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The men scrambled to their feet, grabbing at their clothes. Their hair was wet enough to drip water down their bare chests and shoulders. Each one of them hopped on their feet as they clambered into their breeches. Kurt fell over in his haste.
They had seen her. Her face was visible, poking out over the bushes. Caught in her company, they were in trouble. And so was she.
Matthew roared, “Get back up that hill!”
They ran past him, clutching their remaining clothing. Dara remained on her knees, her hand extracted. It was shaking so badly, she had to hide it from him. Her skirts were rucked up by her knees.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice seething with rage.
She hobbled behind him. “It was nothing—”
“Quiet. I have no wish to hear your excuses.”
By the time they reached the yard, the men had vanished. She hoped Matthew was in a better mood. “Go indoors and wait for me. Best think hard how you should wait for me.”
She stumbled into the cottage, tears streaming down her face. She had disappointed him badly. What she had done was a breach of trust. She had let him down, and herself.
“What if he can’t forgive me?”
* * *
Matthew had suspected she’d gone to bathe in the river. Only when he approached the lower boundary of his land had it crossed his mind that she might not be alone down there. The lads liked to swim in the river, and he had not told them to forgo it, nor to inform him or Dara when they chose to swim. It was too late to warn her, they were already there. But, instead of turning on her heels as a good lass should and hasten back, she’d stayed.
The reason for her loitering was obvious. His heart had sunk. She was young, as young as the men, and infatuated with the arts he had taught her, and now she was greedy for it. Too needy and not disciplined enough to be left in the company of men. She had not given away her presence, and he was certain they were as shocked as him at her discovery—she had used them covertly for her pleasure. A wanton display of selfishness. A debauched act that was not suitable for a maid, never mind a lady of title. His anger intensified.
Once he had her in the cottage, he would deal with her, but first, he had to remind the three youths about his rules. He strode into the barn, slamming the door behind him. Wisps of straw and hay floated up from the cobbles beneath his boots.
The three of them, now dressed, stood in a line, heads bowed and hats off.
“We’ve done nuffin’ with her, Master,” said Ezekiel.
“I believe you. But if you’d found her, like I had, would you have taken her?” He circled them. “Well?” He thumped Lemuel on the back.
“No, Master...” he stuttered.
“Kurt?”
“Master. I do not.”
“Did not, I hope.” He went over to where the tack hung from the wall and selected the big horsewhip. It had never been used on the obedient Suffolk Punch, Bert, nor on any other animal on the farm. He swung it around and it whistled over their heads.
Ezekiel flinched. Lemuel looked tearful. Kurt, the stoic one, kept still.
“Well, should I reproach you?”
“Master, we didn’t touch her. We will not,” Ezekiel said earnestly.
“I know you haven’t. It’s my intention to remind you not to.” The whip required control, not angry confrontation. What it represented was his authority. He excelled at keeping the tip away from their noses, relying on the whip’s daunting presence to reinforce his message. Dara was not theirs to covet or malign. She was his to protect.
“She’s not your wife though—”
The whip cracked in front of Ezekiel’s face and the lad shrank back.
“Do not say another word.”
Ezekiel had crossed a line, one that was carefully constructed and unbreakable.
“Sorry, Master,” he whispered. “Truly. I shouldn’t have mentioned...” He faltered. Nobody ever said her name.
