, or in this case, the mistress of Wyldcombe Grange has certain duties for the cider festival and must wear a costume."

"Which is?"

"I guess you'll see. That is"—her eye met his—"if you're still here."

The question she'd left unspoken rang out loud and clear. By way of answer, he gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulder, knowing full well it would irritate her.

"It occurs to me," she began, high pique evident in every uppity syllable, "that you are quite recovered and have a life you might wish to resume."

His head cocked to the side. "Are you asking me to leave?"

"I wouldn't dream of asking such a thing of the viscount's oldest and dearest friend." Her tone suggested the opposite. "But you are the captain of a great ship and might wish to return to your duties."

He shrugged. "I've been considering a change of profession."

Her brow lifted. "Oh?"

"Devon has had quite an effect. It's made me reconsider the trajectory of my life."

"Is that so?" she squeaked.

"I feel a distinct affinity for the land these days. With your gracious permission, I should like to stay on through the festival and perhaps gain inspiration for investing in my own estate."

If a person could look like she'd just swallowed a fish—scales, fins, and all—Callie did.

"That's why I just can't understand," he continued.

"Understand what?"

"Why St. Alban would sell this estate? If the Grange were mine, I'd hold onto it with both hands and never let go."

"The Viscount St. Alban owns several estates." The acid in her words could eat through steel. "He won't miss this one."

Nylander absorbed her words. There was something he wanted to know. Something she likely didn't want to consider, but he must ask. "If you don't succeed in outbidding your rival for the Grange?—"

"I know of no such rival."

"What will you do?"

"I suppose I would do what any woman in my position would do."

"Which is?" It wasn't simply that he wanted to know. He needed to know what would happen to her.

"Return to my father's house." Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. "I, um," she started and stopped. "I, um," again she started and stopped. She began moving toward the barn door. "I've business to attend to. If you'll excuse me."

She strode, nay, raced, through the open doorway with nary a backward glance. He followed in her wake at a discreet distance. Confounding woman.

There were two Callies, and, increasingly, he was having difficulty reconciling them. One made deals with notorious pirates and lied to get what she wanted. The other, he'd glimpsed just now. The one who submitted to hard, manual labor with eagerness, even joy. Her passion for what she'd spent the past few years achieving was evident and more attractive than he could've ever imagined.

It was this Callie who he suspected was the true Callie. It shouldn't matter, but it did.

Return to my father's house.

The statement, the bitterness of it, worked its way beneath his skin. To return to her father's house would utterly defeat Callie, and he didn't want to defeat her. He respected her too much.

The realization struck him like musket shot.

Here was the crucial thing: she couldn't continue on the way she was. He must stay the course. It wasn't only the Grange's future that depended on it, but Callie's, too, even though she didn't know it.

And, later, when this mess was resolved, well, then they'd see where they stood.