Read Online Tremaine's True Love by Grace Burrowes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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ovine glee.
“Perhaps we should leave her to find her own way off the wall,” George suggested. “She won’t jump back into the pasture if we’re glowering at her.”
“She’ll nae leave her own kind,” Kinser said. “Unless she takes a notion to ramble aboot the shire. That un’s piss-all contrary.”
Every damned denizen of the pasture struck George as contrary—much like the Haddonfield womenfolk—but he hadn’t trusted Kinser to get the ewes moved before worse weather arrived. Kinser was contrary and, more to the point, plagued with a fondness for both whiskey and warmth.
A small boy came trundling down the lane on the far side of the stone wall. He moved with the trudging gait of a child bundled up against the elements and stopped when the ewe baa’d at him.
“Tell her to get down,” George called. “Wave your arms and chase her back toward us.”
“That be the Nash lad,” Kinser said. “On his way hame from Vicar’s.”
The boy apparently grasped the situation, for he rushed the sheep, waving his arms and making a racket. She bounded down from her perch and scampered back to the herd bunched at the far end of the pasture.
“That’s it, then,” Kinser said, taking another pull from his flask. “My thanks, Master George. Best get ye to a warm hearth soonest.”
Kinser waved at the boy, blew a kiss to the sheep, and left George in the middle of the pasture, his toes freezing, his nose freezing, and his arse none too cozy either.
“Digby!” George called to the boy. “I’ll take you up on my horse if you’re bound for home.”
The child did not have to be asked twice. He scrambled onto a stile and waited for George to mount up and trot over to the fence.
“My thanks, Mr. Haddonfield,” Digby said, climbing up before George. “B-beastly cold, isn’t it?”
“Wretched beastly damned cold,” George said, for a boy ought to know that colorful language in the company of other fellows was quite acceptable. “You were at your Latin with Vicar?”
“I was keeping warm,” Digby said, wiggling in the saddle, which was cold as hell against George’s fundament. “Uncle thinks I’m slow, but Vicar has a fire in the study, while the schoolroom at home is freezing.” The child’s words were nearly unintelligible, so badly were his teeth chattering.
“Ask Vicar about the Second Punic Wars,” George suggested. “The Battle of Cannae is good for at least an hour’s diversion.”
Digby twisted around to peer up at George. The boy had his mother’s lovely blue eyes, bright red hair, and pale complexion.
“ You know about the Second Punic Wars, Mr. Haddonfield?”
“Every Latin scholar worth his salt knows about Cannae. Hannibal won with a smaller force because he used his wits. The Romans charged at him headlong, but he fell back with his main army while sending columns around the enemy’s flanks. The Romans thought they were charging to victory until they realized they were surrounded. Have you considered asking your mama to order a fire in the schoolroom?”
A frigid third-floor schoolroom was no place for a solitary boy to learn anything.
“Mama won’t allow it if Uncle has said no. I hate winter.” Digby drew himself up in the saddle. “I hate Uncle too.”
Most little boys hated discipline and structure—George certainly had. George wasn’t particularly keen on Edward Nash either, come to that.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Digby Nash, just between us Latin scholars. The schoolroom is exactly where you want to spend your time. Nobody will bother you there if it’s kept that cold.”
“You can see your breath in the schoolroom, Mr. Haddonfield. Uncle says that builds character. I think it saves on the coal bill and gives a lad the sniffles.”
Digby had his mother’s common sense too.
“Maybe a cold schoolroom does both,” George temporized as they approached the Stonebridge lane. “Make friends with the scullery maid. She’ll bring up chocolate with
“Perhaps we should leave her to find her own way off the wall,” George suggested. “She won’t jump back into the pasture if we’re glowering at her.”
“She’ll nae leave her own kind,” Kinser said. “Unless she takes a notion to ramble aboot the shire. That un’s piss-all contrary.”
Every damned denizen of the pasture struck George as contrary—much like the Haddonfield womenfolk—but he hadn’t trusted Kinser to get the ewes moved before worse weather arrived. Kinser was contrary and, more to the point, plagued with a fondness for both whiskey and warmth.
A small boy came trundling down the lane on the far side of the stone wall. He moved with the trudging gait of a child bundled up against the elements and stopped when the ewe baa’d at him.
“Tell her to get down,” George called. “Wave your arms and chase her back toward us.”
“That be the Nash lad,” Kinser said. “On his way hame from Vicar’s.”
The boy apparently grasped the situation, for he rushed the sheep, waving his arms and making a racket. She bounded down from her perch and scampered back to the herd bunched at the far end of the pasture.
“That’s it, then,” Kinser said, taking another pull from his flask. “My thanks, Master George. Best get ye to a warm hearth soonest.”
Kinser waved at the boy, blew a kiss to the sheep, and left George in the middle of the pasture, his toes freezing, his nose freezing, and his arse none too cozy either.
“Digby!” George called to the boy. “I’ll take you up on my horse if you’re bound for home.”
The child did not have to be asked twice. He scrambled onto a stile and waited for George to mount up and trot over to the fence.
“My thanks, Mr. Haddonfield,” Digby said, climbing up before George. “B-beastly cold, isn’t it?”
“Wretched beastly damned cold,” George said, for a boy ought to know that colorful language in the company of other fellows was quite acceptable. “You were at your Latin with Vicar?”
“I was keeping warm,” Digby said, wiggling in the saddle, which was cold as hell against George’s fundament. “Uncle thinks I’m slow, but Vicar has a fire in the study, while the schoolroom at home is freezing.” The child’s words were nearly unintelligible, so badly were his teeth chattering.
“Ask Vicar about the Second Punic Wars,” George suggested. “The Battle of Cannae is good for at least an hour’s diversion.”
Digby twisted around to peer up at George. The boy had his mother’s lovely blue eyes, bright red hair, and pale complexion.
“ You know about the Second Punic Wars, Mr. Haddonfield?”
“Every Latin scholar worth his salt knows about Cannae. Hannibal won with a smaller force because he used his wits. The Romans charged at him headlong, but he fell back with his main army while sending columns around the enemy’s flanks. The Romans thought they were charging to victory until they realized they were surrounded. Have you considered asking your mama to order a fire in the schoolroom?”
A frigid third-floor schoolroom was no place for a solitary boy to learn anything.
“Mama won’t allow it if Uncle has said no. I hate winter.” Digby drew himself up in the saddle. “I hate Uncle too.”
Most little boys hated discipline and structure—George certainly had. George wasn’t particularly keen on Edward Nash either, come to that.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Digby Nash, just between us Latin scholars. The schoolroom is exactly where you want to spend your time. Nobody will bother you there if it’s kept that cold.”
“You can see your breath in the schoolroom, Mr. Haddonfield. Uncle says that builds character. I think it saves on the coal bill and gives a lad the sniffles.”
Digby had his mother’s common sense too.
“Maybe a cold schoolroom does both,” George temporized as they approached the Stonebridge lane. “Make friends with the scullery maid. She’ll bring up chocolate with
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