Taming Rafe (6 page)

“Underwhelmed, perhaps,” he conceded, and returned to toeing through the heaps of broken walls and furniture. “I’ve seen most of Europe, and the sale of this sad heap was supposed to get me either to the Americas or the Far East. Now I’ll be lucky to get to Ireland.”

The compassionate smile dropped from her face. “This ‘sad heap’ is my ancestral home,” she snapped. “I’ll thank you to remember that.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her heated expression. “It
was
your ancestral home,” he corrected. “At the moment it’s your ancestral pile of rubble—and the millstone around my very stupid neck.” He tossed a broken tea saucer into the corner, shattering its remains. “And I thought Forton Hall would be
good
luck.”

“No one’s forcing you to stay here.”

Rafe looked at her for a long moment, something she couldn’t quite decipher in his eyes. “I suppose not. What keeps
you
here?”

Felicity hesitated, knowing he wasn’t looking for a flip, obvious answer. “It’s my home. If I weren’t here, no one would look after it.”

“Forton Hall is luckier than it deserves. So—where might I find that paper?”

“In the morning room, in the wooden box on the desk.”

He nodded and turned on his heel.

She spent another hour digging through the wreckage. It was dirty, exhausting work, and every broken object caused a pang in her heart. She’d never been overly sentimental, but this was Forton Hall falling down around her. And it was likely to grow worse, unless Nigel returned home soon, and with plenty of money.

Apparently Rafe intended to stay at least until his clothes arrived. As long as he didn’t mind going into Pelford for supplies, she supposed that his presence wasn’t such a bad thing. It was one less chore for her. Felicity suddenly paused, straightening. Actually, having an able-bodied, feebleminded man about might be the best thing that had happened to Forton Hall in a long while!

With that in mind, she climbed the stairs to the leaky attic of the remaining east wing to see if she could find him some temporary clothing. When she returned downstairs, she heard May’s laughter coming from the morning room. Rafe Bancroft already
was
of some use, if he had kept her free-spirited sister from running wild all morning. Nigel had never been good with May, referring any questions to Felicity, and constantly chastising her outbreaks of high spirits. Lis carried her bundle to the morning room, and stopped, smiling, in the doorway. Apparently Mr. Bancroft didn’t mind high spirits—and she certainly preferred May loud and laughing to quiet and forlorn.

“That’s not a word,” her sister protested, pointing at the paper Rafael leaned over.

His scowl didn’t conceal the twinkle in his eyes. “It is too, a word. ‘Posthaste.’”

“It looks like more scribbles to me.”

“How old did you say you were, anyway? Four?”

“I’m eight,” May said with a giggle. “And I can read. And write.”

“Well, so can I.” Rafe scrawled something at the bottom of the page and folded it. “Better than you.”

“That whole letter is just a bunch of squiggly lines.”

He grinned faintly as he addressed the letter. “Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is—”

Felicity cleared her throat. “I hate to interrupt the debate, but I found some old clothes of our grandfather’s in the attic. None of Nigel’s have survived, and you’re a bit…taller than he is, anyway. While you’re waiting for your own things to arrive, I thought you might have some use for them, Rafe.”

He stood. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Harrington.” Stepping forward, he took the bundle from her. Then, taking her fingers in his free hand, he lifted them to his lips and lightly brushed her knuckles, his green eyes holding hers.

This time she was certain he was flirting. And while she’d been flirted with before, she couldn’t ever recall excited shivers running down her arms. Suddenly very conscious of the dust and grime covering her dress, her hands, and her face, Felicity flushed and pulled her fingers free. “No need to thank me,” she managed briskly, feeling as awkward as a schoolgirl. “They were certainly doing no one any good where they were. And I thought that while we’re all waiting for Nigel’s return, perhaps you might wish to lend us a hand.”

He set the bundle of clothes in a chair. “Lend you a hand with what?”

Playing along with his notion that he was nobility would likely accomplish more than arguing. “I know it’s far beneath your station, but with just May and me here, there are some things we have simply been unable to attend to.”

His expression surprisingly interested, Rafe folded his arms over his chest. “Such as?”

“The roof leaks in the dining room and the upstairs bedchambers, to begin with.” She didn’t want to overwhelm him before he’d even begun. For all she knew, the least little thing could be beyond his capability, fit and healthy though he looked.

“You want me to fix your roof,” he repeated.

