Chapter 6

Nylander inhaled. Fresh, feminine. He tasted. Salty, sweet. He touched. Silky cream, burning velvet. He beheld. Shadowed cherry, temptation. He licked…

His eyes flew open. A grand twenty-foot ceiling towered above his head. This wasn't the low beadboard ceiling of the captain's quarters on the Fortuyn.

He shut his eyes and ignored whatever strange reality awaited him beyond his eyelids. He struggled to reclaim the dream that flirted, teased, taunted, enticed at the edge of consciousness, but never committed. If he could just make out her face…

The door to the room opened and clicked shut, and the dream was gone. Reality must be contended with. His eyes slitted open. A chambermaid crossed dense, quiet carpets, set down a water pitcher, and threw open the curtains, a burst of brilliant light catching dust motes midair, transforming the room from dark to light in an instant. A soft hum on her lips, she finished her duties, blissfully unaware of her silent observer, and vacated the room, her lilting song fading in her wake.

No longer could Nylander avoid reality. His body stiff and achy, he pushed himself up and slumped back against the headboard. Lush goose down below him, the slide of fine linen across his skin, it was possible this was the most comfortable bed he'd ever lay arse upon.

The room was spacious, both in breadth and depth. So, too, was it spotless, elegant, upper-class, and without doubt English. Alongside that certainty came another: he'd never set eyes on these four walls in his life. Walls golden with warm afternoon light, if he was reading the day correctly.

A flash of lucidity came to him. London. Jake's foyer. Blood everywhere. Unrelenting heat. A pair of coal-black eyes, hostile, watching him sink into black-edged oblivion…

Malaria. He hadn't experienced a flare-up in years, but when it circled back around, it was always quick to remind him of its power and its potential for devastation.

Was he still in London? No. The afternoon sunlight was too bright, the air too fresh.

He wasn't clear about the precise where, but a memory of the how pushed forward. Interminable jostling, jolting, rattling. Claustrophobic, confined space. He'd journeyed here by carriage over days, the nights spent in coaching inns.

He swept blankets aside and touched toes to lush Persian wool, intent on making his way to the window. He stood and experienced a wobble. Some amount of time had passed since he'd stood under his own steam. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and, at last, gained his balance.

He shambled over to the floor-to-ceiling bow window. Beyond, a great swath of countryside spread out, verdant stretches of land segmented into animal and crop enclosures by low stone walls. To his left, defined rows of an orchard ate up an entire hillside, and to his right, a blue sky dotted with puffs of white clouds met the horizon on a distant green hill.

Devon.He was in Devon to recover. Who had given him that information?

The country bumpkin relation of a grand London aristocrat.

Another certainty came to him: it wasn't a dream.

Dark shadows. Citrus, apple, salt, heat. White linen. Creamy flesh.

His lover hadn't been a strumpet like he'd begun to dread. He didn't use strumpets. Disease was the reason he gave his men, but it wasn't the truest one, and he wouldn't be the sort of man who contributed to that particular misery.

No, a distant familiarity hung about his memories of his lover. He'd known her in some way. Impressions of her remained: the feel of her, the scent of her, the curtain of her hair, a birthmark, cherry red and heart shaped on the inner flesh of her upper arm. So perfect was it, he could've believed it a tattoo.

What had gotten into him? Where the bloody hell was she? And, more importantly, precisely who the bloody hell was she?

He shuffled toward the armoire, each step a careful negotiation. There wasn't a bit of him that didn't ache from head to toe. Inside lay his personal effects—shirts, trousers, boots, toiletries—laid out like he was a respected guest.

Once he'd convinced his body to wash, shave, and dress, he ventured into his strange, new reality and stepped out into a dim corridor. Alone, he gathered his bearings in its eerie silence, carpets stretching dozens of feet to either side of him. This place set his teeth on edge.

A skivvy maid with no more than sixteen years on her rounded a corner, a bucket in one hand and cleaning rags in the other. Her eyes widened on him, and she bobbed a neat curtsy. "My lord," she said and slipped past.

Nylander's brow furrowed. In what world was he a my lord?

His ears picked up the drone of voices, muffled, distant, and he followed the sound, through the corridor, down the carpeted, walnut staircase, across a great, empty foyer, down another, less grand flight of stairs, until he stood just on the outside of a lively, bustling kitchen in the full swing of dinner preparations. Servants rushed about, attentive to their duties. Polishing silver, kneading dough, washing dishes, barking orders, taking orders, each aware of their individual role that contributed to the collective operation. One could happen upon a country bumpkin relation here.

"Where is that Kip with me eggs?" shouted a rotund, red-cheeked woman wearing an apron and an air of authority. It was clear who was in charge.

