B006DTZ3FY EBOK (39 page)

Two daunting facts struck him at once. The cottage consisted of one room only. And it was spotlessly clean. Chloe was bustling blithely about, heedless of her muddy skirt dripping on Barlow’s meticulously-kept floor. Gil shuddered. Chloe had thrown open Barlow’s cupboards without a thought, and was busily rummaging about. She was such a generous little soul, it was clearly inconceivable to her that anyone might object to her making herself at home.

He couldn’t bear to watch. "I’m off to do something about Wager," he announced, and ducked back out into the storm. Gil found shelter for his dripping animal in Barlow’s cow shed, removed the saddle, and rubbed him down as best he could. Since the only material to hand was hay, he was forced to rub Wager vigorously with handsful of the stuff. This took a good long while, but the exertion certainly kept Gil warm while it lasted.

The rain did not abate. By the time Gil returned to the cottage, Chloe had a fire crackling on Barlow’s hearth and had put the kettle on. But what caused him to stop dead on the threshold was the sight of Chloe herself. She had somehow contrived to strip off her wet clothing and bathe while he was gone. A large tin basin containing a wet sponge and a cake of still-foaming soap gave mute testimony to her accomplishment of this feat. Her hair was piled anyhow on top of her head, the damp tendrils around her face curling riotously. Her pink and white skin glowed from scrubbing. And she was artistically wrapped in a kind of white toga.

The overall effect was deceptively angelic. Gil felt the hairs stand up on his neck.

"What are you wearing?" he demanded.

Chloe looked very pleased with herself. "It’s a bedsheet."

"Good God!"

"What’s the matter?"

"D’you mean to tell me you’ve torn up the man’s
sheets?"

"No such thing! It’s merely tied." She raised her bare arms to show him how well it was tied. The toga did not slip, but the swell of Chloe’s plump breasts above the tightly-tied swatches was unnervingly evident. As he stood in the doorway and goggled at her in dismay, she broke into laughter. "Gil, do stop staring! Come in and close the door. You’re letting the rain in."

"You’re not dressed. It’s indecent."

"Pooh! I’ve seen ballgowns that are far more revealing than this. The sheet is made of linen, and ever so thick. There’s another, too, if you’d care to get out of your wet things."

"What, prance about in a sari? No, thank you." But he sneezed as he came in and closed the door behind him. "This adventure will be the death of me," said Gil gloomily. "Mark my words."

"Well, I do think you ought not to stay in those wet clothes. We don’t know how long we may be stranded here."

Water was streaming from his person onto Barlow’s floor. His clothing was sticking to him, but pouring rivulets down his boots. The boots, at least, would have to go. Gil surrendered to the inevitable with a sigh. He plopped unceremoniously onto the floor and began tugging on his footwear, hoping grimly that this rough-and-ready treatment would not ruin their shape forever. There seemed little point in searching Barlow’s humble home for a proper bootjack.

"Why the deuce did you take Thunder out today, anyhow?" he grumbled, wrestling with his boots. "And why did you take him so far? You might have known it would rain. It has done so every day for a se’nnight."

Chloe was carefully spreading her wet riding habit over the back of a wooden chair. "Yes, but the morning was so sunny! I couldn’t bear to stay indoors another moment. I thought I should go mad." The golden head bent low over her task. "Don’t scold me, Gil. You know how it is in that house," she said softly.

He did. Without another word, he finished yanking off his boots and placed them outside, on Barlow’s small, but relatively dry, front porch. As soon as he had closed the door again he padded over to his friend and patted her shoulder comfortingly, ignoring the fact that it was disconcertingly bare. "You always mean well, Chloe. I suppose today is not your lucky day."

She peeped up at him impishly. "This isn’t my ill luck at work, it’s yours.
I’m
here through pig-headedness. Wiggins told me the horse was too strong for me, but I
would
take him! So, you see, this situation serves me right. But I fail to see why you became entangled in my mishap."

"Following you," said Gil simply. His sodden clothing was wretchedly uncomfortable. He stood with his back to the fire and gingerly lifted his coattails, hoping the warmth would reach him eventually.

Chloe glanced curiously at him. "Did you follow me all the way from Brookhollow?"

