Stranded With The Scottish Earl

“Let me,” he said, when she bent to try and haul the sheep free. The sodden winter fleece weighed a ton.

“We’ll both have to lift her,” Charlotte said breathlessly.

Fifteen grim minutes later, he gave one last heave and the animal scrambled onto firmer ground. Charlotte, kneeling in a puddle, extended a gloved hand.

“I think she’s about to give birth,” Charlotte said, accepting his help.

Dismayed, Lyle brushed dripping hair from his eyes and studied the sheep. Charlotte was right. “Blast.”

“She’s before term. She won’t make it back to the barn. We’ll have to get her into the byre.”

“Let’s go,” he said wearily.

“Do you know what to do?” Charlotte asked after they’d caviled the bleating, confused animal up the slope to shelter. Luckily it wasn’t far.

“I’m hoping nature will take its course.”

He shooed the byre’s other occupants into a corner. The pregnant ewe was starting to make ominous sounds and circle the dirty straw on the floor, lying down, then lumbering to her feet.

“Can we do anything to help her?” Charlotte asked, watching the ewe’s increasingly urgent movements with concern.

“Not at this stage. It’s all going as usual so far.” He climbed the short ladder to the raised platform at the back of the byre and heaved a bale of hay to the edge. “Watch out.”

Ignoring his protesting muscles, he pushed the hay to the ground. He muffled a groan, but Charlotte heard him. “Are you all right?”

He mustered a smile. “I’ve been living in London too long. A Scotsman should laugh off what we’ve done today.”

“I need to meet more Scotsmen. They’re an impressive tribe.”

“We are at that,” he said, tossing over another bale, then descending to the ground.

Charlotte broke up the hay and spread it for the other sheep. Lyle helped her. The pregnant ewe was bleating and leaning down on folded front legs.

“Is this the last paddock?” He felt like he’d quartered the county today, instead of just walked a few sodden fields.

“Yes. We can’t check on the tenants until the water goes down.”

“Then let’s go upstairs and leave this lassie in peace.” He climbed a couple of rungs of the ladder and offered his hand. Charlotte’s ready acceptance made his heart swell. They settled on the edge of the platform, legs dangling into space. It was surprisingly cozy under the low roof, listening to the rain’s gentle patter.

When Charlotte shivered, he took off his oilskin and draped it around them like a blanket. “Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She nestled closer without invitation.

“This is a dickens of a way to court a lassie.” He dropped an arm around her shoulders.

To his surprise, she laid her head on his shoulder. The pungent scents of wet sheep and dirty straw tinged the air, but even through all that, he caught a faint and alluring hint of Charlotte. Flowers. Rain. Female. He closed his eyes, happy, despite the weather and his aches and pains. Below them, the ewe lay panting on her side.

“How long will she be like this?”

“And you call yourself a countrywoman,” he said in gentle mockery.

She gave a soft huff of amusement. “Papa pays shepherds to do the muckier parts of animal husbandry.”

“I suspect those shepherds are all curled up somewhere snug right now.”

“Lucky shepherds,” she said. “You’ve done this before, though, haven’t you?”

“Aye. Often. She’ll be an hour. Two. If all goes well.”