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Authors: Laura Lee Guhrke
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goat's legs. “None that I know of,” he answered and hunkered down beside her. “Now, grasp—”
“Sophie,” Tess interrupted, reaching up to pat the goat's flank. “Don’t you think that’s a good name for her?”
“Pay attention, mademoiselle,” he ordered and proceeded to explain how to milk a goat. Tess listened carefully, watching as he squeezed and pulled the teats of Sophie's udder, causing milk to splatter into the pail. “You try it.”
She did try, doing exactly what she had seen him do, but nothing happened. Patiently he explained again and Tess tried again, but still she had no luck. She frowned, sitting back on the stool. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing. It just takes practice.”
After several more tries, Tess had still obtained no milk, and Sophie stirred, bleating protest of her clumsy efforts. But Dumond showed no impatience. “Let me show you.” Leaning forward, he closed one hand over hers.
Tess jerked involuntarily at his touch, and she felt his hand tighten. She drew in a sharp, panicky breath.
“Squeeze, mademoiselle,” he told her, seeming not to notice. “Squeeze and pull.”
She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but his arm was entwined over hers, his palm against the back of her hand, his fingers pushing hers into the proper motions, and she found it unnerving to have a man so close. She felt smothered and had to work not to break free.
Taking deep breaths, she focused on the task and not the man, forcing her hand to relax within his to do the work, and a few moments later, their joint efforts were rewarded. Milk hit the side of the pail with a splattering hiss. After a few more similar successes, he let go, leaving her to do it alone.
She did, and when Dumond finally pulled the pail from beneath the goat, she stared at the milk that filled it, feeling again that sweet sense of accomplishment. She turned her head to look at the man beside her. “I’ve milked a goat,” she said, laughing in disbelief and satisfaction. “At last, I’ve done something real. Something useful.”
He tilted his head, giving her a thoughtful look. “Is that so astonishing?”
She thought fleetingly of her role as the elegant Countess of Aubry, of the endless tension that lay beneath the surface perfection she’d worked so hard to cultivate, of all the times she’d failed to be perfect. “More astonishing than you know,” she murmured and jerked to her feet.
To her relief, he asked no more questions. Instead, stood up as well. They took Sophie to the pasture, where he tethered the goat to the tree stump. He and Tess then started back to the château.
As they passed the wild, overgrown patch of berries, he paused to study the canes. “A few more weeks, at least, before we have berries.” He shook his head, displaying obvious regret.
“Ah,” she said with understanding. “Like blackberries, do you?”
“I used to steal our cook’s blackberry tarts when I was a boy,” he said, and flashed her a sly, sideways glance full of mischief that told her even without his confession what he he’d been like as a child.
She smiled. “Warning me what to expect, are you?”
“Mais oui,” he admitted, smiling back at her.
Tess stared, realizing this was the first time she’d seen him smile. It was a stunning smile, perfect white teeth in a sun-bronzed face, a smile that chased away the broody shadows in his black eyes and made even Tess’s heart, immune nowadays to male charm, skip a beat.
It was a fleeting smile, however. “Come, mademoiselle,” he said and turned away. “We have work to do.”
Back in the kitchen, he set the pails of milk and eggs on the work table, then stoked the fire in the stove. “When you cook eggs, you must have a low fire,” he explained as he put a cast-iron skillet on the stove to heat.
Tess listened as he explained how to control the heat of the fire in the stove. She watched as he made a stuffing for the omelet of spinach, wild
“Sophie,” Tess interrupted, reaching up to pat the goat's flank. “Don’t you think that’s a good name for her?”
“Pay attention, mademoiselle,” he ordered and proceeded to explain how to milk a goat. Tess listened carefully, watching as he squeezed and pulled the teats of Sophie's udder, causing milk to splatter into the pail. “You try it.”
She did try, doing exactly what she had seen him do, but nothing happened. Patiently he explained again and Tess tried again, but still she had no luck. She frowned, sitting back on the stool. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing. It just takes practice.”
After several more tries, Tess had still obtained no milk, and Sophie stirred, bleating protest of her clumsy efforts. But Dumond showed no impatience. “Let me show you.” Leaning forward, he closed one hand over hers.
Tess jerked involuntarily at his touch, and she felt his hand tighten. She drew in a sharp, panicky breath.
“Squeeze, mademoiselle,” he told her, seeming not to notice. “Squeeze and pull.”
She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but his arm was entwined over hers, his palm against the back of her hand, his fingers pushing hers into the proper motions, and she found it unnerving to have a man so close. She felt smothered and had to work not to break free.
Taking deep breaths, she focused on the task and not the man, forcing her hand to relax within his to do the work, and a few moments later, their joint efforts were rewarded. Milk hit the side of the pail with a splattering hiss. After a few more similar successes, he let go, leaving her to do it alone.
She did, and when Dumond finally pulled the pail from beneath the goat, she stared at the milk that filled it, feeling again that sweet sense of accomplishment. She turned her head to look at the man beside her. “I’ve milked a goat,” she said, laughing in disbelief and satisfaction. “At last, I’ve done something real. Something useful.”
He tilted his head, giving her a thoughtful look. “Is that so astonishing?”
She thought fleetingly of her role as the elegant Countess of Aubry, of the endless tension that lay beneath the surface perfection she’d worked so hard to cultivate, of all the times she’d failed to be perfect. “More astonishing than you know,” she murmured and jerked to her feet.
To her relief, he asked no more questions. Instead, stood up as well. They took Sophie to the pasture, where he tethered the goat to the tree stump. He and Tess then started back to the château.
As they passed the wild, overgrown patch of berries, he paused to study the canes. “A few more weeks, at least, before we have berries.” He shook his head, displaying obvious regret.
“Ah,” she said with understanding. “Like blackberries, do you?”
“I used to steal our cook’s blackberry tarts when I was a boy,” he said, and flashed her a sly, sideways glance full of mischief that told her even without his confession what he he’d been like as a child.
She smiled. “Warning me what to expect, are you?”
“Mais oui,” he admitted, smiling back at her.
Tess stared, realizing this was the first time she’d seen him smile. It was a stunning smile, perfect white teeth in a sun-bronzed face, a smile that chased away the broody shadows in his black eyes and made even Tess’s heart, immune nowadays to male charm, skip a beat.
It was a fleeting smile, however. “Come, mademoiselle,” he said and turned away. “We have work to do.”
Back in the kitchen, he set the pails of milk and eggs on the work table, then stoked the fire in the stove. “When you cook eggs, you must have a low fire,” he explained as he put a cast-iron skillet on the stove to heat.
Tess listened as he explained how to control the heat of the fire in the stove. She watched as he made a stuffing for the omelet of spinach, wild
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