Her deep brown eyes were wide and luminescent as she surveyed him with the animal. She was fetching. Deceptively innocent—especially as he knew there was another side to her. A decidedly not innocent side—and that was fine by him. Innocence was overvalued. Better reserved for childhood, he had always thought. Not that he had had much of an innocent childhood himself. His early years could be characterized as many things, but never that. And yet he did not want a woman who was as innocent as a child. He wanted a woman. Not a child.
He wanted someone who knew what she wanted and was not afraid to go after it. Like the woman he had met in London.
That version of Mercy had been waiting for him in his rooms that night. Well, not waiting for him precisely. She had been stealing from him and ready to seduce him to accomplish it. Waiting like a jungle cat, ready to pounce. As furious as he had been, as he still was when he thought about it, he was more in awe of her than angered. Intrigued. Fascinated. Impressed.
He gave the mule a few more leisurely strokes from his forehead down to his muzzle. The animal grew calmer, leaning forward into Silas’s ministrations.
“You have mesmerized him,” she whispered.
“Just settled his nerves with a bit of love.” He gave a few more tender pats and then moved along the length of the mule’s body, keeping a hand on the beast at all times, letting him know that he had not left him, that he was still there for him.
His gaze met Mercy’s over the mule’s back. She watched him with slightly parted lips, as though mesmerized by him herself. “You’re very good . . . at that.”
Why did it suddenly feel like she wasn’t talking about the mule any longer? Her gaze flitted back and forth from his face to his hand on the animal.
“Now I will help by pulling on the plow.” He nodded once to the nearby men. “You two as well. Join me.” He looked at Mercy. “You take the mule’s halter.”
She sent him a dubious look, but obliged, taking her place beside the mule’s head.
Silas gave an encouraging pat to the mule’s rump and then moved into position, seizing hold of the bridle.
With a nod to the two men and then to Mercy, he declared, “Ready? Go.”
He strained with every bit of his strength, feeling his boots sinking deep, burrowing, but then the plow suddenly shifted, surged, and he took full advantage of the momentum, moving his feet, first one step, then another and another.
Soon they were all moving right along with the plow. They broke free of the mud pit that had trapped them. One of the men took control of the handles and steered the plow the rest of the way, finishing the row.
Mercy came to stand beside him, slightly out of breath. “That was brilliant. Thank you,” she murmured. “You did not have to do that.”
He shrugged. “Should I just have stood by and watched you struggle?”
She cast him a curious look. “Why would I expect differently? Not many people would get down in the mud to lend a helping hand.” As if to prove her point, her gaze drifted, landing on her brother still astride his mount at the top of the hillside.
It was bewildering how siblings could be so far apart—twins, no less. Mercy and Bede Kittinger might have grown up together and come from the same people and place, but they bore no similarities otherwise.
Her brother lacked integrity and loyalty. He possessed no work ethic. Whereas, he suspected, those three traits were the core of her.
Silas looked at her and heard the words emerging from him as though someone else was saying them. “No man worth anything permits the women in his life to labor without pitching in alongside them. That’s not who I am.”
As unplanned and unexpected as the words, they were the truth.
She blinked. Her mouth sagged open. It took her a moment to recover her voice.
“And I am a woman in your life? That’s who I am then? Someone you feel is . . . part of your life?”
Hearing her say that out loud was a bit startling. He studied her a moment. The tender line of her throat worked as she swallowed. “It’s not what you are not,” he admitted.
Silas knew his answer was evasive, but he did not know how else to respond. He could scarcely credit the words he had said. He had claimed her as a woman in his life. Incredibly. But yes. She was that.
His woman.
He squeezed his eyes hard in a long blink. Bloody hell. Where had that thought come from?
Thankfully he did not utter those shocking words out loud, however true they felt to him. He would sound like a veritable caveman. So primitive and proprietary. He had never felt that way toward any of the women in his life before.
Whenever a relationship ended it ended. As simple as that. He never mourned it. He simply let it go with well wishes and a farewell. Never had he felt grief over the parting. Never had he felt possessive toward the woman.
“Ohhh,” she said slowly, dragging out the word as though she had reached some sudden conclusion. “This goes back to why you are here.”
She glanced around, making certain the other men were nowhere close to them. She leaned in and he was awarded—or punished—with the scent of sweet oranges again. He would never be able to eat or smell the fruit again without thinking of her. Without remembering and aching . . .
Shaking his head, he focused on what she was saying.
She continued in an aggrieved whisper, “This is about your notion that I could be carrying your child. You think this connects us. You feel obligated toward me because you think I carry precious cargo. Nothing more.”
He blinked. He had not thought that at all.
Her voice turned slightly scornful as she pressed the point. “That is it, is it not? You saw me working in the field like a common laborer and you wanted to stop me from overtaxing myself for fear that I could harm your child. It has naught to do with me personally.”
He had not even considered what she was suggesting. He should have thought of his possible child in her womb as she exerted herself—but he had not. He had thought only of her.
“Could I simply not wish to help you?” he asked.
“You need not be so concerned with my welfare, Mr. Masters. Even if I do turn out to be in a family way . . . doubtful, of course, but if I am, I am no delicate flower. I am healthy and strong. I have been working this land since I was a young girl. Also, women are a lot heartier than given credit for. We can manage to work and bring children into the world.”
He considered her words and then glanced around. This felt like a dangerous conversation. Especially with witnesses so very close. “Very well. What is next?”
“Next?” She looked puzzled at his sudden change of subject.
“On your agenda for the day? If you mean to work the land as you put it, then I will be right beside you.”
“You?” she asked as though struggling to understand his meaning. “You want to help? Me? Around the farm?”
He nodded. “What else do I have to do whilst I stay here?”
She shrugged and her glance slid to where her brother waited on the hillside. “I don’t know. Occupy yourself with gentlemanly tasks like riding or . . .”
“You mean spend the day with your brother?” he finished for her.
She winced. “Well. Yes. You could ride and hunt and . . . play cards.”
“I’ve played cards with your brother before, if you recall? There is no fun in it without a challenge.”