Read Online No Choice but Surrender by Meagan McKinney - Free Book Online
Authors: Meagan McKinney
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she was sure of only one thing: that she was a pawn in a game that this man, Avenel Slane, was playing with the earl. And she knew that she would have to get away from the estate at all costs, because whatever was going on, the end was bound to be catastrophic, with herself caught desperately in the middle.
Her body and mind were exhausted; sleep got the better of her, despite her denials. Resigning herself to the sagging bed, she used the pink polonaise as a pillow and as a barrier against the mattress's strong smell of mildew. She curled up in a ball, trying to fight off the cold and her loneliness, and found some small comfort in her determination to leave at the latest by tomorrow. She finally fell asleep by visualizing her old house in Tenby: the design-painted walls of the room off the street and the roaring fires that were always so cheerfully tended to ward off the chill.
She wasn't aware of the creature that came to join her later that night. Only slightly did she feel the thump when Orillion jumped up on the bed. But she did feel his blessed warmth as he curled up beside her, his canine instinct had decided there was no need for both of them to be cold.
The kitchen was like a madhouse that evening at Osterley. Not only was the cook busy over her fires, trying to make even the blandest of English fare memorable and appetizing, but every servant from liveryman to ladies' maid wandered in and out of the great room; each divulged the latest tidbit of information on the new owner and his desires. The lowliest scullery maids paid avid attention to small details because they knew that even they had to make Avenel Slane happy.
"You ha' be'er get tha' taken care oove, Annie. Orr ya might find tha' lazy arse o' yours ou' on the streets." Fergie Mclnnis brought in the heavy sack of stone-ground barley and placed it near the back of the kitchen. He stood silently and looked at Annie, who was slowly eating a huge Sally Lunn.
"And what concern is it of yours, Fergie?" Annie took another small mouthful and chewed the bread carelessly.
"The man made a special request, Annie." The cook spoke up, carefully peeling a pile of baby carrots. "We've all got a lot to lose. I myself have been a jittering bundle of nerves ever since he set afoot in the house. We've got to please the man— there's nothing more to it. But so far you're the only one he's asked to do anything. We just want to make sure it gets done."
"I'll be takin' my own time on it," Annie said, her voice full of rage. She threw the Sally Lunn into the fire nearby and stood watching as it smoked and burned. "How could he ask me to go and wait on her when she's living in the stables ? 'Tis beneath me."
"She is Lady Brienne, the daughter of an earl. Waiting on her is not beneath anyone, except perhaps those of her peerage, of which you are not." The cook finished her peeling and changed the subject. She placed the carrots into a well-salted pot of water and cooed, "Fergie, love, 'tis mean I've been to you today, what with the cakes that burned and the bread that didn't rise. But I've a request for another pound or two of that sugar, if you would be so kind." The cook looked at her large Gaelic husband and lowered her lashes rather demurely for her three-and-fifty years. But Fergie merely blushed at her unusual affection and complied, obviously happy to please her.
"Perhaps not yet," Annie said smugly, puckering her upper lip, which to her pride and joy held three natural moles. She had been proclaimed a lusty sort because of them, but this never seemed to bother her; rather, she thrived on hearing herself described that way.
"Not ever, Annie Peters." The cook gave her a stern look. "I never have known where you've gotten such airs."
" Tis just that I know better than to lower myself."
"Well, you had better lower yourself now because the Lady Brienne is sitting in the block waiting for you, no doubt. I don't know what kind of game she and the Master Slane are playing,
Her body and mind were exhausted; sleep got the better of her, despite her denials. Resigning herself to the sagging bed, she used the pink polonaise as a pillow and as a barrier against the mattress's strong smell of mildew. She curled up in a ball, trying to fight off the cold and her loneliness, and found some small comfort in her determination to leave at the latest by tomorrow. She finally fell asleep by visualizing her old house in Tenby: the design-painted walls of the room off the street and the roaring fires that were always so cheerfully tended to ward off the chill.
She wasn't aware of the creature that came to join her later that night. Only slightly did she feel the thump when Orillion jumped up on the bed. But she did feel his blessed warmth as he curled up beside her, his canine instinct had decided there was no need for both of them to be cold.
The kitchen was like a madhouse that evening at Osterley. Not only was the cook busy over her fires, trying to make even the blandest of English fare memorable and appetizing, but every servant from liveryman to ladies' maid wandered in and out of the great room; each divulged the latest tidbit of information on the new owner and his desires. The lowliest scullery maids paid avid attention to small details because they knew that even they had to make Avenel Slane happy.
"You ha' be'er get tha' taken care oove, Annie. Orr ya might find tha' lazy arse o' yours ou' on the streets." Fergie Mclnnis brought in the heavy sack of stone-ground barley and placed it near the back of the kitchen. He stood silently and looked at Annie, who was slowly eating a huge Sally Lunn.
"And what concern is it of yours, Fergie?" Annie took another small mouthful and chewed the bread carelessly.
"The man made a special request, Annie." The cook spoke up, carefully peeling a pile of baby carrots. "We've all got a lot to lose. I myself have been a jittering bundle of nerves ever since he set afoot in the house. We've got to please the man— there's nothing more to it. But so far you're the only one he's asked to do anything. We just want to make sure it gets done."
"I'll be takin' my own time on it," Annie said, her voice full of rage. She threw the Sally Lunn into the fire nearby and stood watching as it smoked and burned. "How could he ask me to go and wait on her when she's living in the stables ? 'Tis beneath me."
"She is Lady Brienne, the daughter of an earl. Waiting on her is not beneath anyone, except perhaps those of her peerage, of which you are not." The cook finished her peeling and changed the subject. She placed the carrots into a well-salted pot of water and cooed, "Fergie, love, 'tis mean I've been to you today, what with the cakes that burned and the bread that didn't rise. But I've a request for another pound or two of that sugar, if you would be so kind." The cook looked at her large Gaelic husband and lowered her lashes rather demurely for her three-and-fifty years. But Fergie merely blushed at her unusual affection and complied, obviously happy to please her.
"Perhaps not yet," Annie said smugly, puckering her upper lip, which to her pride and joy held three natural moles. She had been proclaimed a lusty sort because of them, but this never seemed to bother her; rather, she thrived on hearing herself described that way.
"Not ever, Annie Peters." The cook gave her a stern look. "I never have known where you've gotten such airs."
" Tis just that I know better than to lower myself."
"Well, you had better lower yourself now because the Lady Brienne is sitting in the block waiting for you, no doubt. I don't know what kind of game she and the Master Slane are playing,
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