"Yes, and I had the devil’s own work to do so! You had left not ten minutes before I arrived in search of you, and Wiggins pointed me in the direction you had taken. I never guessed you would go so far, or I wouldn’t have trailed you like a gudgeon. It was easy enough to see where you had gone, especially with the ground so muddy, but I was beginning to think I would never catch you."

"Well, I’m very grateful that you did. Only think what might have become of me if you had given up and turned back. I daresay I would be in that stupid wood yet, huddled under a tree and half drowned by now." Chloe carried a petticoat over to the basin and wrung it energetically. Bare toes peeped from beneath the hem of her bedsheet as she walked, but it was so voluminous on her diminutive frame that a train of bulky linen dragged behind her.

Gil grinned. "Is that modish ensemble comfortable?"

She tossed a saucy smile over her shoulder. "It’s a deal more comfortable than wet wool, at any rate."

"Well, if informality is the order of the day, would you mind if I took off my jacket?"

"Heavens, no! Haven’t I been telling you you should? No sense standing on ceremony with me, Gil. We’re practically family."

He gingerly removed his jacket and spread it on Barlow’s other chair. There were only two in the tiny cottage, both pulled up to the wooden table in the center of the floor. Gil lifted the clothing-draped chairs and set them closer to the fire. "I dare not remove my breeches," he remarked. "You might take advantage of me."

Chloe giggled. "Well, if
that’s
what’s worrying you, I should think you’d be in less danger if you did. A man looks far more attractive in wet breeches than wrapped in a bedsheet."

Gil turned to her with mock sternness. "And just how many men have you seen wrapped in bedsheets, Miss?"

Her cheeks reddened, but she laughed at him. "None, of course! I was only trying to reassure you."

"Hm!"

"Gil, I really would feel terrible if you caught cold. And I can’t think what has turned you so prudish all of a sudden." She removed her wrung-out petticoat from the washbasin and draped it over Barlow’s dinner table, apparently completely unconcerned with the immodesty of displaying her undergarments to a bachelor.

He glared at her, exasperated. "Nothing sudden about it. We ain’t children any longer."

"Ain’t?" she repeated, distracted by this linguistic lapse.

"It’s the fashion," he explained. "But don’t you follow it! Bad grammar is thieves’ cant—all the crack in London, but not for females. Where was I?"

"Preaching decorum."

"So I was!" He resumed his stern demeanor. "If you have a fault, Chloe, it’s that you are too trusting by half. Don’t you know what people would think, if they knew we had paraded round Barlow’s cottage dressed in his bedsheets? Don’t you know what they would say of us?"

Chloe placed her small fists against her hips and sniffed at him. "I’m not completely birdwitted."

"Well, then?"

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "If
you
have a fault, Gil, it’s that you simply aren’t practical! You and I both know that you would never touch me. What does it matter what people might say? No one will know."

"I daresay old Barlow will be able to add two and two. He’s always been fly to the time of day."

"Barlow is a dear. If he does figure it out, he won’t say a word. He would no more harm me than you would."

Gil groaned, but his groan ended in another sneeze. Chloe marched to a cupboard and withdrew Barlow’s sole remaining sheet. She tossed it to Gil. "Not another word! I shall turn my back on you until you tell me to turn round."

He caught the sheet. She turned her back. But Gil still hesitated. "You’re absolutely certain old Barlow is away?"

"He left only yesterday, I believe, so if he’s gone for a visit he can’t possibly return for days yet."

"And we are going to buy him a new set of sheets?"

"Of course."

He sighed. The wet breeches were deucedly uncomfortable. And she was right; it was highly unlikely that any harm would come of it. Lord knew they had done far worse things together, and never been caught. He grinned reminiscently as he peeled off his nether garments. "You always were a fearless little thing. Remember the summer when I taught you and Tish to swim?"

Chloe’s white shoulders shook. "Poor Tish! You had no mercy."

"Yes, but much you cared! You nearly drowned, trying to follow my lead. I was trying to teach you a lesson. A lesson you badly needed! You frightened me half out of my wits that day."