The intoxicating scent of hot currant buns fresh from the oven woke Nylander's stomach on a roar, and he stepped forward. The kitchen ground to a dead stop, ten sets of wide eyes upon him, curious and unblinking. The cook's hand stole up to her mouth, unable to contain the, "Oh, my word," that escaped her lips.

Nylander never felt so large and obvious in his life. "May I trouble you for a pot of coffee? And one of those buns?"

The cook nodded toward a scullery maid, who scurried into action. "How many spoons of sugar and dollops of cream do you take?"

"I take it black."

A few seconds passed before she nodded her acceptance of this preference. She clapped her hands together in two short bursts. "All right, you lot, dinner won't see to itself. Now you've seen him"—her chin jutted toward Nylander—"time to get on wi' it."

Her words set the room into motion, and Nylander was able to relax a measure. The cook gestured toward a stool, and he perched against it, taking in the workings of the lively kitchen. At last, he was presented a pot of coffee.

"Black, as you like it. I'm Mrs. Bailey."

"My thanks."

The brew's sharp, pungent scent hit his nostrils before it met his taste buds, and he couldn't contain a small groan of appreciation. That was the stuff. He could face this day and the strange world he'd landed in. Time to get some answers. "I'm Nylander. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me where precisely I am?"

A passing footman shot him a skeptical glance as if he'd grown another head and tossed out, "You're in the kitchens."

Nylander took another sip of his coffee and swallowed a rough answer to the man's smart-arse remark. Patience. "And where are these kitchens located?"

"Wyldcombe Grange," offered another passing footman.

At last, he was getting somewhere. "Devon?"

Mrs. Bailey huffed, exasperated. "North coast."

It was clear she wanted to finish with a you dolt. But she didn't, and for that he was grateful. However strange this situation was to him, it appeared equally strange to the staff.

"And where can I find the master of the house?"

"Master?" The servants looked at each other as if he'd asked them the way to Siam.

Nylander inhaled a snort of frustration. This was growing tedious. "Am I correct to assume this house has a master?"

Another moment's hesitation. Then Mrs. Bailey called out, "Kip!" No such boy presented himself. "Someone fetch him. On my word, that lad has no more substance than an apparition. One moment, he's there, and the next—poof!—he's gone."

A flurry of activity followed Mrs. Bailey's words. Clearly, the woman ruled this roost with the power and certainty of a monarch. Within the minute, a footman produced a young lad, fist clutching the boy's shirt as if he might, indeed, vanish into thin air.

"Now, Kip," Mrs. Bailey said, "take this man to the master." A few muffled snickers floated about the kitchen. "You'll be knowing where to go?"

"Aye." The footman had released Kip, and the lad was already half out the door. Nylander took this as his cue to follow.

"And don'tcha come back without a few eggs!" Mrs. Bailey called at their backs.

But Nylander paid no mind to it. A breeze of earth, dung, salt, and sun scented the air. Aye, they were near the coast. A measure of his misgiving slipped away. Nothing was too wrong in a world that had him near the sea.

"Been here your whole life?" He called out to Kip's back as they trod down a row of the kitchen garden's brushy root vegetables. A few hens clucked about, the poultry yard to the right. Winded from trying to keep up, he hoped the question would slow the boy's quick feet.

"Nah," the boy tossed over his shoulder. "Been 'ere as long as you."

"And how long is that?"

"Goin' on three days now." The boy seemed entirely indifferent to the matter.

Kip led them through the narrow gap between two outbuildings, a barn and dairy judging by their sounds and smells. They emerged from the narrow, dark space into an open field. Kip stopped and pointed toward a group of riders on a distant hillside. "There."

Nylander squinted into the distance and made out three men, two facing the one. The master and his right-hand men, presumably. "Your master is there?"

The boy flicked him an impudent smile. "Aye, there she be. Me master."

She? Strange slip of the tongue.

On the move again, they strode across tall grasses, navigated around grazing sheep, one pasture, then another, and another. Distant, fuzzy details began to sharpen into focus. The set-apart rider, while of a height with the others, possessed subtle differences. He was whippet-thin and bore himself stiffly. He guided his horse around, pointing somewhere even farther distant, his back now to Nylander. Beneath a black wide-brimmed hat trailed a thick braid the red of a banked ember down to the small of his back.

Nylander blinked. Could it be? He blinked again. It could.

The master of Wyldcombe Grange was, in fact, its mistress.

"Is she wearing?—"

"Aye," Kip answered before Nylander could finish his sentence.

"Odd," came out of Nylander's mouth without thinking.

The woman wore trousers, like a man. Of course, how else could she sit a horse astride?

