Page 22 of Reforming Lord Neil

“Mr. Duncan?” Her voice, low and soft, halted him. He turned, waiting for a reprieve, for some word that might allow him to put off the chore. Instead, she looked at him with that same twinkle in her eye, as though she enjoyed his discomfort. “Thank you.”

Neil nodded curtly and went on his way, biting his tongue.

This day of chores alone had more than earned him a place in her barn.

Chapter Nine

It was nearing the dinner hour when Teresa went in search of Mr. Duncan. The hen house had been cleaned, she saw with relief, and he had done a fine job of it from what she could tell. She stepped into the barn, leaving the door open behind her. It was clean, too, but she saw no sign of her hired hand.

“Mr. Duncan?” she called, her eyes going up to the loft. He could not have retired already. She had not seen him for hours, and there was yet much to do. She came further into the barn. “Are you here?”

A quiet mew made her look up. The orange kitten sat at the edge of the loft, peering at her. “There you are. Caroline will want to see you.” She tried to coax the kitten down with a snap of her fingers, then by patting her knee. But the kitten merely tilted its head to one side and flicked his tail.

“Cats.” Teresa shook her head. If only dogs were mousers. She had always preferred dogs. One knew whether or not a dog liked them, whereas a cat’s temperament seemed to change by the hour.

Since the barn appeared empty, and Caroline would certainly ask after her favorite new animal, Teresa started climbing the ladder up to the loft. As soon as her head came above the boards making up the floor, her eyes caught a sight that made her go still.

Mr. Duncan, stretched out upon his pallet, had one arm thrown over his eyes as he breathed deeply enough for her to realize he was sleeping. On the verge of snoring.

The man had not even put in a full day’s work, and he was abed again?

She glared at his prone form and came up the rest of the way. There was plenty upon his list he might yet accomplish. And she needed the work done soon. She had spent the entirety of her day in the fields, tending plants, touching insects, distributing the manure he had delivered. Her mother had spent the day working in the house. Cleaning, baking bread, preparing their food, putting up eggs, preparing to make cherry preserves.

And the man slept.

She took two steps toward him, then stopped.

He slept without a shirt on.

She glanced around, trying to determine what had happened to the covering, but only found his coat. She picked it up, then clomped as loudly as she could to stand by his side. Mr. Duncan did not even stir in his sleep.

Teresa’s temper flared. Cheap though his labor may be, they still had an agreement. They would feed him and provide him shelter. He would help them in return. She did not raise her voice above a normal speaking level at first. “Mr. Duncan?” He did not flicker so much as an eyelash. “Mr. Duncan, wake up.”

He shifted, lowering his arm, but his eyes remained closed. Teresa frowned and bent down closer to him, staring at his face, willing him to wake.

His cheeks were sunburnt. There was dirt along his jaw and neck. The neckerchief was missing. His hair was mussed and the man really needed a shave. That made him no less attractive. Before she could go down the path where that thought led, she acted.

Teresa threw his coat on his chest, and his eyes finally opened. But he also flew up, nearly crashing his head into hers. Teresa stumbled back a step, and his hand came up and caught her arm somewhat roughly. He glared at her, his coat on the floor between them. She stared, too alarmed by his quick reaction to demand an explanation or pull her arm away from him.

Taking in a deep breath, Mr. Duncan’s sudden hostility seemed to evaporate. “Mrs. Clapham.” He relaxed his hold on her, then slowly lowered his hand. “What are you doing up here?”

Although she had been prepared to take him to task, Teresa’s mind stuttered and whirled. Her eyes flicked from the intensity in his green-brown gaze to his bare chest. Her cheeks warmed and she hastily stepped back. “Where is your shirt, sir?”

Mr. Duncan looked down at himself, then slowly folded his arms over his chest. “Soaking in a bucket of vinegar and water.” His nose wrinkled. “I thought to attempt cleaning it rather than burn it, as I was first inclined to do.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Burn it? If we went about burning clothing every time it became soiled we would all walk around naked.” Heat flared in her cheeks again, all the hotter when he raised both eyebrows at her. What was the matter with her? She was a widow. His appearance ought not to fluster her. It had not been too long ago that she had seen a bare chested man—her husband. She turned away from him, going to the ladder.

“I will bring your dinner to you, Mr. Duncan. You are not fit to join us this evening.”

He sounded much less than amused as he answered. “I completely agree with you.” When she looked up, he stood at the edge of the loft, coat in hand. “I will make certain to come to breakfast appropriately clothed.”

“And smelling of vinegar,” she muttered.

“Mew.” The cat stood innocently in the doorway of the barn, as though the whole awkward exchange had not been his fault. She spared the traitorous feline a glare.

Teresa marched back to the house. When she entered, she noted that Caroline was not yet in the kitchen. She must be putting on her best gown for their meal. Good. That would make her conversation with Mother easier.

“Did you find Mr. Duncan?” Mother asked, a wooden spoon near her lips as though she had just tasted the gravy made for dinner.