Page 27 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“You’re getting your dress dirty,” he said, which was not at all what he wanted to say.
“I know,” she said on a sigh. Then she looked up. “Go on. I can’t hold ’im all day.”
She couldn’t hold him at all. The thing was already dragging her off into the woods. She dug in her heels and grunted. “Hurry up! Get the ale!”
He blinked. “I have no idea—”
“Mr. Periwinkle likes ale. Just tell ’em at the inn. They’ll know what to do.” She huffed out a breath as she tried to divert the pig to the right instead of the left. “I’ll be moving ’im this way.”
“You can’t seriously—”
“Go!”
Apparently, she could. So with a bemused shake of his head, he went back to the inn. He started out at a jog, but soon broke into a run. The sound of her heavy breath as she fought with the pig-beast followed him every step of the way. Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the inn, and he burst into the kitchen with a gasp.
“Big pig,” he said. Then, when people stared at him in shock, he gestured to his neck. “Ribbon. Periwinkle.”
The woman at the fire pushed to her feet, nodding. “We’ve got just wot you need.” She grabbed a bucket filled with kitchen scraps, and when he reached for it, she held it back and jerked her chin at Thomas. He was already moving, and soon he’d poured a couple pints of ale over the scraps.
“What are you doing?”
“Mr. Periwinkle likes his ale, ’e does.”
Well, he supposed he couldn’t blame the pig. He held out his hand, but the woman held out her palm first. “Two shillings, if you please.”
“What? It’s not even my pig!”
She shrugged. “It ain’t mine neither. Get it back from the widow.”
“But I don’t know—”
She waved him silent. “Miss Bluebell knows wot to do. Just trust her.” Then she stood there with her hand outstretched.
He was tempted to stomp away. What did he know about pigs and widows? But the image of Bluebell being hauled willy-nilly through the woods had him cursing under his breath. He pulled out two shillings. Damned expensive for kitchen scraps meant for a pig.
He slapped the coins into her hand, and she had the gall to smile and curtsy before she handed him the bucket. “Mind you keep it back from ’im. Just rest it near ’is nose until ’e’s back in th’ pen. Otherwise, you’ll be coming back ’ere for another bucket and another—”
“Two shillings. Yes, I understand.” Though in truth, he had no idea how one let a pig smell a bucket but not bury his snout in the thing.
He grabbed the bucket and rushed back, afraid to find Bluebell missing from the clearing. He needn’t have worried. He could hear her cursing from across the way.
“This way, you obstinate brute!” How many villagers knew the word “obstinate?” For that matter, how many of theton?
He hurried to her side and had to stifle his laugh. She was now as filthy as the pig, her hair was matted with mud, and she was being pulled straight into a tree, no matter how much she dragged on the ribbon, which—he now saw—was laid on top of a heavy rope. Well, at least that part made sense, though trying to drag that thing by a rope was no more effective than by a ribbon.
“I’ve got the bucket.”
“Took you long enough,” she huffed. “Hold it out, but not too close.”
He nodded and tried not to spill the thing. “What pig drinks ale?”
“All of ’em, if you let ’em.”
The country was just one new thing after another. God, how he missed the black London air where all he had to deal with was footpads and faithless peers.
“Not there!” she said as she brushed the hair out of her eyes and left a mud streak across her forehead. “Lower. Not that low! He’ll get it!”
But Mr. Periwinkle was more interested in something under a bush, and so it didn’t matter how high or low the bucket was. The pig wanted under the foliage.
