The woman glared and all but snarled at him. “The workers are only doing what they’re bred to do—protect the hive. Don’t blame them. And that dog isn’t wild. Its deranged owner trained it to eat honey to harass me. Go beat the owner.”
“And who might the owner be?” Sucking at the wound on his wrist, Gerard backed off to a safer distance.
He could see little of her face through the thick veil, but the scorn in her voice said her expression wouldn’t be a friendly one. The sting on his jaw was already raising a welt. Angry pain traveled up his cheek.
“The animal belongs to Wystan’s estate agent. If you don’t know that, then you don’t belong here. Who are you?”
“Wystan’s owner,” he replied equally curtly—and hoarsely. He rubbed his throat and tried to take a deeper breath. “And if my agent is keeping a dangerous dog, then it must be for a reason.”
He waited to see how she reacted to his identity. Earls were few and far between in these rural environs. Most people groveled—except the Malcolm ladies, naturally.
“Avery doesn’t like bees, he doesn’t like me, and he doesn’t like what we’ve done to his orchards, even if we improved his crop.” She returned to soothing her insects.
So much for groveling. She was one of them. He’d known it anyway. Normal women did not hover over bee hives as if they were children. Nausea welled, and he could feel his throat closing up. He fought against the reaction, refusing to allow a bee to bring him down.
“I was about to order the gardeners to scythe that shambles,” he croaked. “You’re the one responsible? Why?”
“Scythe it now, and you’ll lose the seeds that will replant the borders in the spring. Flowers attract bees. Bees pollinate your trees. They may also deter harmful insects. But Avery lacks imagination and refuses to study the effect of natural planting.”
She sighed and stepped away from the hives. “I’ll not gather honey today. I might as well—”
Gasping for air, Gerard tried not to crumple. He failed.
Iona gasped as the big man fell to his knees, holding his throat. Muttering curses, she threw back her veil so she could see better. She hadn’t wanted to look at her landlord—or for him to see her. She didn’t think they’d ever met, but she hated taking any more risks, and there was always the chance he’d seen her twin, as Lydia had.
But needs must—she kneeled and loosened his shirt collar. Noting the swelling on his jaw, she removed her gloves, rubbed her fingers over the rising welt, and brushed off the stinger. She helped him lie flat on the ground and left him wheezing for air.
Picking up her skirt, she ran back to the hives, and with her bare hand, scooped up wax and honey. Holding the salve in her palm, she returned and wiped a little on his jaw, then pried open his teeth to put honey on his tongue.
The Earl of Ives and Wystan was so damned large. As he panted, she daringly began inspecting other places she knew bees could invade. The heavy tweed coat should keep stings off his back, and his wool vest should have protected his chest, thank all that was holy. A sting over his heart. . .
She could have killed an earl! Fitting justice she supposed, killing the one who unknowingly gave her safe haven—when the earl she wished to kill would never die. Her life was like that.
Her queen commiserated and urged her to keep looking for more stings.
Iona pulled off his lordship’s gloves and pried back his cuffs so she could examine his wrists—always a vulnerable spot. Sure enough, a big welt was turning an angry red on his left wrist. He had thick arms, rippling with tendons and muscle, but wrists were mostly bone and blood vessels, even on the strongest of men. She couldn’t find a stinger, so she applied the honey salve. She had no idea if it would work. It was a remedy her mother had taught her—and her queen insisted would work.
Communicating with bees was seldom helpful, but she trusted hers.
The earl’s other wrist seemed fine. He was wearing good leather boots, protecting his vulnerable ankles. She didn’t think there was any way a bee could have entered his leather trousers—again, thank the goddesses.
While her innocent victim gasped for air, Iona hastily removed his collar and cravat, exposing an attractive brown neck and a curl of hair at the top of his shirt. She couldn’t lift him to check the back of his neck but ran her hand wherever she could reach. No hot spots or swelling that she could find. She’d never touched a man’s neck before. Were they all this solid and sinewy? Touching him intimately stirred odd longings best ignored.
She breathed deeply, testing the air—male sweat, a hint of fear, more than a hint of. . . anger? Resentment? She could empathize. He’d hate showing weakness.
Beneath that lingered an appealing masculine musk mixed with a vaguely familiar whiff of lime—oh dear. She sat back and examined the wheezing earl with panic. Tall, wide-shouldered, dark and glowering. . . most definitely the man from the library.
She prayed he didn’t remember her.
What did she do now? Run back to the house? She hated abandoning him here, especially near her hives if he was sensitive to stings. He’d swat at any bees investigating him—causing them to swarm. With his sensitivity, that would be deadly.
She couldn’t possibly lift him. She might trust her queen, but even a bee queen couldn’t control all her workers. He had to be guarded.
She settled on the grass, holding her breath in anxiety while she listened to his rattily breathing. The asthmatic reaction usually eased after a bit, and he seemed large enough to fight it. He hadn’t vomited yet. She didn’t know if that was a good sign. She hummed under her breath, and her queen hummed back. Her stepfather claimed she was insane,
