wo hours later he was ready to kill her.

Even his outraged mind, however, recognized that murder was not a viable option, and so he contented himself with devising various plans to make her suffer.

Torture was probably too trite, he decided, and he didn’t have the stomach to use it on a female. Although... He looked over at the person in the baggy breeches. She appeared to be smiling as she lugged the stones. She was no ordinary female.

He shook his head. There were other ways to make her miserable. A snake in her bed perhaps? No, the blasted woman probably liked snakes. A spider? Didn’t everyone hate spiders?

He leaned on his shovel, well aware he was acting childishly and not caring in the least.

He had tried everything to get out of this disgusting job, and not just because the work was difficult and the smell was... well, the smell was revolting, there was no way around that. Mostly he just didn’t want her to feel she had bested him.

And she had bested him, the hellish little chit. She had him, a lord of the realm (albeit a rather new one), shoveling slop and manure and God himself probably didn’t want to know what else. And he was neatly cornered, because to get out of it meant to admit he was a sissified London dandy.

He had pointed out that all of the slop would get in her way as she built the wall. She had merely instructed him to put it in the center. “You can smooth it out later,” she had said.

“But some might get on your shoes.”

She had laughed. “Oh, I’m used to that.” Her tone had implied she was far tougher than he.

He ground his teeth and slapped some slop down into a pile. The stench was beyond overwhelming. “I thought you said pigs are clean.”

“Cleaner than people usually think, but not as clean as you and I.” She looked at his messy boots, amusement dancing in her gray eyes. “Well, usually.”

He muttered something rather unsavory before shooting back, “I thought they didn’t like... you know.”

“They don’t.”

“Well?” he demanded, planting his shovel into the ground and putting his other hand on his hip.

Henry walked over and sniffed the air above the pile he was making. “Oh, dear. Well, I guess some got mixed in by accident. Happens often, actually. So sorry.” She smiled at him and went back to work.

He let out a discreet growl, mostly just to make himself feel better, and marched over to the slop pile. He thought he could control his temper. He usually thought of himself as an easygoing man. But when he heard one of the men say, “Work’s going so much faster now that you’re helping, Henry,” it was all he could do not to strangle her. He didn’t know why she had been so smelly the day he arrived, but it was now apparent it wasn’t because she’d been knee-deep in muck, helping to build the pigpen. A red haze of fury blinded him as he wondered what other disgusting tasks she was planning to take on just to convince him they were daily chores for the lord of the manor.

His teeth clenched together as he stuck his shovel into the smelly mush, scooped some up, and made to carry it to the center of the pigpen. On the way over, however, it slid off the shovel and onto Henry’s shoes.

Pity, that.

She whirled around. He waited for her to burst out with, “You did that on purpose!” but she kept silent, motionless except for a slight narrowing of her eyes. Then, with a flick of her ankle, the slop spattered onto his trousers.

She smirked, waiting for him to say, “You did that on purpose!” but he also remained silent. Then he smiled at her, and she knew she was in trouble. Before she had time to react, he’d lifted his leg and planted the sole of his boot against her breeches, leaving a muddy footprint on the front of her thigh.

He cocked his head, waiting for her to retaliate.

She briefly considered picking up some of the slop and smearing it on his face but decided he’d have too much time to react; besides, she wasn’t wearing gloves. She glanced quickly to the left to confuse him, then slammed her foot down on his.

Dunford let out a howl of pain. “That is enough!”

“You started it!”

“You started it before I even arrived, you conniving, unruly...”

She waited for him to call her a bitch, but he couldn’t do it. Instead, he grabbed her around the middle, heaved her over his shoulder, and stalked off with her.

“You can’t do this!” she shrieked, pounding his back with surprisingly effective fists. “Tommy! Harry! Someone! Don’t let him do this!”

But the men who had been working on the wall didn’t move. Openmouthed, they stared at the unbelievable sight of Miss Henrietta Barrett, who hadn’t let anyone get the better of her in years, being forcibly removed from the pigpen.

“Maybe we shoulda helped her,” Harry said.

Tommy shook his head, watching her writhing form disappear over the hillside. “I don’t know. He is the new baron, you know. If he wants to carry Henry off, he’s got a right to do it, I guess.”

Henry obviously didn’t agree because she was still screaming, “You have no right to do this!” Dunford finally dumped her down next to a small shed where they kept farming tools. Luckily no one was in sight.

“Oh?” His tone was utterly imperious.

“Do you know how long it has taken to win the respect of the people here? Do you? A long time, I’ll tell you. A bloody long time. And you ruined it. Ruined it!”

“I doubt the collective population of Stannage Park is going to decide you are unworthy of respect because of my actions,” he spit out, “although your own may cause you trouble.”

“What do you mean by my ‘own’? You’re the one who dumped the slop on my feet, in case you don’t recall.”

