The Rightful Lord (The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor Book 3) by Sahara Kelly (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Mrs B raised her eyebrows. “Well now, that’s a good question.” She cocked her head to one side. “Got summat up yer sleeve then, do yer?”

“Yes, and I’m not revealing it yet. I just need to know if help would be available.”

“All yer gotta do is send word, m’Lady.” Mrs B smiled. “We’ll be ready an’ willin’ for whatever yer need.”

“That is wonderful. I thank you most sincerely.” She gave Mrs B a little hug. This woman had been a lifeline and had rapidly become a friend whose honesty and trustworthiness could always be counted on.

Gabriel poked his head around the door. “Excuse me, my Lady. Evan was wondering if Mrs B would mind stopping by the kitchen on her way home?” He smiled at the older woman. “He’s trying a new recipe and would love your opinion…”

“That lad,” said Mrs B. “Gotta magic touch wi’ food and ‘e’s askin’ me?” She guffawed. “Sure, I’ll come. Mebbe I can talk ‘im into tellin’ me what’s in it.”

“Would you share your pie secrets?” Gwyneth passed Mrs B her shawl.

“Hah.” The snort was quite explanatory.

“I thought so,” chuckled Gwyneth. “Thank you for the visit, dear Mrs. B. Give our regards to Jane and Trick, won’t you? I doubt Jane will want to attend the Hallowmas Bonfire.”

“I will.” Mrs B reached the door. “Lizzie an’ Mary will be by Thursday as usual.” She waved her hand and vanished with Gabriel.

Gwyneth tidied the tray and finished off her piece of seed cake. It was really very good. She would have to remember to thank Evan.

Walking back to the window where the light was beginning to fade, she sighed, wondering yet again at the twists of fate that had delivered her from almost certain death to the position of Lady of the Manor. And into the arms of her gentlemen.

She was physically healed, and most certainly satisfied. Her mind was calm, her sense of security unsurpassed.

What had she done to deserve such wonders?

And fast on the heels of that thought came another.

How long would it last?

Chapter Nine

The first day of November dawned cold and clear, and showed no signs of changing its mind, to the relief of the bonfire watchers.

Harry noted more than a few pairs of small feet appearing now and again and then disappearing as they confirmed the mighty pile of wood was snug, dry and ready for the festivities. The grass beneath was dormant now, mostly grey instead of green, and the ashes from the blaze would be ploughed in come planting time, adding valuable fertilisers to the surrounding area.

While he knew little of farming, he had a smattering of chemistry in his background, picked up from an uncle who had been fascinated with such things. A long time ago now, it seemed.

But this little tradition, lingering from the Middle Ages to now, intrigued him. And so it was with a small measure of entirely adult excitement that he joined those little ones who were eagerly awaiting the night.

There would, of course, be food. No celebration ever lacked food, especially at Wolfbridge.

Evan had been extra busy preparing soft bread rolls that would go into the oven early and pile up on wooden trays during the late afternoon. Many of the women would bring dishes and there would be a vat of mulled wine, thanks to Harry’s suggestion. A smaller fire would hold the largest cooking pot, and Mr Barnsley had been volunteered by his wife to oversee distribution.

All was in order, realised Harry.

And he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. What was his place here, in this tiny bit of England? An ex-soldier, with the scars to prove it, a middling ability to handle legal and financial matters and a way with horses. What was he doing here, within this oddly domestic family, tucked far away from all that he held familiar?

Then there was the matter of the Lady.

She would be his for the taking, and his loins liked that proposition. A lot. She was a petite woman, but her appeal lay not in her stature, but in that look she had when she was asserting her opinions. Her chin would go up and she would meet one’s eyes with a straight and determined look. He’d not seen temper, but he believed it was there.

Her body appealed to him on a purely male level. All the right curves in all the right places. But he probably would have been interested had she been tall and skinny or anything else, for he was a man attracted to a woman who could think and talk and argue with him—and occasionally win.

It was intelligence, he’d been told. And he’d known immediately the statement was quite correct, regardless of the fact that he was talking to a very naked courtesan at the time. She’d been intelligent, and his dalliance with her had been most enjoyable.

Gwyneth was cut from the same cloth when it came to her mind. And she tasted sweet, fresh and most desirable.

Harry sighed. As a soldier, his sexual adventures had wandered considerably from the straight and narrow, as a soldier’s are wont to do. He had shared women a time or two. Now, he had the option of doing so again, with Lady Gwyneth and those she referred to as her “gentlemen”.

His common sense told him this might not end well. But the rest of him told his conscience to go fuck itself and leave his loins to do the job.

So he turned his attention away from the sensual charms of his Lady and back to the duties of the day. Darcy, for some unknown reason, had formed the habit of attaching himself to either Royce or Harry. He was happy to be with anyone, but these days his preferred