“Well,” she said, stepping forward and laying a hand softly on his arm, “according to you, it’s
your
roof.”

“Hm. So it is.” Narrowing one eye, he picked up the clothes again. “I don’t suppose you have a ladder?”

She nodded, holding back a triumphant smile. Having a roof that actually kept out the rain would be so pleasant. “Behind the stable.”

He sighed. “All right.” With a mock scowl he turned to face May. “And you, young miss, can you keep from poking me with a rake while I change into my roof-mending attire?”

“May will be making luncheon with me,” Felicity said.

“But Lis—”

“Very well.” Rafe brushed past Felicity’s shoulder and headed down the hall toward the kitchen and the stable yard beyond.

“But Lis,” May repeated, capturing her fluttering attention again, “we already made a luncheon fit for the Prince of Wales.”

R
afe lifted his arms, examining the loose, ivory-colored sleeves. “By God, I feel positively historical.”

Grandfather Harrington had apparently followed the fashion of old George III in the days before his madness. Rafe felt as though he were wardrobed for some sort of masquerade ball, but at least the clothes were clean, and fit decently. Foregoing the hat because of the knot on the back of his head, and the shoes because he absolutely refused to wear buckles, he pulled on his Hessian boots and strolled around the back of the stable to find not only a ladder, but a barrel of tar and some weathered-looking shingles.

His head still ached, and he would rather have waited until tomorrow to crawl about on the roof. The gathering clouds in the east, though, didn’t look as if they intended to wait for his skull to heal. Besides, sitting around wasn’t something he did well. And, as he reminded himself, every repair he made to Forton Hall before he sold it would increase the pitiful price he could ask for the wreck.

He lit a fire in a space apparently cleared for that purpose, and grabbed a bucket to heat the tar in. The ladder looked steady, if a bit ungainly, but no doubt the Harringtons had used it on a regular ba
sis. Or rather, Forton Hall would have been better off if they
had
made more use of it. Whistling a vulgar soldier’s ditty, and for once grateful that as a youth he’d enjoyed hanging about the servants and repairmen employed to maintain the grounds and buildings of Highbarrow Castle, Rafe dragged the ladder across the tangled, overgrown lawn and propped it up against the back of the manor house. That done, he went back into the stable to look for a heavy brush or an old broom.

“You weren’t supposed to pay for our supplies.”

He started. Felicity stood framed in the stable doorway, hands on her hips and the already familiar look of embarrassed frustration on her face. In the sunlight her black hair took on an edging of bronze, and he gazed at her, unable to help himself. In his vague plans for estate sales and world travel, he’d never expected
her
. He was used to pursuing what interested him, and catching what he pursued. Felicity Harrington attracted him mightily, and as far as he was concerned, the chase had begun the moment he set eyes on her.

“I was hungry, and I didn’t want to be bashed on the head by Mrs. Denwortle. She’s a bad-tempered old bag, isn’t she?”

Her lips twitched into a half grin, nearly as compelling as the blinding smile that had convinced him to scale the walls and fortify the roof of the estate. Swiftly she ran her eyes up and down his historically clothed form, and the color in her cheeks deepened. “You are our guest.”

So the other party was interested, as well. Good. That would make things easier. “If you’d come in here a few moments earlier, I’d have been your half naked guest. Then whatever would we have done?”

“I…Yes, you’re right. I apologize.”

Finding a broom, he banged it against the wall a few times to remove the dust and cobwebs, then headed back outside to collect the heated bucket of tar and an armload of shingles. “No need. Just pointing out a fact.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, yes. But don’t pay any more of our bills, if you please.”

“I doubt I can,” he said, pausing as he absorbed that little bit of information. “So, there are more debts involved?”

“A…a few.”

He didn’t have to look at her to know how difficult that must have been for her to admit. “Miss Harrington, don’t begrudge me a loaf of bread or two. I eat more than the two of you combined, no doubt.”

“What about the candy, though? I suppose that was to bribe me?” she demanded, following him.

Rafe stopped and turned to face her. She nearly ran into him, and had to put a hand against his chest to keep from stumbling. Dropping the shingles, he caught her elbow and tugged her closer on the pretext of helping her find her balance.

She’d felt damned pleasant when he’d jumped on her yesterday, and however standoffish she pretended to be toward him, she also managed to touch him and converse with him whenever possible. He had no intention of discouraging that. “Bribe you into what? You already said I could stay,” he pointed out with a soft smile. “Is there something more I should be asking of you?”

