Page 97 of The Earl She Once Saved

Something eased in the older man’s face. Within half an hour Rafe was ankle-deep in mud beside the laborers. Verity stood upon the bank with her arms folded while he helped shift a block of stone.

“You said you would observe,” she called out.

Rafe adjusted his grip. “I am observing the weight.”

One of the men laughed. Rafe smiled at him.

When he had first arrived, these same men watched him with open distrust. They took their orders from Verity and looked beyond Rafe as though the new Earl were another difficulty she would be obliged to manage.

Somewhere in the passing weeks, that changed. He won them without demanding that they be won.

Rafe braced one boot against the wet bank and hauled upon a rope with the others. His sleeves slipped lower. Mud streaked one cheek. When the stone settled into place, he stepped back and listened while the mason explained what had to be done next.

He seemed to care. The truth of it annoyed her more each day. Verity knew what to do with charm. She knew what to do with ambition and entitlement. She learned at great cost to recognize a man who wanted possession of something.

Mud already streaked Verity’s gloves and the hem of her dress from working beside the laborers, yet she paused to watch Rafe shoulder another stone into place. She did not know how to defend herself against a man who lifted stone because a village required a bridge.

Work continued until the village green began to fill for the harvest home. Long tables appeared beneath the elm trees. Women brought bread, roast meat, cheese, and apple cakes. Someone rolled out two barrels of ale, and a fiddler took his place near the green.

Verity remembered the celebration only when Mrs. Coombes came down to the river and declared that no one would be permitted to leave before eating. Rafe glanced at Verity.

“We appear to have been taken prisoner.”

“You might have resisted by remaining clean.”

“I was not informed of the strategy.”

Their horses were led into the shade. Ezra and Win arrived soon after in a small cart filled with dishes from the Edgeworth kitchen. Ezra climbed down carefully, leaning upon his cane. Win stepped from the other side before he could reach her. He crossed behind the cart anyway.

“Mrs. Hale.”

“I am perfectly capable.”

“I did not say otherwise.”

Win lifted a basket. Ezra took the heavier one before she could prevent him. Verity watched them walk toward the tables. Rafe came to stand beside her. His shoulder nearly touched hers.

“I believe he volunteered to escort the pies,” he murmured.

“Dangerous road.”

“Infested with brigands.”

“Hungry ones.”

Ezra looked back. Rafe immediately lifted his cup. Verity pressed her lips together.

For a little while, the day was easy. Children ran among the tables. The fiddler struck up a lively tune. Win tried to remain standing until Verity caught her by the wrist and pulled her down onto the bench. Rafe sat among the tenants with his sleeves still rolled and listened gravely to an argument concerning sheep. Two little girls wove flowers around Ezra’s cane while he pretended not to notice.

No one whispered about Verity. No one watched her with that mixture of curiosity and judgement she had endured at the Marchmont ball.

Here, she was not the deserted wife of a vanished Earl. She was simply herself.

As the afternoon softened, Rafe moved away from the tables. She waited perhaps half a minute before following. He stood beyond the elm, looking across fields stripped gold by the harvest. A breeze moved through the stubble. Rafe held a cup of ale between both hands, though he had not drunk from it.

“You are tired,” she said.

He looked toward her. “A little.”