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“Might pause by that tree again, take in the scenery.” He grinned.
She felt the flush of heat bloom across her face. Their celebratory kisses would have to wait until they were out of sight of the house. She hooked her arm through his.
“It’s a fine evening for a long walk home.”
Chapter Fourteen
Three years later
“Here you are, you lazy wench. I’ve been looking for you.” Matthew planted his hands on his hips and cast a long evening shadow over her body.
She removed her arm from where it had protected her eyes from the low sun. She was stretched out in a field, chewing on a stalk of grass with a book by her side.
“I’ve been reading.”
“So I see.” He picked up the book. “More bloody French poetry.”
“It’s the latest—”
“I care more about the pigs than poetry.” He dropped the book on her lap.
She clucked her tongue. “Philistine.” And liar, she nearly added.
“Aye.” He snorted. “You set a poor example for your son.”
“Our son. Where is George?” She rose to her feet. “I left him with Lemuel.”
“He’s chasing the hens.”
“Then what’s the fuss?”
There were plenty of servants about to keep an eye on George. From the little boy’s nurse to Lemuel and Ezekiel, and the housemaid. All of them doted on the redheaded child. When George had been presented to Henry, his lordship had remarked that the child had Matthew’s colouring. Matthew pointed out their mother was a redhead, and so were many of the Barracloughs. It was fate, and well-deserved. Other than that brusque remark, Henry danced the baby on his knees a few times, then handed him back to Dara.
She took Matthew’s hand and they walked down the gentle hill slope, past two barns and across the expanse of the stable yard. As they walked, Matthew did not let up. He eyed faults and dished out orders to the stable boy. He inspected a mare and foal, making suggestions as to the newborn’s care, then ordered the dogs to sit obediently by the back door of the house. Barnaby, now old and rheumatic, whined. Dara patted his head. “There, boy.” She slipped the dog a piece of cured meat from her pocket, a leftover from her small picnic on the hilltop.
She followed Matthew into the house, past the kitchen where she no longer had to toil because a cook was employed. The manor provided them with more than adequate space and privacy. Their quarters were in one wing, the nursery across the dividing hall and situated safely out of earshot of the bedroom. The house, still sparsely furnished and lacking wall hangings and portraits, was fully functional and completed a year ago. A lengthy project supervised by Matthew with input from Dara; she had lived in mansions her whole life. He’d listened, taken from her suggestions what he admired and discarded some of her more extravagant ideas.
Henry had visited a few times as part of his formal recognition of his extended family and to approve the finer details of the arrangement. He had established a legitimate business overseas to provide an excuse for his long absences. Dara had noticed a considerable improvement in the relations between Matthew and his brother. The most recent meeting occurred two weeks ago. Henry remained happy, she deduced, and at pains to reassure her he would not require George to live at Willowby Hall, except when he stayed there himself. George was too young to care where he slept as long as Dara was not far away.
She walked to the parlour door, but Matthew caught hold of her sleeve.
“Where’re you going, lass?” He wore a dangerously mischievous expression.
“No,” she protested, somewhat feebly.
He guided her to the grand stone stairway. “It’s for your good that I do these things.”
She huffed. “Tanning my hide now and again will not bring about a vast alteration in my behaviour, not after three years.”
“No reason not to try,” he said gleefully.
However, she accepted his hand and joined him.
Once in the bedroom, he locked the door. The stool was already in place at the foot of the four-poster, the mattress was plump and covered in a richly embroidered counterpane. On the bed was the wicked washer bat. It had become his favourite after she foolishly remarked that she had not missed doing his laundry. They had a washerwoman.
“Tsk, lass, don’t pull that face. You know I’ll warm you with my hand first.” He removed his jacket, a finely woven silk one, so unlike the rough tweed ones he wore when they had first met. Although in many ways Matthew had been slowly gentrified by his changing circumstances, he remained at heart a roughly hewn gem rather than a finely cut diamond. She was glad, as her journey was something of the opposite. They were gradually meeting in the middle.
She propped her foot on the stool and began to roll down a stocking. “Is there a particular lesson you wish to instil that warrants this?”
