Page 7 of The Taking of House Westwood

“What do you think it’s about?”

Sophie jumped, suppressing a cry. Owen had moved up to stand next to her, his whispered voice loud in her ear.

She smacked him on a muscular arm. “Don’t do that,” she hissed.

“Do what?”

“Sneak up on me like that, you fool!”

“Oh you old biddy!” He bumped her hip with his, and she made a face at him. The proximity of his tall, powerful body was almost as disconcerting to her as the goings on in the yard outside.

“Those banners that rider is flying look like House Westwood. Do you think that’s Lady Westwood?”

Owen shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never set eyes on her. I only know that we pay our tithings, or we get a visit from a few of those riders out there.”

“She’s not as bad as all that, Owen. Father speaks quite highly of her, actually. Says she is a fair and merciful Lady. We’re lucky to have her.”

“Aye, I suppose it could be worse. We could be under the Blackarch banner. Tommy Crowder tells me terrible things of his family’s ordeals under their rule. Nobody could be worse than that.”

“You shouldn’t listen to Tommy Crowder. He tells tall tales, you know.”

Owen grunted, an edge to his voice. “Does he? So, I suppose the stripes across his back he showed me are old wive’s tales then? Vicious bastards beat him near to death.”

Sophie looked back at him, seeing his brows knit together. “I’m sorry for it, Owen. Even he doesn’t deserve such.”

Owen glanced at her, his eyes distant. “Perhaps not, but that’s his lot all the same. Wish it weren’t so.”

She laid a hand on his arm. She knew the farmhands led hard lives, and were subject to more than she —her father being a landowning man — but even knowing that, a part of her longed for the simplicity of their lives; the easy, uncomplicated joys and lack of true responsibility. Her father made it clear to her early on that she was meant for better things than farm life, and he had made it his mission in life to find eligible suitors for her. So far, they had all been fops or dandies from such cities as Wyndhaven. Not a one of them was prepared for even a day of life on the farm.

Though her father had tried to discourage it, she had always insisted she be allowed to work the farm along with the other young hands. She loved it, enjoying contributing to something usually thought of as a peasant’s work. Her father, though he regarded it as beneath her station, allowed it because her work at least got her out of his hair. He’d had no male heirs born to him, and Sophie’s sisters had already been married off. He’d never remarried following the death of Sophie’s mother while giving birth to her youngest sister Maris. Indeed, he seemed never to have fully recovered from the loss. As a result, he was indulgent with his daughter, and she took advantage of it as much as she dared.

Rory looked over at the barn, the woman’s gaze following. Then he led the woman and two of the men into the house. Two of the farmhands assisted the rest of her retinue, helping with watering the horses.

Owen picked up his rake and began mucking out the next stall. “Well, it’s back at it for us, old girl. Rory will be generous with the strap if he has a high and mighty Lady to impress.”

Sophie watched the strange riders a moment longer, then knelt once more to finish Mathilda’s rubdown. The heifer’s poor nipples were inflamed again, and she hoped the cream would keep them from cracking.

They both worked in silence for several minutes, Sophie lost in thought about what the visit might mean. It wasn’t every day that a commoner farm was visited by nobility! Perhaps the Lady had a suitor in mind for Sophie? She shuddered at the thought, at the obligation she’d be under to see the man if such was the case. She guessed it was probably a discussion of tithes or perhaps crop rotation, but she had no idea why the Lady would attend such a meeting herself. She had a dozen captains and hundreds of men-at-arms for such tasks, after all.

“Is this the one? Your man told me she was in the barn.”

“Aye, that’s my Sophie, your Grace.”

Sophie, startled at the unfamiliar sound of the smooth female voice, stood up, brushing the dirt and straw from the front of her shift. Standing in the barn doorway were her father and the mysterious Lady. The sun-drenched yard behind them rendered their figures but dark silhouettes against the glare.

Owen moved to Sophie’s side, the handle of his rake clasped low across his hips. She was surprised at the comfort she felt with him near, for this visit was unexpected. In her experience, surprises were all too often unpleasant ones.

“Milady,” Sophie said, sketching a curtsy. Owen did not follow; a quick incline of his head was all that he granted the Lady.

“And who might this impertinent young man be?”

“Owen Galt, your Grace,” her father said. “One of my hands.”

Her father and the Lady stepped closer, out of the glare of the afternoon sun, and Sophie was able to get a better look at her. The Lady was blessed with a cold beauty. The snug riding attire set off her willowy figure pleasingly, her sable hair up in a tight bun. Her dark eyes regarded Sophie with assessing frankness. She didn’t like the woman’s regard one bit.

“He needs a lesson in manners, Clayton.” Her gaze flitted to Owen then back to Sophie as if to confirm what she was really after. Sophie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes, your Grace,” her father said, grimacing. “My steward will have a word with him very shortly.”

---