The boy sucked his teeth. "Ye git used to it."

Half a pasture away, snippets of conversation and individual words spoken between the riders carried on an easterly wind. London distributor. Deal. Cliff barn. At that last bit, the two men gave each other a look. Nylander knew that look. They didn't agree with their mistress.

Nearer, he and Kip came, and an entire sentence floated past. "I'll have my wishes heeded." This from the mistress. It was clear that her wishes were commands, and they were to be obeyed.

More words. Kegs. Mine. The men exchanged another round of doubtful looks.

Nylander and Kip were now close enough that the conversation was clear. So intent were its participants on each other, they hadn't yet noticed them.

"That field borders the Exmoor," one of them said, "and Tom hasn't maintained the wall like he should've these last few years."

The other man spoke up, "Sheep ain't got no business in that pasture."

"They're doin' well enough where they are, if you don' mind me sayin', milady."

The woman's back drew up into a long, rigid line, making her sit taller in her seat, confirming his initial impression of her. She didn't like being nay-sayed. "Will you speak with Tom about it? Or shall I?"

"If 'e ain't on a bender," one of the men grumbled.

"Get him dried out and back to work, if you please. I expect the sheep to be moved to the easterly pasture within the week."

Nylander only noticed the dog at her horse's feet when it barked once and advanced a few steps in warning.

The two workers' gazes shifted and sized him up in silent scrutiny, their eyes saying what their mouths didn't. He wasn't one of them, so he should state his business. Kip scurried away in a flash, even as Nylander planted his feet. With two clicks of her tongue, the woman tugged on her horse's reins to face him.

Untraceable emotion flickered across her face, and Nylander's breath left his body in one great whoosh as if he'd been gut-punched. He'd found her: the mistress of Wyldcombe Grange, the country bumpkin relation, and his lover from the inn combined into the form of one slight woman.

Her gaze narrowed upon him and grew harder, if such a thing was possible. From her elevated position, her head canted to one side, as if she was evaluating an insect she would very much like to squash.

So, it was like that. She wouldn't acknowledge their… relations? She was no different from every other lady of her class who gazed upon him as a lower being. Except, of course, when they wanted something from him, they sang a different tune, more like a coo. But that was over quick enough, and the world went right-side up again.

Fine. He'd play the game her way. It was all the same to him.

The dog barked once again. "That'll do, Chance," she said. The black and white sheep dog circled back to his mistress, his mismatched blue and brown eyes never once wavering from Nylander.

"Lazarus wakes." Her voice had gone hard as the onyx of her eye. "You shaved your beard."

Nylander's brow furrowed at the observation. Unexpected. "Aye."

"And nicked yourself."

He ran a hand across his smooth jaw. "More than once."

She shifted in the saddle. "Do you know where you are?"

"Word has it Wyldcombe Grange."

A blast of wind gusted up, and she just caught her hat before it sailed away. She resettled it before addressing her men. "Will, Cam, I believe our business for the day is concluded. Are your instructions clear?"

"Aye, milady," one worker said. The other nodded. They clicked commands to their horses and galloped away. Latent resentment hung about the men, but Nylander dismissed the observation. This woman's strained relations with her men was no concern of his. Cold. Haughty. Difficult. She was the sort of woman who didn't care if she was liked.

"Now, Captain Nylander, as for the why of your whereabouts?—"

"It's Nylander."

"I believe that's what I called you."

"Captain isn't necessary. Just Nylander."

Copper eyebrows came together in bemusement, and she shifted on her horse. "That's bold."

A beat passed, and the certainty grew that he didn't like this woman.

"Like a woman wearing men's trousers?" he asked. Or like a woman stealing into a man's room for a midnight tryst? he left unasked.

This woman had plenty to teach him about boldness. Yet, even with the proof before his eyes, it didn't seem possible this woman was her.

The beginnings of a blush,splotchy and hot, began a slow creep up Callie's body. Silently, she blessed the high neck of her blouse.

She wouldn't give oxygen to his opinion on her choice to wear men's trousers. It was a decision that had rubbed more than one man the wrong way. And she cared not a whit. Trousers were a practical and functional garment for the work she did.

"There are different levels of boldness, I suppose," she replied. "Mayhap you're wondering how you came to be here." A pause, a breath. "Mayhap you don't remember due to your fever. You were quite delirious. Who knows what sort of wild imaginings entered your mind."

Breath held, she waited for the leering lift of an eyebrow, a smirk, something, anything that betrayed knowledge. But there was not the faintest sign, not a flicker of recognition. Was it possible he didn't remember? She wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or insulted.

"Why don't you refresh my memory?" he asked in his low, velvety baritone.

