Page 35 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
She gestured behind her and, moving around, he saw whitewash and brushes. “I got you these.”
“Really?” he drawled. “And how much will it cost me?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Except to talk to me as you paint. It’ll increase the price of the carriage—”
“Tenfold, so you’ve said.”
She shook her head. “Only five or six.”
He grinned. His mother was just like her, able to figure in her head with lightning speed. Although that comparison did little to endear her to him. Still, he had intended to stay, so this made it extra easy.
“You’ll need a smock to paint,” he said as he glanced at her dress. Though it would be no crime to ruin it.
She shook her head. “Not me. You’ll be doing the work, sir.”
“Don’t want to dirty your hands? How very ladylike of you.”
She blinked, clearly unsure whether to be pleased or insulted. “I’ve painted afore. And dug and carpentered, and whatever else needs doing.”
“That is definitely not ladylike.”
“But I don’t do it unless there’s a need. And you, sir, are well able to pick up a brush.”
“That I am,” he said, feeling his mood improve the longer they bantered. At this rate, he’d have her in his bed by noon.
Meanwhile, Mr. Grummer clearly had other things to do. He tipped his hat, flashed a wink at Bluebell that set Bram’s temper up, then ducked away saying something about Mr. Periwinkle’s pen.
“Fix it right,” he said as the man was nearing the door. “I’m not chasing that demon beast again.”
“Can’t rightly say you’ve been in Hull less’n you’ve chased that pig. Ain’t that right, Bluebell?”
“Most definitely.”
Bram snorted. “Then I have enjoyed the local custom and am ready to depart.”
“After a good coat of paint, yes?” pressed Bluebell.
“Yes,” he said. And as Mr. Grummer departed, Bram tried to size up his companion. She seemed both eager and conniving,which led him to ask the obvious question. “What are you up to, Miss Bluebell?”
She blinked, too innocent. “I ’ave no idea what you mean.”
He arched a brow, and she thought for a moment.
“Ihaveno idea.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She sniffed. “That’s as may be, but it’s of no importance to me.”
He chuckled, then stopped the sound with a snort of surprise. When had he last chuckled? With true good humor? Years, if ever. And that shocked him. Was he truly so humorless? Or so cynical?
He didn’t want to answer the question, so he pulled off his coat and grabbed a smock on a peg in the corner. It was meant for cleaning out stalls, but would serve for whitewashing. Meanwhile, Bluebell perched on a barrel, her eyes bright as she watched him.
“How did you start protecting people for money?”
“What?” He jolted, though he wasn’t sure why. Of course she would ask about that.
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Guard people? ’Cept you don’t look or act like any guardsman.”
