Patricia Rice Read Online Free PDF Page B

help.”
    All the resolution flooded out of her, and Beatrice
slumped. At the moment, she couldn’t even muster indignation that he
thought she couldn’t manage on her own. James was always right, drat his painted and powdered hide.
    She’d never been outside of Broadbury in her life.
    Which was worse—the thought of venturing outside her sheltered world, or the thought of courting an uncouth American?
    Her mouth going dry as she thought of the scowl on
the giant’s handsome face, she wondered where she could find the funds
to hire a driver for her barouche.
    ***
    “What the devil do you do with all these horses?”
Striding through the towering stone barn after dinner, passing stall
after stall of expensive, idle beasts eating their worth in hay, Mac
couldn’t conceal his disgust at the waste.
    “I sold the jumpers,” Miss Cavendish answered coldly, her many layers of petticoats stirring the dust.
    “Then what the hell are all these pretty things?” he
demanded, gesturing toward half a dozen fine-boned mares. “Not plow
horses, I wager.”
    “Carriage horses. My father had the finest in the
shire.” Pride tinged her normally reticent voice. “And we’re here to
discuss the leaky roof, not the animals.”
    Right . This wasn’t his
estate. He’d just bite his tongue, and not question what wasn’t his.
Obviously English nobles didn’t possess the same frugal instincts as
wealthy Americans. He glared upward at the medieval abomination she
called a roof. “The damned barn is made of stone,” he exclaimed in
disgust. “Why the devil does it still have a thatched roof when it can
support tile?”
    “Your language,” she protested, stepping away from him and toward the doors.
    He wanted to shout Damn my language !
and blister her for stupidity as if she were one of his men. With
difficulty, he tried to remember: teachers did not berate their
students, especially not noble ladies who were too polite to curse back.
    He’d better start practicing proper etiquette if he hoped to hide Marilee’s children for the next few weeks.
    “My apologies,” he said gruffly, stalking past
stalls of carriage horses, riding horses, and even a plow horse or two.
She couldn’t fix the roof, but she kept up with her wealthy neighbors. He didn’t have to live with that hypocrisy.
    Even in the dusk of the tall barn he could locate
the spreading water stain on the inside wall. He could fix a real roof. A
thatched roof was another matter entirely.
    “I take it you have no interest in improving the
barn with tile or slate.” He knew he sounded grumpy. He didn’t mean to,
but his hostess had a damnable way of drawing regally away every time he
barked. After the disasters of this past week, he derived some
satisfaction from making an English aristocrat jump.
    Marilee.
    Mac closed his eyes against the gaping hole his
sister’s death left. Even though he’d confirmed her death from childbed
fever through reliable sources, he couldn’t believe his gentle sister
was really gone. He could still hear her singing nursery rhymes and
laughing as she shoved hay from the loft onto his head. She had been
far, far too young to die. And much too loving to die alone.
    Grief surged through him, but he’d learned not to
give in to raw emotion. He had to appease this silly female so Marilee’s
children would be safe from their drunken sot of a father and his
ignorant minions.
    “I suppose there’s someone hereabouts with
experience at thatching?” He tried to sound reasonable. He didn’t want
to be thrown out on his ear.
    “Yes, of course, but...” Her voice dragged off hesitantly. “But I’d hoped you could...”
    He turned and studied her pale face through the
dusk. “Just tell me who it is. I’ll work out a trade and no coin will
come from your pockets.”
    She looked immensely relieved, and he fought a
moment’s surprise. She obviously had more wealth than Croesus had gold.
Why didn’t she