Read Online The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard) by Monica Mccarty - Free Book Online Page A

the scent…”
    “Izzie,” he said darkly, cutting her off. If she was surprised by the use of the diminutive, she didn’t show it.
    She blinked up at him a little too innocently. “Yes?”
    “Shut up.” He marched outside, but not before starting to work the buckles of his cotun .
     
     
    Isabel was trying not to laugh as she handed him the shovel—truly she was—but the jest possibilities were endless, including the one he made without intending to do so.
    “This is what you volunteered to help with—shoveling shite?” he said incredulously, taking the implement from her.
    She lifted a brow at his choice of words; dung or manure sounded much nicer. He had no idea the self-restraint she exercised to refrain from pointing out that surely “shoveling shite” was something he was used to.
    But she didn’t need to point it out; he read her thoughts easily enough, and his eyes narrowed to two piercing green daggers. His eyes turned very green when he was angry, she’d noticed. They were green a lot when he looked at her.
    She might have been intimidated if she wasn’t concentrating so hard on not bursting into laughter. The great Sir Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray, in his shirtsleeves, slinging manure. What had she done to be so rewarded? She only wished she had an artist here to paint a picture so that she might immortalize the event forever.
    “Don’t blame me,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I tried to warn you.”
    “Next time try harder—and mention the word fertilize.”
    She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a bairn. There is no one here to see you toiling in the muck, and you certainly don’t need to impress me. I know this doesn’t have the glamor and shine of your usual heroic deeds, but it will all wash off, and you’ll be all shimmery again in no time.” She grinned. He must have realized she was teasing him because his jaw didn’t lock and his mouth didn’t pull into that familiar tight line. “Come, my lord, surely you know how to get a little dirty?”
    “I know how to get plenty dirty but not in a garden.”
    Her brows drew together. She didn’t understand. “My lord?”
    He held her gaze and the hot, wicked look in his eyes led her to what he meant. Led her rather hotly and with far too many bodily twinges. Her stomach seemed to dance with a dip and a flip. Her cheeks flamed, and this time it was she who stiffened, pretending not to understand.
    She heard him laugh when she turned and started on her own pile.
    She couldn’t say that she regretted his offer. With Randolph’s help—especially with the tasks that required physical strength like lugging the carts back and forth to be filled in the barn and then returned to where they were working in the garden—the work that would have taken all day was finished in a matter of hours.
    But it was more than that. Once the shock wore off, Randolph dove right in—to the job, not the dung—and took to the work with enthusiasm and zeal. He was a good laborer. The earl could proudly stand toe-to-toe with any farmer, ploughman, or villein. He didn’t only know how to get dirty—she blushed recalling his earlier boast—he knew what he was doing. This wasn’t the first time he’d fertilized a garden or done “menial” labor, and oddly the outdoor work suited him. When he put aside all the knightly bravado and perfection, she liked him. Maybe too much. The way her heart fluttered in his vicinity alarmed her. She almost wished she could go back to just seeing him as the larger-than-life legend in the making.
    As the day progressed, he became noticeably more relaxed, jesting good-naturedly with the nuns, and even—she couldn’t believe it—teasing her about her apron. “It’s getting a little saturated.” He sniffed. “Shall I fetch you a new one or have you grown used to the stench?”
    She might have thrown something at him by accident. The clop of dirt—well, mostly dirt—landed right in the middle of