Felicity pulled her arm free and smoothed at her skirt, blushing furiously. “Why did you make luncheon?” she demanded, ignoring his question.

“It was only sandwiches. Not all nobles are completely useless, you know.” If the morning’s
toast was any indication of her cooking ability, he hadn’t wanted to risk being poisoned on top of his cracked head. “Besides, your schedule seems to be more than full without me adding to the mix.”

“Ah. But how does a nobleman like you learn to make sandwiches? By watching your cook, I suppose?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He bent to retrieve the shingles. Felicity seemed so hungry to know about the way the landed gentry lived. Rafe wondered how long she’d had to scratch and scrape to get by at Forton, and how long it had been since someone had waited on her. He’d be more generous with information in his tales of London from now on. “Cook used to make splendid cucumber sandwiches. My brother and I would take them and glasses of lemonade out to go fishing.”

Felicity nodded. “Ah, yes, your brother. May mentioned him to me. The Marquis of Warefield, is he not?”

“Yes, he is.”

She looked at him curiously. “And I suppose you know the king, as well?”

Rafe grinned and resumed his way to the ladder. “Georgie? He’s a fat, witless toad with an absolute gift for planning soirees. My father and Quin—Warefield—are much better acquainted with him than I am, but I can tell you a tale or two, if you’d like.”

“Is there anyone in London you don’t know?”

He paused on the ladder’s second rung and looked down at her, wanting to know all about his so-called grand life when he only wanted to escape it. Dirt smudged across her nose and one cheek, and something odd and breath-stealing ran through his chest. “I don’t know
you
,” he answered, stepping to the ground again. And abruptly he wanted
to, with a strength that surprised him. He wanted to brush her soft, smooth skin with his fingers, and cover her tall, slender body with warm, slow kisses.

Looking flustered, she backed away a step. “I’ve never been to London.”

Rafe shook himself, trying to concentrate on the conversation. “Why not? Your brother’s a landowner. And forgive me, but you are over eighteen, and exceptionally attractive. What about your debut?”

Felicity hesitated again, fiddling with the fraying hem of her sleeve. Apparently the blue and green muslin was her “mucking about the ruins” gown, because she’d worn the same one yesterday. The gesture seemed hesitant and vulnerable, and Rafe caught himself sighing as he gazed at her.

“My parents died five years ago of influenza, just before Nigel and I turned eighteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “There was no mon—it would have been inappropriate for me to dance off to London. Besides, May was only three, and Nigel had been accepted at Eton.” She stirred and patted him on the arm as though he were some old tea party matron. “So, now you know my life’s story. It’ll be getting dark soon. Shouldn’t you begin on the roof?”

If he’d had more than three fingers free for climbing, he would have saluted. Whatever excuses she made to seek him out, Forton Hall still occupied more of her thoughts than any contemplations of amorous behavior. At the moment. “Yes, Miss Harrington.” He started up the ladder again.

“Rafe?”

He looked down at her. “Yes?”

“Have you ever repaired a roof before?”

“No, Miss Harrington.” He resumed climbing.

“You’re welcome to come up here with me and supervise.”

“Oh,” she answered hurriedly, “I have complete faith in your abilities. If you’ll excuse me, I need to mend some of May’s stockings.”

She hurried into the house, and with another sigh he hefted the heavy bucket onto the roof. His London cronies would have been laughing at him right now, but he was unperturbed enough to begin humming another tune. Fixing the roof could only benefit him. The pursuit had begun.

Felicity was awakened early by a metallic squeak. She lay in bed, reluctant to leave the warm, soft blankets, especially with no one to light the fireplace for her. Even with the cooking, cleaning, mending, and everything else she faced daily, the morning without a fire was when she most missed having servants.

Then she heard the squeaking again, and she sat up. Like May, she’d taken one of the guest bedchambers in the east wing, and pale sunlight softly lit the curtains.

The squeak sounded once more. Curious, she edged off the bed and pushed aside the window coverings.

“Oh, my.”

Rafael Bancroft stood beside the water pump outside the stable. Technically he wasn’t naked, she supposed, because he wore a pair of white wool breeches. From the way her pulse skittered and sped at the sight of him, though, and the way she couldn’t take her eyes from his lean, strong body, he might as well have been completely undressed.

