Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(19)

“About the goose?” His broad shoulders hitched in a shrug. “We could wring his neck and take him home for dinner.”

The suggestion caused Daisy and the Greylag to stare at him in shared outrage.

“That was a very poor joke, Mr. Swift.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

Daisy placed herself squarely between Swift and the goose. “I will deal with the situation on my own. You may leave now.”

“I wouldn’t advise making a pet of him. You’ll eventually find him on your plate if you stay at StonyCrossPark long enough.”

“I don’t care if it makes me a hypocrite,” she said. “I would rather not eat a goose I’m acquainted with.”

Though Swift did not crack a smile, Daisy sensed he was amused by her remark.

“Philosophical questions aside,” he said, “there’s the practical matter of how you intend to free his leg. You’ll get beaten black and blue for your pains.”

“If you would hold him still, I could reach for the spoon and—”

“Not,” Swift said firmly, “for all the tea in China.”

“That expression has never made sense to me,” she told him. “In terms of total world production, India grows far more tea than China.”

Swift’s lips twitched as he considered the point. “Since China is the leading international producer of hemp,” he said, “I suppose one could say ‘Not for all the hemp in China’…but it doesn’t have the same ring. However you care to phrase it, I’m not going to help the goose.” He bent to pick up his creel.

“Please,” Daisy said.

Swift gave her a long-suffering look.

“Please,” she repeated.

No gentleman could refuse a lady who had used the word twice.

Muttering something indecipherable beneath his breath, Swift set the creel back down.

A self-satisfied smile curved Daisy’s lips. “Thank you.”

Her smile faded, however, when he warned, “You’ll owe me for this.”

“Naturally,” Daisy replied. “I would never expect you to do something for nothing.”

“And when I call in the favor, you’re not even going to think of refusing, no matter what it is.”

“Within reason. I’m not going to agree to marry you just because you rescued a poor trapped goose.”

“Believe me,” Swift said darkly, “marriage won’t be any part of it.” He began to remove his coat, having difficulty stripping the damp olive-colored tweed from his broad shoulders.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Daisy’s eyes widened.

His mouth held an exasperated slant. “I’m not going to let that blasted bird ruin my coat.”

“There’s no need to make a fuss over getting a few feathers on your coat.”

“It’s not feathers I’m worried about,” he said curtly.

“Oh.” Daisy fought to hold back a sudden smile.

She watched him take off his coat and his vest. His creased white shirt adhered to his broad chest, becoming wetter and almost transparent as it stuck to the muscle-banded surface of his abdomen and disappeared beneath the sodden band of his trousers. A pair of white braces stretched over his shoulders and crossed the powerful surface of his back. He laid his discarded garments carefully over his creel to keep them from becoming muddy. A breeze played with the clipped layers of his hair, briefly lifting a lock on his forehead.

The strangeness of the situation…the baleful goose, Matthew Swift waterlogged and dressed in his shirtsleeves…caused an irrepressible giggle to rise to Daisy’s lips. Hastily she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it came out anyway.

He shook his head, while an answering smile broke out on his face. Daisy noticed that his smiles never lasted for long, they vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was like catching sight of some rare natural phenomenon, like a shooting star, brief and striking.

“If you tell anyone about this, you little imp…you’ll pay.” The words were threatening, but something in his tone…an erotic softness…sent a hot-and-cold chill down her spine.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Daisy said breathlessly. “The situation would reflect as badly on me as it would on you.”

Swift reached into his discarded coat, extracted a small penknife and handed it to her. Was it her imagination, or had his fingers lingered an extra second on the surface of her palm?

“What’s this for?” she asked uneasily.

“To cut the string from the bird’s leg. Be careful—it’s very sharp. I’d hate for you to accidentally slice open an artery.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.”

“I was referring to myself, not the goose.” He slid an assessing glance over the impatient fowl. “If you make this difficult,” he said to the goose, “you’ll be pate by suppertime.”

The bird raised its wings threateningly to make itself appear as large as possible.

Moving forward in a deliberate step, Swift placed one foot on the line, shortening the goose’s range of movement. The creature flapped and hissed, pausing for a moment before making the decision to hurl itself forward. Swift seized the goose, cursing as he tried to avoid the driving beak. A flurry of feathers rose around the pair.