“And you’re the one who had me shoveling that shit in the first place!” It occurred to Dunford that that was the first time he’d ever spoken quite so crudely to a female. It was amazing how furious she could make him.

“If you’re not up to the task of running a farm, you can go right on home to London. We will survive just fine without you.”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Little Henry is terrified I’m going to take her toy away from her and is trying to get rid of me. Well, let me tell you something, it’ll take a lot more than a twenty-year-old girl to scare me off.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she warned.

“Or what? What will you do to me? What could you possibly do to me that will cause me any harm?”

To Henry’s utter horror, her lower lip began to quiver. “I could... I could...” She had to think of something; she had to. She couldn’t let him win. He’d boot her off the estate, and the only thing worse than having no place to go was never seeing Stannage Park again. Finally, out of desperation, she blurted out, “I could do anything! I know this place better than you! Better than anyone! You wouldn’t even—”

Quick as lightning, he had her pinned up against the shed and was jabbing his index finger into her shoulder. Henry couldn’t breathe—she’d entirely forgotten how, and the murderous look in his eyes made her legs turn to jelly.

“Don’t,” he spat out, “make the mistake of getting me angry.”

“You’re not angry now?” she croaked in disbelief.

He let her go abruptly and smiled, cocking a brow as she slid down into a crouch. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I merely wanted to set some ground rules.”

Henry’s mouth fell open. The man was insane.

“First of all, no more devious little plots to try to get rid of me.”

Her throat worked convulsively.

“And no lies!”

She gasped for breath.

“And—” He paused to look down at her. “Oh, Christ. Don’t cry.”

She bawled.

“No, please, don’t cry.” He reached for his handkerchief, realized it was stained with slop, then shoved it back in his pocket. “Don’t cry, Henry.”

“I never cry,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out between sobs.

“I know,” he said soothingly, crouching down to her level. “I know.”

“I haven’t cried in years.”

He believed her. It was impossible to imagine her crying—it was impossible to believe it even though she was doing so right in front of him. She was so capable, so self-possessed, not at all the sort to give way to tears. And the fact that he had been the one to drive her to this—it wrenched his heart. “There you go,” he murmured, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “Now, now. It’s all right.”

She took great gulps of air, trying to still her sobs, but they had no effect.

Dunford looked around frantically, as if the green hills would somehow tell him how to get her to stop crying. “Don’t do that.” This was awful.

“I have no place to go,” she wailed. “No place. And no one. I have no family.”

“Shhh. It’s all right.”

“I just wanted to stay.” She gasped and sniffled. “I just wanted to stay. Is that so bad?”

“Of course not, dear.”

“It’s just that this is my home.” She looked up at him, her gray eyes made silver by her watery tears. “Or it was, at least. And now it’s yours, and you can do whatever you want with it. And with me. And— Oh, God, I’m such a fool. You must hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he replied automatically. It was the truth, of course. She’d irritated and annoyed the hell out of him, but he didn’t hate her. In fact, she’d somehow managed to earn his respect, something he never gave unless deserved. Her methods may have been skewed, but she had been fighting for the one thing in the world she truly loved. Few men could claim such purity of purpose.

He patted her hand again, trying to calm her down. What had she said about his being able to do whatever he wanted with her? That certainly made no sense. He supposed he could force her to leave Stannage Park if he so desired, but that didn’t quite constitute anything. Although he supposed that was the worst fate Henry could imagine; it was understandable she’d be a bit melodramatic about it. Still, something struck him as odd. He made a mental note to discuss it with her later, when she wasn’t so distraught.

“Now, Henry,” he said, thinking that the time had come to lay her fears to rest. “I’m not going to send you away. Why on earth would I do that? And furthermore, have I given you any indication that was my intention?”

She gulped. She had just assumed she would have to take the offensive in this battle of wills. She glanced up at him. His brown eyes looked very concerned. Perhaps there had never been need for a battle. Maybe she should have waited to assess the new Lord Stannage before deciding she had to send him back to London.

“Have I?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“Think about it, Henry. I’d be a fool to send you away. I’m the first to admit I don’t know a thing about farming. Either I run the estate into the ground or I hire someone to oversee it. And why should I bring in a stranger when I’ve someone who already knows everything there is to know?”

Henry looked down, unable to face him. Why did he have to be so reasonable and so just plain nice? She felt wretchedly guilty about all her schemes to oust him from the district, including those she hadn’t yet carried out. “I’m sorry, Dunford. I’m really sorry.”

He brushed aside her apology, not wanting her to feel any worse than she already did. “No harm done.” He looked down at himself wryly. “Well, except to my clothing perhaps.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” She burst into tears again, this time horrified. His clothing must have been terribly expensive. She’d never seen anything so fine in her life. She didn’t think they made garments like his in Cornwall.

