The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2), Sahara Kelly [best thriller novels to read txt] 📗

are ready,” Evan leaned back in his chair. “And Farmer Simpson has butchered the pig for the roasting spit.”

“The games are ready too,” Jeremy contributed his mite. “And the bowling green is smooth as glass.”

“I’ve gathered all the leftover ribbons, lots of old cloth, a few glittery things like broken buttons and so on…” Gabriel ticked the items off on his fingers, “and Master John the carpenter has worked wonders with the old barrel staves. We have a goodly supply of hobby horses and swords.”

“Do you think the girls will like them?” Gwyneth asked. “I’m not sure how their Mamas will react to their daughters riding astride.”

“We’ll see,” answered Gabriel. “’Tis not impossible that some of the boys will demand a horse, and the girls a sword.”

“Hear hear,” endorsed Evan. “I will be very pleased should that happen.”

“And I’d be very pleased were women allowed to ride astride more often,” Gwyneth added in a dry tone. “Although I wouldn’t mind a sword, either.”

“Let’s not worry about it,” soothed Royce. “I’m sure the children will find a way to have fun, no matter what is available to them. And don’t forget Mrs Smart and her bubble-blowing table. That is bound to be popular.”

“I saw you testing out her supplies,” Jeremy’s mouth curved into that wicked smile. “You did rather well, I thought.”

“I did,” said Royce, his face quite serious. “Not an easy thing, you know, blowing a huge bubble and keeping its shape.”

“I’m sure you would win, Royce,” declared Gwyneth. “After all, you’re known for your amazing command of bluster…”

The laughter rang around the table, as he narrowed his eyes, grinned, and shook his finger at her.

The meal ended with Royce, Gabriel and Jeremy deciding that they should begin supervision of the people drifting in to Wolfbridge with various items for the fête. They would be arriving in dribs and drabs throughout the day, so some sort of organisation was necessary to avert chaos.

Gwyneth willingly picked up some of their dishes and over his protests, helped Evan clear the table.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she cautioned him. “You know I’m not supposed to be left alone in case some nefarious villain decides to kidnap me. So I might as well be useful, since you seem to have been relegated to the position of my nanny.”

Evan simply shook his head and passed her the plates. “All right then. Here.”

They made their way down the stairs to the kitchen where the scent of bread and spices filled the air. Sun streamed in through the high windows, bouncing off glass-fronted cupboards and over the massive stove which always radiated a little heat, whether Evan was cooking anything or not.

“I love this place,” said Gwyneth, breathing it all in. “Always a room laden with warmth and comfort.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” smiled Evan, approaching her with a large apron. “You’re about to spend some time in it, and we’ll start with the fine practice of dishwashing.”

He popped the top of the apron over her head and slid his arms around her waist to tie the strings at the back. Their faces were close, so close…she couldn’t resist the invitation she read in his eyes.

Reaching up, she linked her arms around his neck in turn and pulled him down for a light lingering kiss.

“Mmm,” murmured Evan as their lips parted. “You taste wonderful.”

“It must be the peach.”

“No, it’s you,” he came back for more, his tongue sliding into her mouth and learning her softness.

She moaned, amazed at the burst of yearning his kisses inspired. “Evan,” she whispered. “Oh, Evan…”

He pulled back with a sigh. “Dishes, Gwyneth. Dishes.”

“Spoilsport.” She nodded and stepped out of his embrace, feeling a little lost as she did so. But the mood between them had changed, and the tension stayed while they cleared up the remains of breakfast.

“I will be making some jam this morning,” he said, gesturing to several baskets of blackberries. “Those came in yesterday. An excellent early summer crop.”

“May I help?” She raised her eyebrows. “I haven’t made jam since I was a little girl…”

Evan tilted his head to one side. “It might get messy…” He looked at her gown. “I should hate to see your pretty clothing stained with blackberry juice.”

“I can change. There are several quite old things in the wardrobe, any of which could be thrown away if need be…”

He smiled. “Go then. I’ll start picking these over…” He grabbed a basket and spread out a cloth on the large table. Emptying the blackberries, he distributed them into an even layer.

She snatched one and popped it into her mouth, loving the sharp burst of flavour on her tongue as she bit into it. “Mmm.”

“Go, Miss Mischief. Don’t eat the jam before it’s jam.”

She stuck out her tongue at him, knowing it was probably stained with juice. “Don’t start without me.”

It took her less than fifteen minutes to find the oldest dress—a thin cotton affair—and squeeze herself into it. She’d gained back some weight since last she wore it, and it was tight across her breasts. With a muttered oath, she took it off, removed her chemise and slipped it back on. The fit was better, and the sensation of lightness…well it was admittedly sensual. Knowing there was nothing but a thin sheen of fabric between her and the rest of the world sent a tiny thrill of excitement darting along her nerve endings.

She hurried back down to the kitchen—and Evan.

He took one look at her and groaned. “God, you’re everything a man could want, Gwyneth. Did you realise that?”

She shook her head. “No. No I don’t realise that, although since I’ve been here…”

He crossed the room with her apron, repeating the earlier steps, but this time his hands lingered after tying the tapes, sliding own