“Are you being naughty, miss?” Sheffield strode toward the largest of the goats, a black and white doe. “You know what happens to goats who don’t give milk? They become stew!” On the last word, Sheffield gestured to the stanchion. To Harriet’s amazement, the goat obediently jumped up onto the stanchion and poked her head through so Sheffield could lock the bar in place. He sat on the edge of the platform, reached under the goat, and squirted a stream of milk into his cup without spilling a drop.
He patted Bessie’s haunch as he took a long drink, his eyes closed in apparent bliss.
Harriet froze, her hand covering her mouth to stifle a laugh. Who’d ever thought she’d witness a pirate milking a goat?
“Right sorry I am, Cap’n,” said a sailor coming out of the shadows of the aisle. He shuffled toward them, a large pewter mug held between his bandaged hands.
Sheffield set the mug on the platform and began milking Bessie into it with his left hand, drinking tea with his right. “Have you seen Norton?”
“Aye, Cap’n. Nothing broken, ‘e says. Swelling should go down in a day or two.”
Sheffield took another swallow of what must be ambrosia and soon emptied his cup, and tucked it in a coat pocket. With obvious practiced efficiency, Sheffield finished milking the goat and turned her loose. Big Jim strode forward to take the full mug and replace it with an empty one. “I’ll just take this to Luigi,” he said.
Sheffield pointed to the fawn-colored doe with a white blaze and stocking who’d been watching them from her perch on a stack of crates. “Your turn, Daisy.” With a plaintive bleat, she climbed down her make-shift mountain and obediently took her place in the stanchion.
“How rude of me,” Sheffield said after a few pulls. “This is exactly the sort of knowledge that would come in handy on—what’s his name, your betrothed?”
Harriet shook herself. “Percy. Sir Percival.”
“The kind of knowledge that will come in handy on Sir Percival’s farm. Or do you already know how to milk a goat?”
She shook her head. “I milked a cow once.”
“Entirely different technique. Come, I’ll show you.” He unfolded his long legs from the stanchion and gestured for her to take his place.
Harriet gingerly seated herself on the edge of the platform and patted the fawn-colored flank mere inches from her face. “Nice goat,” she said softly, as much to reassure herself as the goat.
She thought she heard Sheffield chuckle, but his expression was serious when he leaned close. “Grab the teat close to the udder and squeeze your thumb and forefinger around it, then squeeze your other fingers down. See, like this.” He bent even closer so there was hardly any space for her between the goat, who smelled of sweet straw, and Sheffield, who smelled of leather and fresh air and danger, and squirted milk into the mug. “Now you try.”
Harriet reached under the goat’s softly furred underbelly, grasped the teat, and squeezed. Milk splashed all over the wood platform and Harriet’s dungarees. Some droplets bounced into her eyes. Daisy gave a nervous “baa-aa” and shifted her stance, knocking over the mug and bumping her hip against Harriet’s forehead. Sheffield gave the goat a reassuring pat.
“That did not go well.” Harriet swiped the milk from her eyes. Perhaps it would do her complexion good. Milk was supposed to be good for one’s skin.
“You’re giving up so soon?” He sounded disappointed.
“Of course not. Just regrouping.”
“Or re-gripping.” His teeth flashed in the dim light. Harriet couldn’t help smiling in return.
She righted the mug, got a better grip on Daisy’s teat, and tried again. This time half the stream went into the mug.
“Try to get all the milk in the mug, or we’ll have—” Soft paws landed on Harriet’s knee and suddenly an orange tabby stretched up and leaned in, lapping up the milk. “—Oscar licking it up.”
Harriet petted the cat, who purred and didn’t stop licking until all traces of spilled milk were gone. Oscar looked up at her expectantly, long pink tongue swiping his nose.
Sheffield reached in again. Instead of streaming milk into the mug, he squirted the cat. “Begone, ye lazy furball, and go catch yer dinner.” With a saucy flip of his tail, Oscar leaped to the top of a crate, where he began to clean every drop of milk from his fur.
“Now where were we?” Sheffield hadn’t moved back but Harriet didn’t feel crowded.
“We were … squeezing.”
“Yes. Squeezing.” She felt he was referring to something other than the goat but she didn’t care. He was right there, so close she could lean into him. If she wanted.
She wasn’t sure what she wanted. She wasn’t worried, alone in the twilight-dark hold with him, a devilishly handsome man rumored to have bedded over a hundred women. She probably should be worried.
Daisy made an impatient noise and stamped a back hoof, breaking the moment. The third goat, light grey with a white blaze and white stockings, came over and nudged Sheffield’s leg.
“Mustn’t keep Daisy waiting.” Sheffield moved back a few inches. He bent down to rub the grey goat’s head while it kept its forehead butted against his calf. “Hello, little one,” he said so softly Harriet barely heard him. “How is Dusty this fine morning?” The grey goat gave a soft bleat in reply.