"You weren’t trying to teach me a lesson. You were trying to put me in my place. I knew it, too! I couldn’t let you win, Gil."

"Let
me win? No such thing, you impertinent little snip! You may turn round now."

She did, and burst out laughing. The damp breeches and stockings were in a heap before the fire, and Gil stood before her clad only in his shirt and a kind of giant diaper that hung below his knees. "Charming!" she gasped. "Oh, Gil, I was right—you were far more fetching in your wet breeches!"

Gil grinned. "Beauty is as beauty does," he informed her piously. "And this beauty saved your groats today."

"Yes, indeed! I am in your debt. And Wager’s, of course."

"Of course. Is that tea ready yet? You may pour me a dish, ma’am, and I’ll tell you why I risked life and limb to seek you out."

Chloe poured the tea into two mugs of slightly-cracked glazed pottery. Since Barlow’s chairs were occupied by their clothes and the table by Chloe’s petticoats, the two friends seated themselves cross-legged on the hearthrug. While Chloe was occupied in arranging her voluminous skirts, Gil took a gulp of the tea. His face contorted into an extraordinary grimace. "What the deuce—!"

"What’s the matter?"

"Clo, this can’t be tea!"

"Of course it is tea! Oh, dear. Is it very bad?"

"Devilish."

"Well, I daresay Barlow doesn’t buy the
best
tea. Tea is very dear these days." She took a cautious sip, and immediately set the mug down. "Oh, my."

Their eyes met, and together they fell into whoops. "Well," gasped Chloe eventually, "now I know what to give Barlow on Boxing Day."

Gil’s eyes traveled around the tiny cottage and he shook his head. "Phew! I tell you what, Clo: I wouldn’t be poor for anything.”

He seemed so earnest that she looked at him in surprise. Then she bit back another peal of laughter. "Gil, you are dreadful!"

He grinned. "Aye, we ought not to laugh at such things. We’re a fortunate pair, Chloe."

"Yes, and Barlow isn’t doing so badly. This is a very snug little home, I think." She waved a hand to indicate. "A bed, a table, two chairs, a servicable wardrobe, cooking pots, dishes. What more does a single man need?"

"A valet, a card-case, some letters of introduction, and a fat bank account," said Gil promptly. "Oh, and a cow."

"A cow! Why?"

"I don’t know, but Barlow has one. He seems to have collected only the bare essentials, so a cow must be a necessity. Stands to reason."

Chloe choked. "Do you have a cow?"

"No, but I’m dashed well going to get one!"

Off they went into another fit of laughter. Chloe, wiping her streaming eyes with the edge of her bedsheet, finally managed to say, "Oh, Gil, it’s wonderful to see you again! Why do you spend so much of your time in London? I miss you terribly."

He grinned affectionately at her. "I miss you, too, Clo. Why do you stay stuck down here in the back of beyond? No reason why you can’t visit the metropolis. All the world does so. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about—"

But Chloe was shaking her curls resolutely. "I cannot. The farmers cannot spare me."

"What, are you still ruling the roost at Brookhollow?"

"You know I am. Someone must."

Gil frowned. "I don’t like to say aught against your father, Chloe, but he ought to take a hand in managing Brookhollow’s affairs. Daresay if you left him for a time, he’d be forced to do so. Good thing!"

Chloe shuddered eloquently. "It would
kill
me to come home and find everything at sixes and sevens, after all my hard work."

Her friend’s mouth set grimly. "I am strongly tempted to say something I know I would regret."

Affection lit her eyes. "Very well, I’ll say it for you. You wish to tell me that Father ought to do the hard work, and I ought to lead the life of leisure! But talking pays no toll, Gil. Father has no interest in keeping up the property. Why should he, indeed? He is not really master at Brookhollow. The property was left to me, together with the fortune. I cannot blame him for his indifference. You must own, it would weigh heavily on any man to live as his daughter’s pensioner."

"He’s no one to blame but himself," said Gil with asperity. "Had he shown any disposition to lift a finger while your grandfather was alive, I daresay your mother’s property would not have been left in that skimble-skamble way! At any rate, I don’t like to see him punishing you for something you could not help. You are in no wise at fault for the way things were left. In fact, you had nothing to do with it."