Page 29 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
Phew. He breathed, and with no grimace of pain, as far as she could see. But then he raised a hand.
He was holding a knife. The blade flashed in the sun, and she nearly swallowed her tongue. He couldn’t kill Mr. Periwinkle.He couldn’t! That was Widow Dwight’s only means of support beyond what little she brought in doing laundry. Plus the thing had fathered half the pigs in Hull.
“No!” she bellowed, and she saw his hand stop in midair.
He didn’t strike. He also didn’t keep the bucket away from Mr. Periwinkle. And as they froze in that tableau, the clearing filled with the snorts of a pig guzzling ale.
Damnation.
She plopped down on her rear, belatedly realizing that she was covered in mud and Mr. Hallowsby wasn’t much better. Baths for them both and fresh clothes before they left. Which meant she had to get that pig back to Widow Dwight’s to trade for the washing. She had precious few dresses to take to London, and this was one of her best.
“Aw, blimey,” cried Thomas from the far side of the clearing. “We told ’im not to feed ’im the grub.”
Mr. Hallowsby whipped his head around and glared at the boy. “And how was I to keep that brute away from it, I ask you?”
“By running faster than a pig,” Thomas shot back, disgust in every line of his body.
Maybelle pushed herself to her feet and managed to grab the empty bucket away from Mr. Periwinkle. Tossing it to Thomas, she said, “Go fill ’er up again. He’s in a better mood now, mebbe I can get ’im going.”
Thomas eyed the three of them doubtfully, but didn’t argue. She leaned down and grabbed hold of the rope around Mr. Periwinkle’s neck. She didn’t pull, though. Her gaze went to Mr. Hallowsby, where he sat in the mud looking stubborn.
“I’m not paying another two shillings.”
“What for?”
“The ale.”
Oh, of course. Gillian would have charged him for the grub. “No bother. The widow will cover it. She does the inn’s laundry.”
He eyed her darkly, though in truth she didn’t think the expression was meant for her. “I hate the country.”
“The country seems none too fond of you,” she said. “Are you hurt?”
He grunted as he pushed to his feet. “Just my pride. And my knife.” Then he held up the no longer shiny metal to the sun. The handle was broken.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve killed men for less,” he said darkly as he advanced on Mr. Periwinkle.
She was horrified by the thought. “Truly?”
He whipped his gaze back to her, and a moment later, he stomped over to his two other knives, where they waited, sunk into a tree trunk. She thought he wouldn’t answer, but in the end, he muttered something that sounded like, “Not really. But I’ve wanted to.”
Well, as to that, there wasn’t a man, woman, or child in thirty miles who hadn’t wanted to murder Mr. Periwinkle. She was thinking it right now as she hauled on the rope.
“Come on, you brute. You can’t be drunk yet.”
She thought Mr. Hallowsby would refuse to help, but once he’d secured his knives he came to her side. Setting his hand on her forearm, he spoke gruffly into her ear.
“I’ve got it. Your hands must be mash by now.”
They weren’t a lady’s hands—that was for sure—but she’d handled worse. “What about your clothes?”
“There’s no saving them now, is there?”
No, there wasn’t. And maybe not her dress either. “We’ll pull together.”
“Don’t hurt your hands.”
