No, she thought, much better this way. Whatever happened with the title, Gareth wouldn’t be home much, perhaps not at all. He’d been half gone as soon as he walked through the door. The morning after their time on the roof, Alice had walked by his chamber while the maids were tidying. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but it had been impossible to miss the leather valise propped beneath the window. It was empty, but it was there, rather than being stored away with the rest of his things. Ready to be packed at a moment’s notice. Whether in a day or fortnight or six months, Gareth would leave.
It was so much easier, safer this way. Calmer. The problem, of course, was that try as she might to deny it, she was on the edge of the storm. One more hour—one more minute, even—with Gareth as he’d been that night and she was in danger of falling every bit as much in love with him as she’d been eight years before.
Gareth leaned companionably on the fence next to Tommy Sullivan. He had been riding past when he spied the young farmer walking through his pasture among his sheep. Sullivan waved and Gareth had decided to stop. Within minutes, they were discussing sheep, Tommy with enthusiasm, Gareth with a combination of horror and amazement that he had anything at all to contribute. But he’d spent enough time in Greece among their never-ending sheep, enough time in tavernas with the friendly locals, to have learned more than he’d ever wanted to know. Language, it seemed, had not been an impediment. He found himself thoroughly conversant in ewe.
Without being aware of it, he had apparently become knowledgeable on the subjects of drainage, stone walls, and orchard maintenance as well. Over the past week, he’d discussed those subjects at length with several of the estate’s other tenants. He had even made a handful of suggestions that were met with consideration and approval. Of course no one had wanted to talk about camels, but he was forced to admit to himself that he could have conversed about them, too.
“You’ve a grand stretch of land far side of the forest,” Tommy was saying now. “Good for a large flock. And sheep are good for the land.”
Gareth wanted to disagree, out of sheer perversity. He couldn’t. Sheep were good for the land, controlling the vegetation and fertilizing the earth. Their wool was a profitable commodity, the shearing and spinning and weaving employment for the people. And while Gareth was not a lover of either mutton or lamb, a good part of Ireland was.
“Sheep,” he muttered, and Sullivan, as if reading his mind, chuckled.
“Think, sir. You might have been born to land that favors pigs. Now, will you come in for a drink?”
Sullivan’s pretty wife served them a pitcher of ale with plates of hearty brown bread and sharp cheese. Nearby, the couple’s twin boys sat sturdily on a brightly colored quilt, tugging at the ears of an old hound. The dog’s tail thumped rhythmically against the floor; its tongue darted out occasionally to lick a plump fist.
Sullivan followed Gareth’s indulgent gaze. “ ’Tis a good life I have here.”
Yes, Gareth thought it might be. The work was hard and unending, but there was a reward at the end of the day, support and assistance when it was needed. Kilcullen’s tenants looked out for each other. They always had. The earls had more or less looked out for the tenants. That was their duty, one that no doubt could have been performed better. Schooling for the children, Gareth thought. Surplus grains stored away on the earl’s grounds, at the earl’s expense, should a harvest be poor or a winter unusually hard. Funds for young men to marry, to study a trade when there were already enough brothers working the land, to join the army. If these were his decisions to make . . .
He halted that train of thought, drained his mug. “Thank you both for the hospitality. I have enjoyed myself.”
“I’m glad.” Sullivan rose with him. “You’re welcome anytime. Will you thank Lady Kilcullen, sir, for the basket. Miss Ashe delivered it yesterday and ’twas a treat to see. Mary’s already opened the cheese and the boys are halfway through the pudding.”
“I’ll be sure to tell . . . her ladyship.” He didn’t think he would be mentioning it to Clarissa. She would only yawn and roll her eyes. Alice would be glad to hear that her gift was appreciated.
Alice. As he swung onto Cinn and rode from Sullivan’s yard, Gareth tried to decide, for the thousandth time in only seven days, what he was going to do about Alice. It might have been all the damned mistletoe about, or how she looked in the moonlight. Or the fact that it had been a long time since he’d held a woman. Whatever it was, he was spending far too much time thinking about kissing her. Thinking about how soft and warm and right she’d felt in his arms.