Read Online An Unmistakable Rogue by Annette Blair - Free Book Online
Authors: Annette Blair
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an empty grain sack, tore off a strip and fastened it around the end of the braid. “I like it.” She slapped his arm with the thick, silken rope. “Thank you.”
In a bid for modesty—and self-preservation—he turned away. “Enough nonsense; we have work to do. Good, an old cheese press, still usable.” He spotted some sacks and moved a barrow with such force, Chastity jumped, and guilt filled him as he slit a sack open. “Beans.” He sifted them through his fingers. “Dry and edible.”
She touched his shoulder. “I do not know who my parents are either.”
Reed looked up, his heart—despite his resistance—warming with the new nudge. “Leave it be Chastity.”
“You and I, the children, we were all abandoned—”
“Listen!” he snapped, though she had no choice. “I do not want to connect with you or those children—no shared pasts, no common ground.” He did not want her heart to speak to his. He would not listen, if it did. He did not want to nurture children. He did not want to ... want.
He gave the second bag a vicious slit and peas poured into the dirt. He swore, stopped the flow with his hands as he pulled the bag together, and hefted it to the barrow. “Let us see what else we can find.” He walked along a shelf, opening and slamming wooden bins. “Seeds for spring planting. We should think about that. Ah, the old caretaker did not like parsnips.” He wiggled a wilted bunch. “Know how to make soup?”
Chastity raised her chin. “Certainly.”
“Certainly not.”
She scowled. “It cannot be difficult. I made gruel.”
“Was it luck?”
“Not entirely. I watched the Sisters, sometimes.”
“The Sisters?”
“The nuns who raised me.”
“They raised you?” Blast. He did not want to know about her childhood. “Ever watch ‘em make soup?”
She shook her head in reluctant denial.
“As with gruel, you put a pot of water on to boil and throw in everything we found.”
“Oats and apples too?”
“Damn. Just put in what we found out, here, and some herbs from the kitchen garden, with a pinch of salt.”
“I can do that.” Her smile filled the empty places inside him in the way that sunrise and birdsong filled him with hope for a new day, a sensation he lapped up like treacle, for too long, before he realized the danger in falling under her spell. When he did realize it, he frowned and returned firmly to the problems at hand. “What about milk for those children? Did you think of that?”
“Well, no, but—”
“You can see their bones beneath their skin, Chastity. They need to eat vegetables, bread, and meat. You need to find their parents. You cannot provide for them.”
“Yes, I can.”
God she was stubborn, and beautiful, and if he stayed, that bucket load of naïve self-assurance she carried around just might convince him she could. “Write to the Missionary Society, Chastity.”
“The children need me. I can love them.”
“Their parents will love them.”
“And so will I ... until their parents return.”
“Then you will write that letter?”
Chastity could not answer; she was too disappointed. She supposed that Reed’s dislike of children did not make him bad, just dangerous. She watched him push the barrow from the shed. “Zeke will like the parsnip tips,” she said, finding the silence awkward.
“Throw the tips in the soup as well, Chastity. We cannot afford to waste them. Put Zeke out to eat clover.”
“He’ll run away.”
“With his bad foot, he could not go far, though he would do best in a pot.”
“What?” Chastity stopped dead.
Reed nearly mowed her down with the barrow. “The children need him in their bellies.”
Her wide eyes narrowed to dart points. “How dare you suggest such a heartless, cruel— The children love Zeke.”
“If they starve, love will hardly matter.”
“Do you have no feelings? Did you never have a pet when you were a child?”
No feelings, no pets. “On a farm, animals are for work,
In a bid for modesty—and self-preservation—he turned away. “Enough nonsense; we have work to do. Good, an old cheese press, still usable.” He spotted some sacks and moved a barrow with such force, Chastity jumped, and guilt filled him as he slit a sack open. “Beans.” He sifted them through his fingers. “Dry and edible.”
She touched his shoulder. “I do not know who my parents are either.”
Reed looked up, his heart—despite his resistance—warming with the new nudge. “Leave it be Chastity.”
“You and I, the children, we were all abandoned—”
“Listen!” he snapped, though she had no choice. “I do not want to connect with you or those children—no shared pasts, no common ground.” He did not want her heart to speak to his. He would not listen, if it did. He did not want to nurture children. He did not want to ... want.
He gave the second bag a vicious slit and peas poured into the dirt. He swore, stopped the flow with his hands as he pulled the bag together, and hefted it to the barrow. “Let us see what else we can find.” He walked along a shelf, opening and slamming wooden bins. “Seeds for spring planting. We should think about that. Ah, the old caretaker did not like parsnips.” He wiggled a wilted bunch. “Know how to make soup?”
Chastity raised her chin. “Certainly.”
“Certainly not.”
She scowled. “It cannot be difficult. I made gruel.”
“Was it luck?”
“Not entirely. I watched the Sisters, sometimes.”
“The Sisters?”
“The nuns who raised me.”
“They raised you?” Blast. He did not want to know about her childhood. “Ever watch ‘em make soup?”
She shook her head in reluctant denial.
“As with gruel, you put a pot of water on to boil and throw in everything we found.”
“Oats and apples too?”
“Damn. Just put in what we found out, here, and some herbs from the kitchen garden, with a pinch of salt.”
“I can do that.” Her smile filled the empty places inside him in the way that sunrise and birdsong filled him with hope for a new day, a sensation he lapped up like treacle, for too long, before he realized the danger in falling under her spell. When he did realize it, he frowned and returned firmly to the problems at hand. “What about milk for those children? Did you think of that?”
“Well, no, but—”
“You can see their bones beneath their skin, Chastity. They need to eat vegetables, bread, and meat. You need to find their parents. You cannot provide for them.”
“Yes, I can.”
God she was stubborn, and beautiful, and if he stayed, that bucket load of naïve self-assurance she carried around just might convince him she could. “Write to the Missionary Society, Chastity.”
“The children need me. I can love them.”
“Their parents will love them.”
“And so will I ... until their parents return.”
“Then you will write that letter?”
Chastity could not answer; she was too disappointed. She supposed that Reed’s dislike of children did not make him bad, just dangerous. She watched him push the barrow from the shed. “Zeke will like the parsnip tips,” she said, finding the silence awkward.
“Throw the tips in the soup as well, Chastity. We cannot afford to waste them. Put Zeke out to eat clover.”
“He’ll run away.”
“With his bad foot, he could not go far, though he would do best in a pot.”
“What?” Chastity stopped dead.
Reed nearly mowed her down with the barrow. “The children need him in their bellies.”
Her wide eyes narrowed to dart points. “How dare you suggest such a heartless, cruel— The children love Zeke.”
“If they starve, love will hardly matter.”
“Do you have no feelings? Did you never have a pet when you were a child?”
No feelings, no pets. “On a farm, animals are for work,
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