“Please don’t trouble yourself over it, Henry,” he said, surprised to hear he sounded almost as if he were begging her not to feel badly. When had her feelings grown quite so important to him? “If this morning wasn’t enjoyable, at least it was... shall we say... interesting, and my clothing was worth the sacrifice if it means we’ve reached a truce of sorts. I have no wish to be awakened before dawn next week only to be informed I have to single-handedly slaughter a cow.”

Her eyes widened. How did he know?

Dunford caught the change in her expression, interpreted it correctly, and winced. “You, dear girl, could probably teach Napoleon a thing or two.”

Henry’s lips twitched. It was watery, but it was definitely a smile.

“Now,” he continued, standing up. “Shall we head back to the house? I’m starving.”

“Oh!” she said, swallowing uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”

He rolled his eyes. “Now what are you sorry for?”

“For making you eat that awful mutton. And the porridge. I hate porridge.”

He smiled gently. “It is a testament to your love of Stannage Park that you were able to eat an entire bowl of that slop yesterday.”

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I ate only a few spoonfuls. I dumped the rest of it into an urn when you weren’t looking. I had to go back and clean it out later.”

He chuckled, unable to help himself. “Henry, you are like no one I have ever met.”

“I’m not certain that’s such a good thing.”

“Nonsense. Of course it is. Now, then, shall we be off?”

She reached out and grabbed the hand he was holding out to her. Slowly she rose to her feet. “Simpy makes very good biscuits,” she said softly, the very tone of her voice implying a peace offering. “With butter and ginger and sugar. They’re delicious.”

“Splendid. If she doesn’t have some on hand, we shall have to coerce her into making a batch. I say, we don’t have to finish the pigpen, do we?”

She shook her head. “I was working on it Saturday, but mostly just supervising. I think the men were a bit surprised by my help this morning.”

“I know they were surprised. Tommy’s jaw dropped halfway to his knees. And please tell me you don’t usually get up this early.”

“No. I’m dreadful in the morning. I can’t get anything done before nine o’clock unless I absolutely have to.”

Dunford smiled wryly as he realized the extent of her previous determination to be rid of him. She really must have wanted him gone to get up at half past five in the morning. “If you detest morning people as much as I do, then I think we shall get on famously.”

“I expect so.” She smiled tremulously as they walked to the house. A friend. That was what he was going to be to her. It was a thrilling thought. She really hadn’t had any friends since she’d reached adulthood. Oh, she got on very well with all the servants, but there was always that air of employer and employee that kept them from getting too close. With Dunford, however, she had found friendship, even if they had gotten off to a rocky start. Still, there was one thing she wanted to know. Softly she said his name.

“Yes?”

“When you said you weren’t angry...”

“Yes?”

“Were you?”

“I was rather annoyed,” he admitted.

“But not angry?” She sounded as if she didn’t believe him.

“Believe me, Henry, when I get angry, you’ll know.”

“What happens?”

His eyes clouded over slightly before he answered. “You don’t want to know.”

She believed him.

An hour or so later, after they had both bathed, Henry and Dunford met in the kitchen over a plate of Mrs. Simpson’s ginger biscuits. While they were busy fighting over the last one, Yates arrived.

“A letter arrived for you earlier this morning, my lord,” he intoned. “From your solicitor. I left it in the study.”

“Excellent,” Dunford replied, pushing out his chair and rising to his feet. “That must be the rest of the papers concerning Stannage Park. A copy of Carlyle’s will, I think. Would you care to read it, Henry?” He didn’t know if she felt slighted by the fact that the property had gone to him. It was entailed, that was true, and Henry couldn’t have inherited in any case, but that did not mean she wasn’t hurt by it. By asking her if she wanted to read Carlyle’s will, he was trying to assure her that she was still an important figure at Stannage Park.

Henry shrugged as she followed him into the hall. “If you wish. It is rather straightforward, I think. Everything to you.”

“Carlyle didn’t leave you anything?” Dunford raised his brows in shock. It was unconscionable to leave a young woman penniless and adrift.

“I suppose he thought you would take care of me.”

“I will certainly make sure you are comfortably situated, and you will always have a home here, but Carlyle should have provided for you. I never even met the man. He couldn’t have had any idea if I had any sort of principles whatsoever.”

“I imagine he thought you couldn’t be that bad if you were related to him,” she teased.

“Still...” Dunford opened the door to the study and walked in. But when he reached the desk there was no letter waiting for him, just a pile of shredded paper. “What on earth?”

The blood drained from Henry’s face. “Oh, no.”

“Who would do such a thing?” He planted his hands on his hips and turned to face her. “Henry, do you know all the servants personally? Who do you think—”

“It’s not the servants.” She sighed. “Rufus? Rufus?”

“Who the hell is Rufus?”

