Resolutely, he turned his mind to the problem at hand. Who was this evil bastard who came in the night? Who might have it in for Maddy and the children so badly he would destroy their livelihood? They wouldn’t starve—Nash would see to that—but this swine wasn’t to know that.
Somebody wanted her out of the cottage and was obviously prepared to commit wanton destruction to do it. And yet, there had been no attempt to hurt Maddy and the children.
Five “Bloody Abbot” visits in a few weeks and, apart from frightening a woman and children, burning beehives and destroying plants was the worst he’d done.
He fell asleep eventually, his mind full of questions, his body tense and edgy with desire.
Nash woke shortly after dawn to the click of a quietly closing door. He threw off the covers, grabbed his pistol, flung open the door, and nearly tripped over Maddy sitting on the front step, tying the laces on her big ugly work boots.
“What? What is it?” he demanded, scanning the horizon.
“Nothing.” She stood, neatly dressed in her faded blue dress, her hair gleaming wine-bright in the morning sun and coiled into her usual neat knot. She looked lovelier than any woman should after a disturbed night and very little sleep.
Her gaze moved from his face to his hair, then down to his toes and back. “Good morning. I assume you slept poorly.” Her eyes danced.
He stiffened, realizing he probably looked rather less dapper than he preferred to look in front of women he desired, in bare feet and wearing a nightshirt made for a short, rotund vicar. He raised a casual hand to his hair and found it standing in spikes. He tried to smooth it inconspicuously.
“What are you doing up at such an hour?” He sounded, even to his own ears, gruff and surly.
“I need to see to the hens.”
“I shut them in after you went to bed.”
“I know. I heard you go out again last night. Thank you.” She started down the pathway.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ll dress and go with you.”
“It’s all right,” she told him. “There’s nothing you can do. I want to check on the damage before the children are up.”
“I’m coming,” he told her firmly, and went inside to pull on his breeches, boots, and coat. He made his ruined boot almost wearable by the simple expedient of tying it on with strips of rag. It looked utterly ridiculous, but he had no choice.
He found her on her knees in the vegetable garden, replanting any plants that hadn’t been totally destroyed, and throwing the ruined ones into two piles: usable as food and only fit for the hens. She looked almost serene.
“I thought you’d still be upset after last night.”
She sat back on her heels and wiped a strand of hair from her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a stripe of dirt in its wake. “Upset? I’m more than upset, I’m furious. But I won’t let that monster defeat me. It’ll take a lot of work to get the garden back in shape, but at least this is the beginning of the growing season and not the end.”
“Get the garden back in shape? You mean you’re going to start again?” He looked at the mess that had been her garden. It was a huge amount of work.
She snorted. “What should I do? Give in, tuck my tail between my legs, and run back to Fyf—run away?” she amended. “No, no, and no! I will not be driven from my home by a coward who frightens children. Besides, I have the perfect solution to deal with him in future—geese.”
“Geese?” How would more poultry solve her problem?
“Geese make excellent watchdogs. You should hear the fuss they make when any stranger is around—and they eat grass and grain, which is cheaper than feeding a dog,” she finished triumphantly. “I cannot imagine why I didn’t think of them sooner. Geese would honk a warning of any spineless creature creeping in the night to terrify children and burn innocent, hard-working little bees! That reminds me . . .” She glanced past him to where the bee hives had stood in their stone shelters. “I’d better clear the wreckage of the hives away. I want to clean up as much of the damage as I can before the children see it.” Seizing a spade, she headed for the hives.
“I’ll help, just tell me what to do.” He’d never pulled a weed or tended a garden in his life but his muscles were at her disposal.
“Thank you.” She gave him a dazzling smile that drove every thought from his mind. “Bring the wheelbarrow, please.”
He fetched it, a big old clumsy thing that was hard to balance and harder to steer. As it wobbled toward the hives, she looked up and tossed him a quick grin. “That’s what I used to bring you inside the house, after your accident.”
“This?” He was shocked. “You carried me on this? How?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t say it was easy. But needs must.”
Needs must indeed. Nash was stunned, faced with the very physical evidence of what she must have done to save his life. Up until now it had been an academic exercise; he hadn’t considered the logistics of how she’d managed to transfer his insensible body from the muddy ground, inside, and into her own bed.
He stared at the small, slender frame, currently scooping a mess of burned straw and honey into the barrow lined with fresh straw. How the hell had she managed to lift him?
