Chapter 7
Seven
Augusta watched as Fiona made a clover chain, nimble little fingers fashioning a crown from the lowliest of flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” Augusta said when Fiona carefully placed it on her guest’s head. “I’m queen of the pasture.”
Fiona grinned and plopped down on the blanket beside Augusta. “I don’t see why you’d want to sketch a silly old pasture. It’s just for cows.”
“For today, it’s for us and our picnic.” And it was a gorgeous pasture. Lush and green under a perfect blue sky, the mountains rising around them in summer splendor. “What’s the word for cow?”
Fiona had been helping Augusta with some Gaelic.
As long as they kept away from the challenge of trying to spell properly, Augusta could build on the conversational skills she’d gleaned in childhood from her mother and grandfather.
It wasn’t like French or German in sound—it was far more musical—but it did have some commonalities with Latin in structure.
“I can tell you the Scottish words too, if you like,” Fiona said. “The uncles say one has to know the Scots to do business with the Lowlanders. They do a lot of business, my uncles.”
“Let’s stick to Gaelic for now.”
Augusta did not examine motives for that decision.
It was becoming a habit, this not looking too closely at why she felt and acted as she did.
In this manner, she avoided admitting she was attracted to her cousin’s intended—intimately attracted.
She avoided admitting she’d tried to keep herself from the man’s company upon this realization, and she avoided admitting such a course was painful.
But not, she hoped, as painful as some other possibilities.
White clover symbolized promises. Augusta promised herself tomorrow’s outing with Ian—with his lordship—would be the first and last of its kind. She also promised herself she would enjoy it to the fullest extent possible without asking the earl to compromise his honor.
“I think my ma likes your cousin.” Fiona dug about in the wicker hamper they’d lugged to the pasture.
“I hope Lady Mary Frances likes Genie, for they might be sharing a household. Let me peel that orange.”
Fiona passed her the orange, her expression solemn. “I didn’t mean Miss Genie. I meant Mr. Daniels. He told me about his first pony.”
Oh… Oh.
“He loved his pony very much.” Augusta tore into the skin of the orange and cast around for a way to shift the topic.
“If I had a pony, I’d love him very much too. Uncle Gil says I can have Merlin when I’m older and Merlin is older too.”
Merlin was a safer topic, thank God. From the corner of Augusta’s eye, she detected movement. When she glanced up, her mouth went dry and her heart started up a slow, tense pounding in her chest.
“Fiona? I want you to listen to me, but you must stay perfectly calm.”
The child was perceptive. She ceased pawing in the hamper and met Augusta’s gaze.
“There’s a bull in this pasture,” Augusta said, glancing up the hill behind them. “A great, pitch-black fellow with an unhappy expression on his face. I’m thinking he’s lonely for his ladies or perhaps resentful we’re encroaching on his territory.”
“That’s Romeo,” Fiona said, her voice laden with misgiving. “He’s always cranky, but this isn’t his pasture. This is the pasture between his proper paddock and the yearling heifers beyond the hill.”
Oh, marvelous. They were sitting between a mating bull and his next conquests. The beast swung its great head in their direction and stomped one cloven hoof.
“I want you to start walking for the fence, Fiona. Keep me and this blanket between you and Romeo. Do it now, child, as quietly as you can. Don’t move too quickly. Don’t move too slowly, unless he charges. Then, you run like the wind.”
God bless the girl, she got up and started walking.
Augusta had known a man in her girlhood who’d lost a leg when he was trampled by a charging bull. For all their size, intact male bovines could be fast and nimble, also very determined.
Well, Augusta was more determined still.
“Hullo, Mr. Romeo.” She rose from the blanket, knowing the bull was going to see her movement more clearly than her specific form.
She shook her skirt gently. “It’s a fine morning for a little stroll, don’t you think?
” Over her shoulder she saw Fiona was making steady, silent progress toward the gate.
The bull watched as Augusta began to pace back and forth. “We didn’t mean to intrude on your solitude, sir, and would account it a great courtesy if you’d allow us to withdraw from your parlor without incident. Keep moving, Fiona.”
Another stomp, then a loud, admonitory snort.
“I know. We should have simply left our cards and moved along, not tarried here when you weren’t receiving. Fiona, don’t you dare stop. When you get to the house, bring one of your uncles back here.”
The bull was focused on Augusta, his head raising and lowering, his muscular quarters swinging around as if to launch a charge at her.
