The Price of Pleasure (Sutherland Brothers 2)

She saw where this was leading. "But if you work here, it would give you even more claim."

"What if I swore I'd never use that against you?"

"You also said you didn't want the place. Strange, but aren't you here because you 'changed your mind'?"

"I'd give you my word."

She frowned at him, confused by the fact that she knew she could trust him on this. She didn't know how, but she knew. And

help would be so critical right now.

She exhaled and said, "We retire early at the Court and had dinner some time ago. And you won't find your meals at the end of a bellpull around here."

"I understand." He gave her a quick nod. "Does this mean you'll help me tonight?"

"Unwillingly. But rest assured I'll be paid back."

His smile was heart-stopping. Cocky and sensual and as powerful as a weapon.

She yanked her gaze away and scuffed to the kitchen, helping him to stew and bread, which he obviously found delicious. "What shall we work on tomorrow?" he asked.

She hesitated, feeling she was about to capitulate more than she ought. Her voice pained, she said, "Be at the north fence tomorrow morning."

Though Grant arrived not long after sunup, Victoria, Huckabee, and an elderly villager were already at the downed fence waiting for him. Victoria looked adorable in her work boots and straw hat. The rough gloves she wore swallowed her hands.

He grinned at her; she glowered at him.

Turning to survey the job, his eyes followed the line of damaged fence as it went on. And on. He scanned in all directions looking for more workers. Irritation sniped at him.

No wonder she'd been working like a field hand. She was a field hand, and unnecessarily so. Victoria had been through so much in the last few months, and he'd be damned if he'd let her run herself into the ground.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her aside. "This will take days to finish. Why haven't you recruited more men?"

She glared at his hand.

"Why?" he repeated, before reluctantly releasing her.

"Can we not get started?" she said.

"You'll lose sheep. Penny sure and pound foolish."

Her eyes narrowed. "Proverbs? You can't take blood from a stone. And even if we had the money, there isn't anyone to hire. All the young men in the area went off to find work when no money was being put into the estate." Her voice went low. "How dare you question my decisions?"

Great start, Grant. "I'm"--he swallowed--"sorry. It's just that I'm concerned about you working a line like this without help."

Her mouth parted at his apology. She turned away and mumbled something about a long day ahead.

So for the next several hours, Grant worked as though possessed, mainly to keep the others from it. The old man, Gerald Shepherd, looked as if he could keel over at any moment, Victoria swayed on her feet when she rose too swiftly, and Huckabee's face was a constant alarming shade of red.

One other thing helped sustain him: Victoria seemed eager to stay by him and examine him working. Once, when he pulled up his shirt to wipe his brow, he caught her staring at his chest and lower. Before she hurriedly glanced up at him, she'd unconsciously licked her lips, sending him into a working frenzy. And then when she'd realized they were going to complete the repairs that day, she'd looked so proud, her eyes snapping with it, that he would have worked himself to death.

Just after dusk, when he'd planted the last pole, Grant was almost too exhausted to think of bedding her. Almost. As it was, the compulsion to pull her into his arms to sleep was overwhelming. Just to lie with her. Just to stroke her hair until she fell asleep. He wiped his brow and neck and strode over to where she perched on the end of a pony cart. "We work well together."

"You seem fairly pleased with yourself."

"I am."

"From what I understand, shearing will make the fence look like child's play. Of course, you won't be around long enough to know."

"I'm very familiar with sheep," Grant reminded her. "I ran Whitestone for four years."

She shrugged at him, stifling a yawn as exhaustion caught up with her.

"We need to get you back," Grant said, then called good night to the two men. He grinned, knowing Huckabee and Shepherd were going to indulge in the jug of ale Shepherd's wife had brought them at luncheon. The men deserved it.

One thing Grant had noticed was that Victoria wasn't the only one overworked. The Huckabees were playing too many roles on the estate. Huckabee was not only a steward, but a manual laborer and field hand. Mrs. Huckabee was dairy and scullery maid, housekeeper, and laundress.

When Victoria yawned again, he caught her under her knees, and before she could protest, he'd swooped her up on his horse.

Her eyes went wide. "T-Too high," she sputtered. "Too big!"

"I'll lead him. You're too done in to walk all the way back."

She relaxed marginally when she saw he wasn't letting go of the reins, but still had a hank of the horse's mane in her fist. "Why should you care?"

"I care very much."

She frowned at him as though he confused her. He confused himself. Now that he recognized his feelings for her, he was baffled that it had taken him so bloody long. He was silent the rest of the way and made no advance when he lowered her from the horse.

After Victoria retired, Grant wrote to Nicole about sending qualified people from Whitestone to work here. He knew Victoria would be furious when she found out what he'd done, but in the morning, Grant whistled for the stable lad to have it delivered anyway.