She cleared her throat. "At Lord St. Alban's request, I brought you to the Grange to recuperate from your malaria and for you to get a lay of the land in case you want to?—"

She stopped before she could finish the sentence. Buy it out from under me.

He didn't know about that. How could he? St. Alban hadn't the opportunity to tell him before he'd passed out and cracked his skull on the floor. This man had no idea that this land would be his in a few short weeks if she couldn't gather the necessary funds. She had a choice: to tell or not to tell.

She made a decision on the spot. The Viking was Lord St. Alban's friend, after all, not hers. He was her rival, her enemy. What sort of fool helped her enemy?

He glanced about. "How far are we from the sea?"

"Not a mile."

"I knew I smelled salt on the breeze."

"You're the captain of a ship, correct?"

"The Fortuyn. My crew will be wondering where I'm off to."

"I believe Lord St. Alban handled that bit of business."

"The man always was efficient."

"He is certainly that." An edge so sharp ran the length of her words they practically glinted in the sun.

Nylander cocked his head, his eyes narrowed on her. He was wondering about that sharpness, its origin. The man hadn't the faintest clue, and she planned on keeping it that way.

He jutted his chin. "What sort of estate is this?"

"A typical one for Devon. Sheep for their wool. Cows for their milk and cheese. Root garden for the winter. Apple orchard. We're in the middle of picking season."

"I heard you discussing kegs with your men."

"For cider."

"Must be a profitable venture if you need more storage space."

Her heart kicked up a notch. "Last season was profitable," she bit out. She wouldn't be discussing the Grange's profitability with this man.

"You need a barn repaired? I have some experience?—"

"That won't be necessary," she cut in. "We are quite capable of managing our own affairs."

He snorted and shifted his gaze. "Quite a few moving parts on a place like this. And you run it?"

He was impressed. Gratification stole through her. She couldn't help it. She wasn't sure a man had ever been impressed by her.

"And, if I may inquire further, what might your name be? I can't quite call it to mind."

Callie blinked, nonplussed. For all their conversation, and, ahem, history, it hadn't occurred to her that he might not remember her name. "I'm the Dowager Viscountess St. Alban."

His eyebrows knitted together. "I'm not versed in the intricacies of the English peerage. That would make you…?"

"The widow of the Fourth Viscount St. Alban, the current Lord St. Alban's predecessor. You may call me Lady St. Alban."

He nodded slowly and kept his thoughts to himself. He did that a good bit.

Her grip tightened around Arrow's reins. The gelding felt the movement and tensed beneath her, ready to ride at her command. "I wish you a speedy recovery from your fever, but I don't anticipate any reason for our paths to cross again. Wyldcombe Grange is a big house and an even bigger estate, and you have the freedom of both at Lord St. Alban's request. Do you ride?"

He shook his head.

"Pity." She didn't mean it, and, judging by the skeptical glint in his eyes, he knew. "Without the ability to ride, you won't be able to take in the Grange's many workings."

A cynical smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, but he remained silent. Those blue eyes of his pierced straight through her. How terribly, terribly attractive this Viking was. His hair shining golden in the sun. The anchor tattoo peeking out from the bottom of a rolled-up shirt sleeve.

"A good day to you, sir." Her thighs gave a light squeeze, and Arrow responded with a gentle trot forward. "Chance," she called. The dog sprang into motion and raced ahead.

As she galloped away, she felt his eyes on her back. Her heart had no choice but to race. Oh, traitorous body. It was good news that he didn't remember her or that night. Then why didn't it feel good?

She wouldn't press her palm to her stomach. Or think about what could be growing there. Or hope for it. Her mind knew it would be a disaster, even if the deepest part of her soul didn't.

Better to hope he never did remember. What would a tup with her mean to a man like him, anyway? It was absolutely for the best that she had no ties with that man, who too closely resembled a Viking from the days of yore, washed up on these shores to strip her of her land.

Guilt twisted inside her. She should have told him about the sale of the Grange. That he was St. Alban's first choice if she couldn't get the monies together.

But why? The man was a ship captain, who couldn't even ride. What business did a man who couldn't ride a horse have running Wyldcombe Grange? The master of the Grange—or mistress as the case was—must have that skill. It was a minimum requirement of the job.

Her resolve strengthened. Her plan to save the Grange had already been set into motion, the meeting with Jack Le Grand set for two nights hence. If all went well, she would have her money and all her doubts would be for naught. She wouldn't feel an ounce of guilt regarding the problematic man she'd just left in her dust.

Did it matter that her gains would be ill-gotten? They would be for the greater good. She wouldn't see the Grange run into the ground by a man who knew nothing about the land.

The man couldn't even ride.