Page 5 of To Bed the Bride
“Can I saddle Maud?” she asked, standing.
“She’s ready for you.” He stood, too. Although Mr. Contino was shorter than she by nearly a foot, he always seemed larger, mainly because of his personality. “We’ve exercised her well since you’ve been gone, Miss Eli.”
His use of her father’s name for her almost pushed the smile off her face. No one else called her that.
“Thank you, Mr. Contino.”
He only nodded in response.
Without another word she left the stable master’s office and headed toward Maud’s stall.
Maud was a Highland pony, a garron, originally purchased to breed with one of their Arabian stallions. Her father thought that the result would be an attractive offspring with greater speed and an amenable temperament. Unfortunately, Maud had never produced a foal, but her father hadn’t sold the pony. Instead, she’d become Eleanor’s mount.
As a garron, Maud was tall, a chestnut with a full body and well-built quarters. Her eyes, set wide apart, were intelligent and knowing. Her head was arched and her mane was long, as was her tail, which fell nearly to the ground.
Maud wasn’t a young animal, but she hadn’t developed any significant signs of age. Although Eleanor wished she could have brought Maud to London, it wasn’t the right place for her. She was better off at Hearthmere where there weren’t crowds and endless noises to startle her.
Eleanor left the stable, heading east. She wanted to explore slowly, giving both Maud and herself time to be reacquainted with their normal route.
She hadn’t expected the sheep.
Normally, Hearthmere’s flocks were taken to the pastures south of the house, not here. But these didn’t look like her sheep. They raised black-faced Scottish sheep at Hearthmere, not animals with white, elongated faces and sharp, pointed ears. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to the steward’s last report. Had they begun raising a different breed?
She debated retracing her steps, but she wanted to go onward. She tried guiding Maud through the white bleating cloud except that they weren’t parting for her. Instead, they milled around her, keeping her from making any progress on the road.
Maud didn’t like the animals being so close to her legs. Twice she skipped to the side. Dismounting, Eleanor grabbed Maud’s reins, deciding to lead her through the flock rather than attempt to do so mounted.
She thought the sheep would part for her if she pushed her way through them. The opposite was true. They seemed to relish bumping against her and announcing their displeasure in a high, irritating, whining bleat.
Abruptly, the sea of white thinned, leaving her staring at a black-and-white dog with a huge ruff and a set of impressive teeth. Like the sheep, he was not pleased with her appearance, but unlike the flock, he was poised to attack.
Chapter Three
Logan McKnight had always known that sheep weren’t quiet animals. They might move in a cloud of fleece and feet, but they weren’t silent. On the contrary, they were loud and in an annoying way. They bleated in tandem and then separately. Just when he got used to the rhythm of their noise, they changed it again.
However, he hadn’t known about the spitting.
A few of the ewes had sized him up from the first day and decided that he was wanting. Without warning, they’d spew spittle on him if he ventured too close. He learned to keep his distance.
Thank heavens for Peter and Paul. Without the two border collies, he didn’t know where the flock would be right now. Not headed toward the upper glen, that was certain. They’d probably be halfway to the Hebrides.
Some of his contemporaries—should they be unfortunate enough to spy him in his current role—would say that he was hiding. He preferred to consider this time away from London as a sabbatical. He needed a week or two in the Highlands to clear his mind and maybe clean his soul.
As long as the sheep obeyed the dogs’ commands he could follow along and act like he knew what he was doing. At night the dogs herded the sheep into a tight circle and remained on guard, one of them at Logan’s feet and the other in front of the flock.
The solitude had originally been a balm to his nerves. Lately, however, he almost craved the sound of another voice—other than his as he rehearsed a forthcoming speech. The dogs never offered comment, although the sheep didn’t seem to approve.
He hadn’t seen another human being in days. Nor had he seen a newspaper in all that time, a fact for which he was grateful. He didn’t want to read about himself.
The time hadn’t been wasted, however. He’d had time to think, and at first his thoughts were filled with what had happened in Abyssinia. Then his mind traveled back a few decades to the freedom he’d experienced as a child. It had been years since he’d felt that carefree.
This was, perhaps, the closest he’d come in a long while, acting in Old Ned’s stead while the shepherd visited a sick relative.
One of the dogs barked. Logan turned his head to find Peter standing rigid on the road, staring down a horse and rider.
Eleanor stayed where she was, conscious that Maud was as unsettled as she felt. Although the mare was exercised every day, it was in a closed corral, not the countryside. This experience of the sheep and now the dog was unusual—and frightening—for her and she was reacting with her normal skittishness.
The dog’s eyes hadn’t veered from them.
