A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(65)
“You’re right, of course,” Sherbourne said. “No mason has ever had to do a spot digging, square up a foundation trench, or deal with mud and mortar.” Sherbourne went off with the duke, arguing all the while, and Jones and Radnor followed, bickering like a pair of tipsy washerwomen.
Charlotte trailed along behind the men, grateful that she’d worn sturdy boots and resentful that her husband had to defend himself from accusations flung by a duke who’d probably never lifted a shovel in his titled life.
Halfway up the hill, Charlotte realized that she had landed herself in a pickle. The last time she’d traveled this path, she’d had her husband’s entire focus and held hands with him. She hadn’t given the height a thought, a miracle she’d consider later. Now Sherbourne was remonstrating with Haverford thirty yards ahead, closer to the summit.
To Charlotte’s left, the hillside rose steeply, while to her right…“Do not look,” she muttered. “Do not look. You are safe. The ground is solid beneath your feet, you have been this way before, and Sherbourne is counting on you.”
She looked, and—no surprise—the works appeared tiny at the foot of the hill. The men were miniature figures digging through the great mass of earth that had obliterated the planned housing site. The stacks of equipment were so many toys strewn about, and the white tent sat in the middle, much, much too distant.
Charlotte forced herself to gaze up the path, though now Sherbourne was forty yards away. Her heartbeat became painful and her breathing inadequate to fill her lungs. If she fell…
“Mister…” Her voice came out barely above a whisper, and vertigo threatened her balance. “Mr. Sherbourne.”
He couldn’t hear her, not with the distance and wind. He’d soon round the last curve of the path and be lost to sight. Charlotte would die, lifted off the hillside by a gust of wind, and dropped onto the hard ground far below.
Panic threatened.
“Lucas, please help—” The ground lurched, though of course it hadn’t really. “Do not look. Sit down,” Charlotte lectured herself. “Sit down right here, right now, and the men will find you when they are finished arguing, or when spring comes, or when…I can’t do this.”
Those four men would never cease arguing, and when they found her, Sherbourne would be mortified that his wife couldn’t even traverse a Welsh hillside without turning into a blithering ninny. Charlotte could not move, could not turn her head, could not figure out how to sink to her knees without toppling down the incline to her right.
She could only gaze up the path, at her husband’s retreating form, hating her weakness and wishing she’d never thought to intrude into matters beyond her ken.
Though building the houses in the middle of the colliery itself had been a truly daft idea.
“Charlotte!”
Sherbourne’s voice. He was jogging back down the path, coming nearer with each step. “Charlotte, are you well?”
She closed her eyes. He might misstep, he might go plummeting over the side of the hill, he might twist his ankle on a loose rock, he might—
“I’ve got you,” Sherbourne said, wrapping her in his arms. “Say something. You’re pale as the angel Gabriel’s wings. Please say something.”
Hold me, which came out as “Meep.” He was warm, he was solid, and Charlotte could breathe. She tried again. “I am being ridiculous.”
“I should not have left you without an escort. The height is bothering you, isn’t it? Damn it, what was I thinking. I’ll have you down the hill in a trice.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I should be able to do this. This is merely a hill.”
“It’s a damned high hill, with a good drop if you take a wrong step. Damn it, damn it, blast and damn it.”
Charlotte gradually realized that Sherbourne was more upset than she was. For him, she could muster some calm, provided he kept his arms around her.
“I have been up this hill before,” she said. “If your miners are to dwell on the summit, I will be here frequently. Shall we proceed?”
“Are you sure?”
She loved him—loved him—for asking that, for the concern in his voice, for the earnest regard in his blue eyes. He’d asked her the same question in bed last night, but this time seemed even more significant.
“I am quite sure. Hold my hand, and we shall contrive.”
He not only held her hand, he walked on the outer side of the path, talked to her about Radnor’s argument earlier with Jones regarding the tram line, and step by step got her to the hilltop.
Every inch of the way, Charlotte held her husband’s hand, until she was at the summit, pacing off a row of houses, and mentally laying out gardens and chicken coops, while trying to ignore the burning revelation that she loved her husband.
*
“I didn’t think they were a love match,” Radnor said, as Sherbourne and his lady sauntered down the hill hand in hand.
“Why do you conclude they are?” Haverford countered.
“When was the last time you remained hand in hand with your duchess in public for a good half hour?”
“You ask a very personal question, Radnor. You’re newly married yourself. Draw your own conclusions.”
The wind at the top of the hill was brisk, which Charlotte had pointed out would dry laundry quickly. The breeze was also likely to be free of coal dust, given that the prevailing direction was from land toward the sea. Fresh air was healthier for all concerned, and the air where the houses had originally been laid out would not have been fresh at all.