Chapter 15 #3
The mud was a ruthless captor, determined to keep hold of the animal’s legs. Yet suddenly, with a great heave from the back, timed with a tug beneath the chest from the farmhand in front, the ewe broke free, her hooves finding purchase on the grass.
This time, the men were prepared, not pausing to celebrate victory but hastily lifting the ewe away from the riverbank and back so she faced her flock.
The startled creature eyed the scene suspiciously, testing her newfound freedom with one step. Another. Another. Until all at once, she was off like a shot, barreling away from the humans who intruded upon her space.
The flock stirred, and Violet steeled herself, warily glancing at the flimsy barriers they’d made—still upright, for now.
Yet the ewe—praise the poor, wonderful creature—avoided the barriers altogether and made straight for the bridge from whence she’d entered the meadow. An action that provoked the entire flock to disband from their huddle and bolt, accepting the ewe as their trusted leader.
Oh, thank heavens. The promise of safety dangled so close, and Violet stared a moment, anticipation bubbling in her chest as the flock raced in unison, the bridge mere feet away.
Only when the first set of hooves hit the bridge, rapidly followed by an influx of others, did she deem it safe to leave her post. Did she dare to breathe again.
Benedict was already coming for her, and she rushed to meet him partway, the mud that had crept up her ankles and seeped into her boots no longer registering. Hang the mud; hang the rain; hang every calamity that plagued them this night, for Aldercombe Grange hadn’t been defeated in the end.
Yes, the shepherd was still concerningly absent, and yes, the sheep could run any which way once they returned to the fields, but at least they’d be safe from flooding on the water meadow.
They’d be safe.
Safe …
A concept that would have comforted her had a flicker of white, separate from the flock, not caught her eye. She shielded her brow from the rain, squinting until the object became a lamb. A lamb who skidded along the riverbank, one wrong step away from meeting the hazardous waters.
She didn’t think; she simply bolted and then dove to the ground, her arms flying outward—
Where they connected with a soaked bundle of fleece at the same moment someone grabbed her from behind, hauling her upward.
Her heart, which must have stopped for a beat or two, skittered back into action as she was whirled around to find Benedict towering over her.
“Jesus, Violet.” His breaths came in heavy gulps. While she’d witnessed a great many sentiments wash over his face throughout the evening, this was the first time she’d seen him look so pallid. So … horrified.
What could she say? She drew in several lungfuls of air, clutching the lamb’s wooly body to her chest. “The poor thing would have drowned.” As might they if they didn’t vacate the weakening riverbank and get across the bridge before water overtook it, too.
She didn’t know what to make of the choked sound that rose in Benedict’s throat. Or the tic in his jaw. There was no time to ponder it, for they were suddenly running again, darting over mud-slicked ground and onto the bridge, the river churning angrily below.
Their boots slapped in unison against wet stone, each step an eternity, until at last, at last, grass appeared beneath their feet on the other side.
They’d done it. The farmhands, the sheep, and the lamb had all made it across, and when thunder rumbled again, the sound came from farther in the distance, suggesting nature might show them mercy, after all.
The sound, once so intense, was overpowered by something else more distinctive: a long, two-toned whistle, followed by a hearty baritone call. “Sheep!”
Her gaze darted upward, her heart thrumming anew. A man, just as battered by the elements as the rest of them, rushed down the gentle slope toward the flock, wooden crook in hand.
The effect on the sheep was instant, causing the lead ewe to change course and bound toward the voice, the remainder of the flock tumbling behind. Apparently, their shepherd had them well-trained, even without the help of a dog.
“Green.” Benedict muttered the man’s name under his breath, his tone part relief, part incredulity, part fury.
For a moment, he simply stared at the flock as she did, their fluid motion creating a strange, almost-captivating effect.
The spell shattered quickly, though, and he marched forward, giving her a brief backward glance before he left. “Wait here. I’ll return momentarily.”
For once, she took no objection to heeding an order and staying where she was, for her chest still heaved, tangled with exhaustion and thankfulness and other emotions she couldn’t quite name.
She released the wriggling lamb from her grasp so it could rejoin the flock, then let herself observe from a distance as Benedict made his way to the shepherd.
The two began an animated exchange, soon joined by the farmhands, although the precise nature of what they discussed got drowned out by the wind. Whatever it was, the group quickly disbanded, the shepherd giving another whistle and leading his flock across the field.
Whether the man’s timing was exceedingly fortunate or exceedingly poor, Violet couldn’t decide. Either way, the mud-coated sheep were back in order and returning to safety, just as her mud-coated husband was returning to her.
How odd that her heart clenched at the sight of him—lean figure, drenched shirt, wild curls—and her stomach fluttered as if anticipating a surprise.
How much odder still that he drew close, and her insides kept quivering, and he didn’t stop where she expected. Didn’t stop until he’d pulled her into his arms, his forehead resting against hers.
The wind was miserable and her dress was soaked, but an instant shot of warmth burst through her veins.
She clutched him tight, sinking her palms into his shoulders, half-waiting for him to remember himself and retreat.
He didn’t, though, and after another beat, she dared to nestle herself against his chest. “Benedict.” His name came out breathy.
“Is everything all right? What happened with Green?”
She felt his inhale. Turned her gaze down and watched his lips part.
“Yes, it’s all right now.” He exhaled, long and wavering.
“Green says the thunder made his dog run off, resulting in a chase around the fields. By the time he captured the animal and they returned to his cottage, the sheep were already gone.”
“Oh.” The word sounded inane, but it was the only one she could produce. She closed her eyes as a strange torrent washed over her, unsure whether she was about to laugh or weep.
“He’s bringing them to the barn for the night.
” Benedict’s voice was a low hum in her ears, reducing everything else to insignificant background noise.
“He’ll make sure none of them have suffered any ill effects.
I’ll go check up on them directly, and I’ll need to survey the estate for damages, and—”
“After you’ve dried yourself.” She cut him off gently, sliding her hand down to the wet waistcoat clinging to his chest. “You don’t even have a coat.”
A muscle in his torso twitched. “Yes.” She heard him swallow.
Detected the urgent rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, each beat proof of his steadfastness, his fervency—of all the emotions that had burst out in the water meadow that he hadn’t yet packed away.
“Yes, you’re right. I’ll see you back to the house at once, and I’ll fetch proper attire.
You don’t have a coat either, and we’re bound to catch our deaths if we remain here like this. ”
And still, they didn’t move, just clung to one another with their foreheads still joined. Her eyelids drifted open to find that his had now shuttered, faint lines tugging at the corners.
“Violet?” He uttered her name as a rasp, little more than a whisper. It was if they were under a spell, held transfixed in a place where rainstorms and mud didn’t exist—where there was nothing except the two of them—but one wrong word would shatter it.
Which was why she was equally quiet, scarcely daring to blink, when she said, “Yes?”
His hands pressed into the small of her back, sure and sturdy. They were both mud-stained and drenched; any overwhelming sense of comfort could be nothing but an illusion.
She felt it, though.
She felt it.
She’d twirled around ballrooms in a waltz, walked arm-in-arm with gentlemen in Hyde Park, let George Metcalfe catch and explore her in a game of blind man’s bluff. However, she’d never experienced anything like the sensations coursing through her body, filling the most guarded parts of her.
Never felt her heart swell and her stomach flutter, so much so that tears stung the corner of her eyes, the way they did when he spoke again. “Thank you.”