Wicked Games (The Sun Never Sets Book 3) by Ava Archer Payne Page B

this morning’s coach.”
    “What? When?”
    “Just after dawn. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you.”
    He looked at her. “But…How are we to get to London? Do you mean to wait here until the next coach passes through the village? That could take weeks.”
    “Not at all. I’ve checked my schedule. Another coach line passes just south of here. The fare is far less expensive than the one we took yesterday. And best of all, it’s only an hour or two away by foot.” She smiled. “It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”
    “Walk?”
    “Not all the way to London. Just to the next coach stop.” His dismay must have shown on his face, for her gaze narrowed. “Mr. Brooks, you may be accustomed to traveling with your wealthy, kind, intelligent viscount ,” she bit out the word as though it were a condemnation, “but today you are traveling with a woman whose funds are limited. Last night we did it your way. Today we do it my way.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning you’ve slept through breakfast, but you’ll be happy to know I’ve bartered a few simple chores in return for our lunch. Mrs. Wintress was very accommodating. Once we’ve finished, we can be on our way.”
    “Chores?” he repeated.
    She nodded and motioned to the basket at her feet. Without thinking, he passed her the wet items of laundry and she spread them on the line to dry. “I’ve almost finished with the washing. I told Mrs. Wintress you were a gentleman’s valet, but she didn’t have any pressing or mending to do.”
    Thank god. He’d never held a needle in his life, and as for pressing, he’d likely burn a hole through any garment he was given, if not set the whole inn on fire.
    “…so your first duty will be to gather the eggs.”
    “Eggs?”
    She paused in the act of spreading a bed sheet across the line. She planted her hands on her hips and arched one dark brow. “Are you doing that deliberately?”
    No. He was not deliberately behaving like an idiot. It was happening naturally. He cleared his throat and looked around the yard. “Where do I begin?” Very good. A complete sentence. Certainly that was a step in the right direction.
    “There.”
    He stopped cold, staring at the chicken coop. The dilapidated structure was dark, dirty, and cramped. The wire netting was stiff with molted feathers and foul debris, the nature of which he didn’t want to guess at. Its offensive odor carried all the way to where he stood..             
    “You are familiar with chickens, aren’t you?” she pressed.
    “Of course. I prefer them properly stewed and served with gravy.”
    “Ah.” A pause, then, “But you’ve never been at the business end of one before.”
    He drew himself up. “Hardly.”
    “Well. This should be interesting.” Her lips quirked, but her tone remained brisk and business-like. “Come, then. Let’s get at it.”
    She turned and strode toward the coop. She slipped inside, leaving him little choice but to follow. He had to duck to get inside. Once there, alarmed clucking and a dank stench greeted him. He peered through the gloom, through the dusty, musty air, his gaze alighting on a row of sharp beaks and beady eyes. Razor-like talons glistened in the dim light.
    Good lord.
    “Go ahead,” Mrs. Donnelly urged, holding her apron aloft to form a makeshift basket.
    He sized up the opposition. The hens sat brooding on their nests, watching him with suspicious eyes—with the exception of one nest, which was untended. He strode toward it. Two eggs, ready and waiting to be scooped up. He did so, victoriously dropping them into Mrs. Donnelly’s apron. “There. Done.”
    “Mrs. Wintress needs three dozen.”
    “Three—“
    “Dozen.”
    Oh, bollocks. This was too much. He was far more accustomed to reaching beneath a woman’s skirts than under a chicken’s arse. Determined to get the chore over with, he slid his hand beneath the nearest hen, only to have her squawk in protest and reel