“My rmbblet,” she mumbled, getting down on her hands and knees.

“Your what?”

“My rabbit. Rufus? Rufus? Where are you?”

“Do you mean to tell me you have a pet rabbit?” Dear God, did this woman do anything normal?

“He’s usually very sweet,” she said weakly. “Rufus!”

A small bundle of black-and-white fur darted across the room.

“Rufus! Come back here! Bad bunny! Bad bunny!”

Dunford started to shake with mirth. Henry was chasing the rabbit around the room, stooped down with her arms outstretched. Every time she tried to grab it, however, it wriggled out of her grasp.

“Rufus!” she said warningly.

“I don’t suppose you could have acted like the rest of humanity and gotten a cat or dog.”

Henry, recognizing a reply wasn’t necessary, didn’t say anything. She stood straight, planted her hands on her hips, and sighed. Where had he gone off to?

“I think he darted behind the bookcase,” Dunford said helpfully.

Henry tiptoed over and peered behind the large wooden piece. “Shhh. Go stand on the other side.”

He followed her orders.

“Do something to scare him.”

He looked over at her with a doubtful expression. Finally he got down on his hands and knees and said in a gruesome voice, “Hello, little bunny. Rabbit stew for supper tonight.”

Rufus scrambled to his feet and ran straight into Henry’s waiting arms. Realizing he had been trapped, he started to squirm, but Henry kept a firm hand on him, calming him down by saying, “Shhhh.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Put him back in the kitchen where he belongs.”

“I should think he belongs outside. Or in the stew pot.”

“Dunford, he’s my pet!” She looked stricken.

“Loves pigs and rabbits,” he muttered. “A kind-hearted lass.”

They marched back to the kitchen in silence, the only sound being Rufus’s growl when Dunford tried to pet him.

“Can a rabbit growl?” he asked, unable to believe his ears.

“Obviously he can.”

When they reached the kitchen, Henry deposited her furry bundle on the floor. “Simpy, would you give me a carrot for Rufus?”

“Did that little imp escape again? He must have slipped out when the door was open.” The housekeeper picked up a carrot from a pile of root vegetables and dangled it in front of the rabbit. He sank his teeth into it and pulled it out of her hand. Dunford watched with interest as Rufus gnawed the carrot into nothingness.

“I’m really very sorry about your papers,” Henry said, aware she had apologized more that day than she had in the past year.

“So am I,” he said absentmindedly, “but I can always write a note to Leverett and have him send out another copy. Another week or so won’t hurt.”

“Are you certain? I shouldn’t want to ruin any of your plans.”

He sighed, wondering how his life had been turned upside down by this woman in less than forty-eight hours. Correction: by this woman, a pig, and a rabbit.

He assured Henry that the destroyed papers were not a permanent setback and then took his leave of her, returning to his rooms to read over some documents he’d brought with him and to sneak some much needed rest. Even though he and Henry had reached a truce, he was still somehow loath to admit to her that she had exhausted him. It somehow made him feel like less of a man.

He would have felt much better had he known that Henry had retired to her room for the exact same reason.

Later that night Dunford was reading in bed when it suddenly occurred to him that it was going to be another week before he found out exactly how Carlyle had provided for Henry in his will. That was really the only reason he’d been eager to read the document. Although Henry had insisted that Carlyle had not bothered with her, Dunford found that hard to believe. At the very least Carlyle would have had to appoint a guardian for her, wouldn’t he? After all, Henry was only twenty.

She was an amazing woman, his Henry. One had to admire her single-minded determination. Yet for all her capability, he still felt an odd sort of responsibility for her. Perhaps it had been the wobble in her voice when she had apologized for her schemes to oust him from Stannage Park. Or the sheer agony in her eyes when she had admitted she had no place else to go.

Whatever the case, he wanted to make certain she had a secure place in the world.

But before he could do that, he had to see how Carlyle had provided for her in his will, if at all. Another week wouldn’t make much of a difference, would it? He shrugged and turned his attention back to his book. He read for several minutes until his concentration was interrupted by a noise on the carpet.

He looked up but saw nothing. Dismissing it as the creaking of an old house, he started reading again.

Patter, patter, patter. There it was again.

This time when Dunford looked up, he saw a pair of long, black ears poke up over the edge of the bed. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he groaned. “Rufus.”

As if on cue, the rabbit vaulted up onto the bed, landing squarely on top of the book. He looked up at Dunford, his little pink nose twitching up and down.

“What do you want, bunny?”

Rufus quirked an ear and leaned forward as if to say, “Pet me.”

Dunford placed his hand between the rabbit’s ears and began to scratch. With a sigh, he said, “This certainly isn’t London.”

Then, as the rabbit rested its head against his chest, he realized with surprise that he didn’t want to be in London.

In fact, he didn’t want to be anywhere but here.