Page 28 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Ow! Damn it,” she cursed. “Over ’ere, Peri. We got some good mash fer ye.” Her accent was getting thicker the longer she struggled with the pig. “Damn it. You take ’im. I’ll hold the bucket.”
He shook his head. “Not on your life. I’ve only got this one coat.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. The widow’ll wash it.”
“And charge me a crown for it,” he snapped. “You hold the pig—”
“I’m not strong enough.”
“A giant wouldn’t be strong enough,” he huffed. So despite what the muck smelled like, he reached in and grabbed the remains of a turnip now soaked in ale. Then he held it out and tried to sound coaxing. “Come on, Mr. Periwinkle. You like turnips, do you?”
“Ain’t no one really likes turnips,” she said between breaths.
He couldn’t argue that. “Don’t sayain’t,” he muttered as he kept holding out the turnip.
“Drop it on the ground,” she instructed. “Near me feet.” Then before he could say anything, she grimaced. “Nearmyfeet.”
“Very good,” he said with a grin. Then he dropped the turnip. Sadly, Mr. Periwinkle had no interest in it.
“Splash ’im with ale.”
“What?”
“So he can get the taste.”
“And how am I—”
“Just grab a handful and splat ’im with it.”
She was starting to tire. Her shoulders were drooping, and he would bet her hands were getting raw. So rather than argue that it was a liquid and not something he could grab, he tried to do what she wanted.
Cupping his hand as best he could, he scooped up some ale and wilted cabbage and threw it right at Mr. Periwinkle’s head.
He was in luck. The thing had lifted its snout out of the dirt, and so Mr. Periwinkle got a face full of ale. Which got his full attention.
He whipped around, moving faster than Bram thought possible for a thing that size. Bluebell stumbled around as well, and she nearly kicked the bucket over. He was able to save it—getting a kick in the forearm as he did—but that didn’t save them from the weight of Bluebell lurching for the bucket.
Oh, bloody hell.
Bloodydamnpissinghell.
The thing sat on him.
Getting flattened by a five-hundred-pound pig was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. But as bad as that was, it soon got even worse.
Chapter Six
A pig by any other name stillstinks.
“Git the bucket!Git the bucket!”
Maybelle’s hands and shoulders were screaming, but she put everything she had into hauling Mr. Periwinkle back. The moment that pig got a belly full of ale, he’d be a drunken pig, and no one could move him until dawn when he’d wake with a sore head and worse disposition.
Entire evenings at the pub had been spent retelling one Mr. Periwinkle story after another, and she did not want to add today’s adventure to that list of disasters. She had too much to do yet and no strength left in her hands as the pig got the better of her.
She lost her grip and dropped to her knees. And poor Mr. Hallowsby was now flat on his bum with a hand to his chest as he gasped for air.
God no. He couldn’t be dying! Getting hit by Mr. Periwinkle was no small thing, and men had been killed by less. She’d managed to maneuver the pig off him with a few well-timed shoves, but the damage had already been done. He’d been sat on, and…