“You can have my crown.” Augusta pulled the clover chain from her head and swung it in a slow loop from her hand.
“I’ll sing to you if you like as well. You should have some recompense for our having disturbed your peace.
” Except her mouth was too dry for her to sing. “Perhaps you’d like my orange?”
She pitched it hard across the bull’s line of sight, momentarily distracting him.
But only momentarily. As the orange rolled to a stop in the grass, the bull once again turned to regard Augusta.
He whisked his short tail against his haunches, and when he stomped this time, he followed it up by pawing a divot of sod from the earth.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die here in a Scottish pasture on a beautiful day with that innocent child looking on.
“Go get help, Fiona. I’ll just have a visit with Romeo.” Augusta took one step back and knew her life was over. The bull began trotting in her direction, then lowered his head and broke to a faster gait.
Her plan was to dodge him at the last minute, if she could. If she were capable of movement. He came on, making the earth tremble with his charge. Augusta could hear the bellows of his lungs working, see the dampness on his big black snout.
She was going to die… She was going to die in Scotland…
She was plucked straight up into the air just as the bull swerved off away from the blanket.
“I’ve got you.” The scent of heather enveloped her as she was pulled sideways across a saddle. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
“Ian.” She clutched at him, her heart pounding, her eyes closed tightly as Ian’s horse carried them swiftly toward the gate. Fiona swung it open for the horse to pass through then immediately closed it behind them when Ian brought the horse to a halt.
“You’re safe,” Ian growled. “You’re both safe. What in God’s name were you thinking, picnicking in a bull’s pasture?”
“It’s not his pasture.” Fiona was frowning up at them, her little face pale. “Romeo has the other side of the hill.”
“Then he was napping in the grass off his usual turf,” Ian said. “You should have taken a closer look around, Fee.” And while he lectured the child, Augusta remained right where she was, bundled into his heat and strength as tightly as she could hold on.
“But Uncle Ian, somebody had to open the gate between Romeo’s paddock and this pasture. His gates are always secured with both a rope and a latch because he likes to—”
“I know what he likes to do, Fee.”
“We’re all right,” Fiona said, pique and bewilderment in her voice. “Why are you yelling at me? Miss Augusta had a visit with Romeo, and I got out, and then you came along, and it’s… it’s… all right. Ma is going to yell, and yell and yell…”
She sat down abruptly in the grass, bringing her pinafore up to her face.
“Ian, help her.”
He tightened his arms around Augusta momentarily, a little taste of bliss not entirely composed of safety, and then he put the reins in her hand. As he leaned forward to dismount, his chest crowded against Augusta.
He was a big man. A wonderfully, comfortingly, arousingly big man.
“I don’t mean to yell, Fee.” He hoisted the child to his hip, and she burrowed against him. “You’re safe now, and you won’t go wandering into a pasture again without keeping an eye out for lonely bulls.”
“He wasn’t there,” she muttered against his neck. “Uncle Ian, I know to keep my eyes sharp, and he wasn’t there when we chose where to have our picnic this morning. Uncle Gil says Romeo needs the shade on the other side of the hill.”
Augusta glanced over at the bull, who was now sporting the ends of a clover chain dangling from his mouth. He was chewing as bovines do, as much side to side as up and down, and looking almost harmless.
She got situated more securely in the saddle, a leg on each side of the horse, her skirts arranged as modestly as possible. Inside her body, where warmth ought to be, she felt cold and shuddery. What if Ian hadn’t come along?
“Up you go, Fee. You’ve had a fright, and I’m glad you’re safe.” He hefted the child to sit before Augusta. “Keep Miss Augusta company, and I’ll retrieve your things. Romeo’s had his fun for now.”
He shrugged out of his coat and handed that to Augusta as well. She bundled it up to hold between her and Fiona, when he snatched it back and shook it out.
“Around your shoulders, madam. You and I will talk later.”
He vaulted the fence in one lithe, fit movement then moved toward their blanket in a no-nonsense fashion.
“None of your malarkey, laddie. You’ve had your sport for the morning, chasing heifers that don’t belong to you.
For shame.” Ian continued his scolding while he gathered up their little picnic and tossed their blanket over his shoulder.
Whether it was because the animal recognized authority, or didn’t feel a mere human male worth his notice, Romeo kept at his grazing without so much as flicking an ear.
When Ian had their effects piled on the safe side of the fence, Augusta resumed breathing.