In the middle of the next two nights, Tori ensured that some calamitous noise would wake Grant. She shoved her sparse furnishings around her room or worked on fixing her sticking window and squeaking hinges. Then early in the morning, she'd kick at his door to rouse him, but ultimately, her tactics only managed to exhaust her. He never wavered from being good-natured and complimentary as he followed her around each day, learning how she did things, and he never offered advice after the fence incident, though she could see that holding in his words was killing him. Good.

Yet it was pleasant having someone there to open things she couldn't budge or retrieve things she couldn't reach. She had only to show her difficulty, and he was there to help.

"I knew you were driven," he said one afternoon as they moved one of the transferable sheep pens piece by piece. "But I've never seen anyone go after something with such single-minded pursuit."

I went after you like that, she thought. And look what it got me. Hurt. "How else would you go after something? And why go after a prize like you don't expect to get it?"

"Why indeed?" He looked as if he derived a different meaning. Had he read her thoughts?

Being around him constantly, viewing that towering, muscular body at work all day was unbearable, but now something much, much worse was occurring.

He'd started to show a sense of humor.

When a ram butted him, she'd howled with laughter, and he'd joined her. She'd frozen, stupefied. His laugh was deep and hearty, and his smile--she'd gaped at him, inwardly cursing, knowing there was no defense against something at once sensual and relaxed.

Then when her dress had caught on a nail and she'd nearly stripped herself in the sheep barn, he'd laughed again. To his credit, he'd caught one look at her face and fought to suppress it, wiping his eyes as he disentangled her and handed her back part of her skirt. Later, she noted, curse him, that he'd removed the offending nail.

That evening before it got too dark, she made her way to the stable to deliver scraps for the barn cats and was forced to pass Grant and Huckabee out on the terrace. As they awaited dinnertime, the two smoked cigars and drank ale, talking about grains and crop yields. She didn't even think Grant saw her hurrying past, but as soon as she called the first "Heeere kitty," he was behind her.

Setting down the plate, she turned and smirked at his expression. Grant Sutherland was foxed. She raised her eyebrows. "I take it Gerald shared some homemade ale with you and Huckabee."

"Potent stuff, that." He rubbed his chin, drawing her attention to the stubble he sported.

"I thought you shaved every day."

"I've been far too tired to even contemplate it. For some reason," he said with an engaging grin, "I sleep poorly here."

She gave him a smug one back. "Even an animal knows to leave a place that makes him uncomfortable." He chuckled--bastard--looking relaxed and at home and not at all like th

e grim Grant she'd balked at marrying.

Closing in on her, he murmured in her ear, "The only thing that could make me shave is if I thought I might get to kiss you." He brushed his fingers over her cheek. "I wouldn't want to rasp your soft face. Or thighs."

Her breath left her like a whisper. I wouldn't mind, she thought, then inwardly berated herself. She backed away, blathering an excuse about dinner, and fled.

Grant showed up at dinner half an hour later. Clean-shaven.

She knew what he was doing. He couldn't love her, so he was out to seduce her. And Lord help her, each time she glanced at his face, at his strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones cleanly shaven, a flutter erupted in her. Had he made plans that included kissing her this very night? She shook herself. She would not get aroused just looking at his face! Still, dinner was an ordeal, and she excused herself before she was finished, ignoring his obvious disappointment, to retire to her study.

Leaning back in her chair, she analyzed his strategy. She'd already told him she needed more than lust, and he'd told her that he couldn't give more. Impasse. And who was about to get his way, just as he had at every other impasse?

He was mixing their lives together, intertwining them until she didn't know where hers began. And not just in work. He even planned to go to the wedding in the hamlet next Saturday that she'd been looking forward to. She'd never seen people in their eighties marry; now she probably wouldn't attend.

She muttered a curse. The villagers already saw them as co-owners, everyone looking at them as though they were working as one. There was no one. She wasn't a half. She owned this place. It was hers by right in less than a week. She would get rid of him and not live a loveless life of unanswered compromise after compromise. She wanted him gone before her desire for him made her forget why love was even important.

That wasn't the only reason for her anxiety. She knew it wasn't fair to keep control of the property when a better owner, better by virtue of wealth, was waiting to take over. She needed to squeeze out just a bit more money for that shearing crew. Tori went over the books until her eyes felt like crossing. She reviewed wordy, bloated contracts with McClure, the wool broker, but couldn't make sense of them.

After long hours, she dozed off, her head falling to a desk littered with historical wool prices, contracts, and reports she'd had Huckabee compile, entailing all the assets of the farm--what they produced, when, and how.