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Authors: Susan Krinard
Tags: Romance
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danger."
"No danger?"
Eden said, hearing her voice shake. She wrapped her arms around Donal, who squirmed and protested wordlessly. "Atlas?"
" 'At's his name." The groom, forgotten on the ground, tried to sit up and groaned in pain.
Eden recognized him: Dalziel, who had tended her father's horses. There was something distinctly wrong about the angle of his shoulder, and he had a bloody gash on his forehead. "Damned devil. Should have put him down long ago."
The stranger turned his gaze on the groom, and the injured man fell silent.
Until Spencer's death, the closest thing to a true crisis
Eden had dealt with was the accidental seating of two social or political rivals next to each other at a dinner party, or a tear in the flounce of a ball gown. This was quite different.
"May I know whom to thank for this service?" she asked.
"Hartley. Hartley Shaw," he said. His voice was musical, deep, compelling. Still she had not seen his face, but his simple homespun clothing and sturdy frame suggested that he was an itinerant laborer or local farmhand. His hair was thick, the color of rich loam. His shoulders filled his cotton shirt well as those of any Corinthian.
"Shaw,"
Eden said, collecting herself, "since you have already done so much for us, will you secure Atlas and look after Dalziel while I go to the house for assistance? I shall be happy to speak with you later." She moved sideways, Donal in tow, to catch a glimpse of Shaw's face.
Shaw did not look at her. Instead, he moved so that Atlas blocked her view completely.
"As you wish, my lady," he said.
Eden was not used to being avoided or ignored, least of all by a mere laborer. But there was far more at stake than her pride or curiosity. She bit back unreasonable annoyance and knelt awkwardly beside the stricken groom. She had not so much as a handkerchief to dab at his cut.
"Dalziel," she said, "I shall bring men to carry you down to the house, and see that a doctor is sent for straightaway."
Dalziel's face was red, and
Eden had enough experience of men to know that he was holding a long string of oaths in check. The cut on his shoulder did not look deep, but the arm was set at a peculiar angle, and his discomfort was clear. She felt foolish and helpless and very much responsible. That was part and parcel of living at Hartsmere and becoming its mistress, but it was a not a sensation she particularly relished.
"Mrs. Byrne will make up a bed for you so that you may rest comfortably until the doctor arrives," she said.
He nodded stiffly. "I'll… be fine, my lady."
She looked impatiently for Shaw. He had secured a much calmer Atlas to a post and was standing directly behind her. She had not even heard him approach.
With a brisk nod of acknowledgment, she took Donal's hand and started for the house. Every step only increased her untoward curiosity about the sudden appearance of Shaw and his remarkable success with Atlas. He certainly showed little enough deference to his betters, but that didn't surprise her. His behavior was not unusual among the
Lakeland folk.
What she did find unusual was the compelling timbre of his voice and his quality of confident strength. He hadn't spoken like a common dalesman. His words were surprisingly cultivated and lacked the broad northwestern accent.
Perhaps he had received some education that had encouraged pride above his station.
Eden found herself balanced between the inclination to reward and dismiss him immediately, and an overwhelming desire to see his face.
My son
. Hern leaned his head against the sweaty withers of the stallion and breathed in the homely, mortal scents of hay and dung, not daring to loose his shock and anger.
My son is here. With her.
They had lied to him. Lord Bradwell, his daughter, the aunt who had so disliked him, all their servants—five years ago they had deceived him when they said the child was dead. When they had buried him beneath their lifeless stone. And he, a lord of the Fane, had
"No danger?"
Eden said, hearing her voice shake. She wrapped her arms around Donal, who squirmed and protested wordlessly. "Atlas?"
" 'At's his name." The groom, forgotten on the ground, tried to sit up and groaned in pain.
Eden recognized him: Dalziel, who had tended her father's horses. There was something distinctly wrong about the angle of his shoulder, and he had a bloody gash on his forehead. "Damned devil. Should have put him down long ago."
The stranger turned his gaze on the groom, and the injured man fell silent.
Until Spencer's death, the closest thing to a true crisis
Eden had dealt with was the accidental seating of two social or political rivals next to each other at a dinner party, or a tear in the flounce of a ball gown. This was quite different.
"May I know whom to thank for this service?" she asked.
"Hartley. Hartley Shaw," he said. His voice was musical, deep, compelling. Still she had not seen his face, but his simple homespun clothing and sturdy frame suggested that he was an itinerant laborer or local farmhand. His hair was thick, the color of rich loam. His shoulders filled his cotton shirt well as those of any Corinthian.
"Shaw,"
Eden said, collecting herself, "since you have already done so much for us, will you secure Atlas and look after Dalziel while I go to the house for assistance? I shall be happy to speak with you later." She moved sideways, Donal in tow, to catch a glimpse of Shaw's face.
Shaw did not look at her. Instead, he moved so that Atlas blocked her view completely.
"As you wish, my lady," he said.
Eden was not used to being avoided or ignored, least of all by a mere laborer. But there was far more at stake than her pride or curiosity. She bit back unreasonable annoyance and knelt awkwardly beside the stricken groom. She had not so much as a handkerchief to dab at his cut.
"Dalziel," she said, "I shall bring men to carry you down to the house, and see that a doctor is sent for straightaway."
Dalziel's face was red, and
Eden had enough experience of men to know that he was holding a long string of oaths in check. The cut on his shoulder did not look deep, but the arm was set at a peculiar angle, and his discomfort was clear. She felt foolish and helpless and very much responsible. That was part and parcel of living at Hartsmere and becoming its mistress, but it was a not a sensation she particularly relished.
"Mrs. Byrne will make up a bed for you so that you may rest comfortably until the doctor arrives," she said.
He nodded stiffly. "I'll… be fine, my lady."
She looked impatiently for Shaw. He had secured a much calmer Atlas to a post and was standing directly behind her. She had not even heard him approach.
With a brisk nod of acknowledgment, she took Donal's hand and started for the house. Every step only increased her untoward curiosity about the sudden appearance of Shaw and his remarkable success with Atlas. He certainly showed little enough deference to his betters, but that didn't surprise her. His behavior was not unusual among the
Lakeland folk.
What she did find unusual was the compelling timbre of his voice and his quality of confident strength. He hadn't spoken like a common dalesman. His words were surprisingly cultivated and lacked the broad northwestern accent.
Perhaps he had received some education that had encouraged pride above his station.
Eden found herself balanced between the inclination to reward and dismiss him immediately, and an overwhelming desire to see his face.
My son
. Hern leaned his head against the sweaty withers of the stallion and breathed in the homely, mortal scents of hay and dung, not daring to loose his shock and anger.
My son is here. With her.
They had lied to him. Lord Bradwell, his daughter, the aunt who had so disliked him, all their servants—five years ago they had deceived him when they said the child was dead. When they had buried him beneath their lifeless stone. And he, a lord of the Fane, had
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