* * *
Lyle prided himself on being a braw Scot, not a soft Sassenach fribble. On his estates, he was accustomed to physical exertion. Hunting. Riding. Boating across to the mainland from the island where the family seat held pride of place. He’d always lend a hand with harvest or repairing a tenant’s cottage.
But the day that started with the animals in the outbuildings tested his endurance. At first, natural chivalry prompted him to treat Charlotte as mere decoration, but he soon realized that she was perfectly capable of keeping up with him. More, that there was far more to do than one person could handle.
An hour in the stables with feed and water buckets worked up a sweat, and Charlotte labored as hard as he did. But caring for Sir John’s coddled thoroughbreds seemed like the lap of luxury once Lyle started to trudge through driving rain to check the outside stock.
The howling wind was icy, and the rain pelted
them like freezing bullets. Mud sucked at his boots, and the grass was as slippery as glass. Wet hair plastered his head and despite his thick leather gloves, his hands soon turned numb. Even for a man in oilskins, it was like swimming the Arctic Ocean.
Most of the cattle had found shelter in open byres. If the rain persisted, keeping them fed might present problems. For now, he and Charlotte left most of them where they were, only bringing any heavily pregnant cows back to the barn. Lyle was grateful that the cows were too miserable to offer much resistance. With a wee touch of persuasion, he could coax them to go where he wanted. But nothing could combat the endless cold or keep off the rain.
He began to think of Scottish weather with a touch of nostalgia.
Charlotte toiled at his side, if not cheerful, at least uncomplaining. He tried his best to do the heaviest work, but with just two of them taking the place of an army of farmhands, it was impossible to cosset her.
They’d worked for hours and moved well beyond the house when Charlotte shouted something at him. It took Lyle several moments to realize that she was trying to get his attention. He’d hit a point where he acted purely on instinct. Every muscle ached with strain, and he’d never been so cold in his life. That included the night he’d climbed Ben Nevis with some mad university friends into a freak blizzard.
“What?” he yelled, turning from the yearling he’d wrested from the mud to see Charlotte pointing to a building barely visible through the downpour.
The gale whipped her words away, but his frozen brain kicked into motion. He reached the hut just before her and held the rickety door as she threw herself inside. The swift change from turbulence to dark, musty stillness was almost shocking. The hut had no windows and the thick thatched roof absorbed the beat of torrential rain.
“To think, they praise the gentle southern climate.” He slid back the hood on his oilskins. “This is as bad as anything I’ve seen on Silvaig.”
“What’s Silvaig?” There was a scrape of metal, then a faint flame flickered as she lit a candle. The frail light revealed that the hut was set up as a refuge.
Despite his exhaustion, he smiled at her. She was as dirty as he was, and her face and bare hands, now she’d removed her gloves, were white with cold.
“Why, it’s my home, mo chridh.”
And one day yours, if heaven grants me the privilege.
She shifted around, lighting more candles. Outside, she was a companion in adversity, almost genderless. But in this confined space, he became powerfully conscious of her femininity.
He tore his gaze from Charlotte and surveyed his surroundings. “Well, this is a bonny place for a shepherd to take his leisure.”
The hut was unheated but dry. Right now, after the deluge outside, dry was enough.
“It comes in useful when the weather turns bad.”
“Aye, I can see that.”
“We can catch our breath before we check on the sheep.”
“Sheep now?”
“Yes.” In the gloom, her eyes were deep and mysterious. “Are you hungry?”
I’m hungry for you.
When she struggled out of her oilskins, he took off his thick gloves and moved to help. During the last hours, he’d come to loathe the smell of rain. But the scent of the storm clinging to Charlotte was fiendishly appealing.
Under the oilskins, her outfit was unconventional for a lady, but perfect for slogging through the mire. Her blouse and serviceable skirt cut to mid-calf over boots reminded him of her Cinderella costume.
He closed his eyes, resting his hands on her shoulders and praying for control. Where the hell did he find the energy to think of sex?
“My lord?” she asked uncertainly, turning to him. “Has your voice rusted away?”