Wet, dark blond hair nearly touched his shoulders. Streams of water glistened down his smooth, well-muscled chest and flat stomach, and made the
wool breeches cling to his muscular thighs. Crouching, he lowered his head beneath the spigot and sent the handle up and down again. It squeaked once more, and a cascade of water poured down his head and bare back.

He straightened again and shook his hair out, the droplets catching the sunlight. Light steam came off his body from the cold water. Felicity abruptly yearned to touch him, to run her hands along his smooth, warm skin.

Without warning, he looked up toward her window. Cursing, she ducked backward, tripped over the corner of the bed, and landed hard on her backside. “Drat!”

It hurt, but at least it jolted her back to reality. She was far too old and had far too many responsibilities to be acting like a moonstruck girl, for heaven’s sake. Deliberately avoiding the temptation beyond the curtains, Felicity washed in the hand-basin, dressed, put up her hair, and went downstairs to cook a breakfast of eggs and warm bread.

“Good morning, Miss Harrington,” her stable guest greeted her a few minutes later, stepping in through the kitchen entry.

“Good morning, Rafe.” She concentrated on breakfast, hoping she wasn’t blushing. She felt hot inside, just under her skin.

“Do you like eggs?” May asked from the table.

“I do.”

“I helped gather them,” she said proudly, between mouthfuls.

“It looks like you did a fine job.”

Felicity placed a heaping plate on the table, and he sat beside May. Watching them teasing and making faces at each other, she felt distinctly befuddled. How odd, the way they looked like a family, when she and May hardly even knew him. For
that matter, how odd that she wanted to run her fingers through his still-damp hair, and feed him his breakfast with her fingers. His lips looked so soft, and when he smiled…

Rafe took a bite, and then another. “Delicious, Miss Harrington.” He winked at May. “I have to say, I’m a bit relieved after seeing the toast yesterday.”

“I told you that was an accident,” Felicity retorted. “You didn’t complain about dinner last night.”

May laughed. “You might have hit him again.”

“The mutton was excellent.” Rafe chuckled. “And I would have said that even if I weren’t in dire fear for my life.”

Felicity laughed. “Oh, stop it.”

“You should smile more often,” he said softly, then wiped his chin with a napkin. “By the way, I thought I might ride into Pelford this morning. Do you need anything?”

I need the roof fixed
, she almost said, but didn’t. He wasn’t a slave or an employee, and much as she could have used the assistance, she was accustomed to doing things on her own. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

He nodded and went back to his breakfast. “How many chickens do I—you—we own, anyway?”

Felicity had become expert at detecting her brother’s attempts to change the subject, and chickens seemed like a definite distraction—though Rafe was a fairly formidable one all on his own. “Twenty-four. What do
you
need in Pelford?”

“I just wanted to take a survey of the countryside, since I own this place now.” He shoveled in another mouthful.

She frowned at him. “To avoid any confusion
with the neighbors, please don’t tell anyone that until my brother returns and we can determine the true story.”

He sighed. “Don’t worry. And I’ll be back in time to work on the roof. It looks as though we’re in for another storm.”

“Can I go with you?” May asked, springing to her feet.

“No, you may not,” Felicity put in, reluctantly looking away from him. “We have cleaning to do, you have reading, and we have a luncheon engagement with Squire Talford.”

Rafe paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Who’s Squire Talford?”

“A neighbor. The local school is on his land. I’m on the education committee.”

“I’m not surprised.” Turning to May, he leaned back in his chair. “So, how old is this squire?”

“He’s at least a hundred,” May answered wisely.

Felicity’s pulse jolted into high speed again. He couldn’t possibly be jealous. They barely knew each other, and he was only rowing with half an oar, anyway. “Why do you ask?”

Rafe looked straight at her. “Because you look so lovely this morning. I wanted to be sure someone—besides me, of course—appreciated you.”

With a smile he pushed away from the table and was gone, leaving Felicity to stare at the kitchen door and wonder whether she’d also lost her mind. She had no reason to desire and enjoy the compliments of a lunatic stranger, however compelling and interesting he might be. And she certainly shouldn’t go to the trouble of dressing in her best remaining morning gown simply to impress him. She glanced down at the yellow and green muslin with the carefully matched green pelisse. At least
he’d noticed, which was gratifying, considering that now she’d have to change out of it again to continue digging through the wreckage.

“He likes you,” May whispered, giggling.