arrogance, but more the absolute knowledge that he knew precisely what needed to be done and how to accomplish the task.
A part of her knew that she should have been furious at his outrageous interference. She had battled her entire life to at last acquire her sense of independence. He had no right to thrust himself into her business.
But it was not fury that was plaguing her as she slowly left the inn and headed for the stables. Instead it was a confusing mixture of fear and bewilderment, and a treacherous excitement that refused to be squashed.
Entering the stables, Portia moved past the stalls toward the back rooms that Quinn claimed as his own.
“Quinn?” she called softly.
A narrow door opened and the elderly servant appeared to regard her with a hint of surprise.
“Aye?”
Portia smiled as she moved to stand before him. She had known Quinn her entire life. He had been a groom for her father before Lord Melford had been forced to sell off his stables and turned his faithful servant away without so much as a reference. Not surprisingly, Quinn had been forced to survive by whatever means necessary and more than once he was punished for daring to poach for his food.
When her father disappeared, Quinn returned to the estate and silently took command of keeping the roof from falling in upon her head and planting a small garden to provide a bit of food for the table.
She would never forget his patient kindness toward the lonely, scared child she had once been.
Certainly he was more a father to her than Lord Melford had ever been.
“I wanted to assure myself that you did not overtax yourself today.”
He gave a lift of his shaggy brows. “Nay, I can still handle a shovel if need be.”
“Yes, I know, but you are bound to be sore in the morning.” She held up her hand to reveal the small ceramic pot she had brought with her. “I have brought you some of Mrs. Cornell’s ointment.”
Quinn reached for the pot with a smile. They had all learned to depend upon Mrs. Cornell’s salve for their various aches and pains.
“That was right thoughtful of you.”
She smiled as she studied the weathered face. “You are important to me, Quinn. I think of you as part of my family.”
His expression abruptly softened as he gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “Aye, me dear, you have managed to cobble together a fine clan, even if we are a mixed lot.”
Portia gave a laugh, thinking of the diverse staff she had managed to collect.
“Definitely a mixed lot.” She gave a small shrug. “Still, there is something to be said for actually choosing your family members rather than simply inheriting them.”
“Aye, that be true enough. No one would choose your rotter of a father.”
“No.” Portia shuddered, firmly blocking the unpleasant memories of the weak, shallow fool who had fathered her.
A small silence fell as Quinn regarded her with a narrowed gaze. “Is there something troubling you, Portia?”
Her gaze dropped as she absently plucked at a thread that had frayed from the hem of her sleeve.
“Why did you agree to assist Mr. Smith today?”
“Because the yard was in need of work and he had the skills to make it the finest in the county.” Reaching into his pocket, Quinn pulled out a folded sheet of vellum. “Ye see, he has written a recipe for a mixture to spread over the ground to keep it dry. Soon enough travelers will know that they need never fear being stuck in the mud when they halt at the Queen’s Arms.”
He had a point, of course. She had been in the business long enough to know that those who frequently traveled the roads were well aware of which yards could be depended upon not to mire them during a rain.
And she did not doubt that Fredrick had ensured that her yard would be the best tended in the entire county. She might not know a great deal about Mr. Smith, but she did sense that he would demand nothing less than absolute perfection in anything that he attempted.
She gave a faint shake
A part of her knew that she should have been furious at his outrageous interference. She had battled her entire life to at last acquire her sense of independence. He had no right to thrust himself into her business.
But it was not fury that was plaguing her as she slowly left the inn and headed for the stables. Instead it was a confusing mixture of fear and bewilderment, and a treacherous excitement that refused to be squashed.
Entering the stables, Portia moved past the stalls toward the back rooms that Quinn claimed as his own.
“Quinn?” she called softly.
A narrow door opened and the elderly servant appeared to regard her with a hint of surprise.
“Aye?”
Portia smiled as she moved to stand before him. She had known Quinn her entire life. He had been a groom for her father before Lord Melford had been forced to sell off his stables and turned his faithful servant away without so much as a reference. Not surprisingly, Quinn had been forced to survive by whatever means necessary and more than once he was punished for daring to poach for his food.
When her father disappeared, Quinn returned to the estate and silently took command of keeping the roof from falling in upon her head and planting a small garden to provide a bit of food for the table.
She would never forget his patient kindness toward the lonely, scared child she had once been.
Certainly he was more a father to her than Lord Melford had ever been.
“I wanted to assure myself that you did not overtax yourself today.”
He gave a lift of his shaggy brows. “Nay, I can still handle a shovel if need be.”
“Yes, I know, but you are bound to be sore in the morning.” She held up her hand to reveal the small ceramic pot she had brought with her. “I have brought you some of Mrs. Cornell’s ointment.”
Quinn reached for the pot with a smile. They had all learned to depend upon Mrs. Cornell’s salve for their various aches and pains.
“That was right thoughtful of you.”
She smiled as she studied the weathered face. “You are important to me, Quinn. I think of you as part of my family.”
His expression abruptly softened as he gave her shoulder a gentle pat. “Aye, me dear, you have managed to cobble together a fine clan, even if we are a mixed lot.”
Portia gave a laugh, thinking of the diverse staff she had managed to collect.
“Definitely a mixed lot.” She gave a small shrug. “Still, there is something to be said for actually choosing your family members rather than simply inheriting them.”
“Aye, that be true enough. No one would choose your rotter of a father.”
“No.” Portia shuddered, firmly blocking the unpleasant memories of the weak, shallow fool who had fathered her.
A small silence fell as Quinn regarded her with a narrowed gaze. “Is there something troubling you, Portia?”
Her gaze dropped as she absently plucked at a thread that had frayed from the hem of her sleeve.
“Why did you agree to assist Mr. Smith today?”
“Because the yard was in need of work and he had the skills to make it the finest in the county.” Reaching into his pocket, Quinn pulled out a folded sheet of vellum. “Ye see, he has written a recipe for a mixture to spread over the ground to keep it dry. Soon enough travelers will know that they need never fear being stuck in the mud when they halt at the Queen’s Arms.”
He had a point, of course. She had been in the business long enough to know that those who frequently traveled the roads were well aware of which yards could be depended upon not to mire them during a rain.
And she did not doubt that Fredrick had ensured that her yard would be the best tended in the entire county. She might not know a great deal about Mr. Smith, but she did sense that he would demand nothing less than absolute perfection in anything that he attempted.
She gave a faint shake
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