Patricia Rice by All a Woman Wants Page A

drawled.
“How generous.” Crossing his arms, the baron leaned against a wall and
watched the blacksmith shoe his restive stallion. “And where do you
intend to kennel these hounds, Dav, old boy?”
    Holding his high-crowned beaver hat, Dav impatiently
brushed at a dirt smudge marring the expensive surface. “We have that
whole farm with nothing on it but sheep. It won’t hurt to kennel a few
hounds for the hunting season.”
    “The sheep at least earn their way,” the baron pointed out. “That’s more than can be said of dogs.”
    That was Mac’s opinion on the matter, but he didn’t
have time to barter with arrogant lordlings. “Sheep are barely earning
their weight, from all reports,” he said disagreeably. “Until someone
has the ambition to install a mill and those new looms, you’re stuck
with accepting a factor’s prices for their wool. Send a draft to Miss
Cavendish when you’re ready for the hounds. I bid you good day.”
    He started toward the inn in hopes Digby might know where he could find Mary and the children.
    “The squire owned the only mill,” the baron called after him. “It’s water I lack, not ambition.”
    Damn. Mac swung around,
examined the baron still lounging against the wall, and nodded
acknowledgment. Overton had told him the Cavendish land encompassed the
main river source, but the mill had closed because of the competition
from factories in the north. It wasn’t his concern. “Call on Miss
Cavendish,” he replied curtly.
    Carstairs was naught but the heir of an earl. Mac’s
mother was the daughter of an earl. Titles were irrelevant in this day
and age. If the baron had any sense at all, he’d be courting Miss C in
hopes of acquiring a beautiful wife who owned a useful mill and a lot of
valuable land.
    Mac figured Carstairs was waiting for the daughter of an earl to come along instead. Stupid.
    He tried not to imagine the cynical baron courting
Miss C. She might have a shade too much pride for Mac’s taste, but it
was obvious she didn’t have the sophistication of a man like Carstairs.
She needed a protector, not a seducer.
    Mac rolled his eyes at his own thoughts. What Miss Cavendish needed or didn’t need was none of his concern.
    Upon questioning, Digby gave Mac the location of
Mary’s parents. Mac had no idea how he would hide the brats until he
could set sail. He just knew the sleepy little village of Broadbury had
suddenly become too populated for comfort.
    He growled at Mary’s mother when he learned the
children had already left. She backed away, and, feeling an oaf, Mac
hurried off.
    As he returned to the Court, he heard laughter and
hurried a little faster up the drive. He would borrow the pony cart.
He’d see the cart returned with adequate compensation for its use. He
could hide at an inn....
    He sprinted past a towering rhododendron and almost
stumbled over Miss Cavendish sitting on the grass, her full black skirt
spread around her, holding her hands out to an upright Bitsy. Mac held
his breath as the babe put one chubby leg before the other, obviously
determined to reach the outstretched hand. One step, two...
    She plumped down on her padded backside, and Mac hastened to pick her up before she cried.
    To his amazement, she was giggling, and so was Miss Cavendish.
    “She keeps trying to walk, but her bottom is too
big.” Miss C laughed as the babe waved her hands at her. “I don’t think
she likes crawling in the grass.”
    Mac had to stop a moment to readjust his thinking.
He’d been worrying and fretting all morning, anxious to spirit the
children away, and now she’d confronted him with a bucolic scene
contrary to all his fears.
    Bitsy laughed proudly as she rose to her tiny bare
feet again, undoubtedly staining Miss C’s petticoats with grass but
undeterred in her quest to reach the first loving arms she’d probably
ever known. Had Marilee ever had a chance to hold her daughter, or had
she died