Ewan threw on two more logs, and then helped her swing a pot with the egg in it over the flames. “I’ve thought of a problem,” he said.
Annabel had thought of about four hundred, but she was trying to keep them to himself.
“I don’t expect Kettle has any tea or coffee.”
“I doubt it,” Annabel said. “We only had coffee on special occasions, and we were far better off than the Kettles.”
Ewan didn’t seem too happy.
“Did you see the other chickens?” Annabel asked, giving the white hen an oatcake.
Ewan shook his head. “Is there any bread left from the picnic basket?”
“No, but there’s the egg,” Annabel said, making a valiant effort to be cheerful.
Ewan grunted. At least she thought that’s what that particular noise was known as. He did eat the egg, after some argument. But Annabel spent five minutes scraping that egg from the bottom of the pan, and she’d never yet eaten an egg the color of coal, so she won the squabble. It seemed to take a lot of chewing.
Finally he left, saying that he was going to try to root a large rock out of Kettle’s field.
Annabel ate an oatcake and heated up four pans of water before she felt clean. Then she scrubbed the little house, shooing the chicken out the front door. The real problem was sheets. She couldn’t possibly sleep on that stained tablecloth…she’d have to wash Peggy’s sheet. She looked for a washbasin, and finally decided that Peggy did her laundry in the stream.
The ice-cold stream, according to Ewan. She shivered at the thought. But if she didn’t wash the linens soon, they wouldn’t dry. Who knows how long it took a sheet to dry? Probably at least an hour. She gathered them into a bundle and headed out the door.
The river frothed and gurgled on its way through the woods. It was surrounded by large stones. Anna found a flat one, knelt down and dropped the sheet into the water. It immediately turned an even darker gray color. She pulled it back out, splashing freezing water all over her skirts, and tried to rub soap over it. But the sheet seemed to weigh four times as much as it had previously, and it was so cold that her fingers ached just to touch it.
Annabel gritted her teeth. She wasn’t going to be defeated by something as simple as laundry. She pushed the sheet back in the water, hanging on to a portion with her freezing hands. The sheet floated below her, looking as if it were getting dirtier by the moment. A surge of water dragged at it, and Annabel almost let it go. Her hands were wrinkled and aching from the cold; her skirts were pasted to her legs with water, and the sheet seemed to weigh fifteen stone.
But finally she wrestled it back out of the water. Clearly there was no way to return to the clearing without getting wet. So she took a deep breath and picked up the sheet. Icy water flowed down her neck, soaking her arms and skirts. Her teeth chattering, Annabel started running back to the house as quickly as she could. Once in the clearing, she did her best to wring out the water. Then she spread the sheet on top of a low bush.
Back in the house, she dragged her wet dress over her head, using her nightgown as a towel. Her arms ached, and her fingers were blue with cold. Then she looked in every nook and cranny of the cottage for tea. There was none. She sat on the step and drank a cup of steaming water. Surely the Kettles ate more than just boiled potatoes and an occasional egg? Peggy must have a larder somewhere.
Ewan emerged from the wood, looking as tired as she felt. “I can’t move the bloody rock,” he said without ceremony.
“I’ve washed the sheet!” Anna said with a flash of pride.
He looked at the huge puddle of water around the root of the bush. “Do you mind if I inquire what we are going to sleep on tonight?”
“It will dry in time,” Annabel said, hoping she was right. She looked around, suddenly noticing that the clearing seemed ominously quiet. “Oh, Ewan, I think we lost the last chicken!”
“Look for a happy fox.”
“Surely not! She was here a moment ago.”
“Perhaps she’s roosting in a tree,” Ewan said, hoping he was right. He fully intended to eat that chicken for supper.
“I couldn’t tell Peggy that I’d lost all three of her chickens. Her neighbors gave them as a wedding present.” Annabel walked toward the woods. “Last time I saw her, she was over here. Oh, chicken! Chicken!”
Ewan grinned. Annabel looked as elegant as an etching in La Belle Assemblée. She was wearing another inappropriate traveling dress, not made of sturdy brown to withstand dirt, but fashioned in deep ruby, with rows and rows of white lace around her bosom.
“I must say, I like the current fashion in farmwife attire,” he remarked.
“It’s a promenade dress,” Annabel said, poking around the small trees at the edge of the clearing. “I don’t own anything sturdy. I know she’s very close. She’s ignoring me, that’s all.” Without a look at Ewan, she headed straight into the dusky woods.
“Annabel!” he called.
“Yes?” Her voice echoed back to him.
“Don’t get lost!” He could hear her thrashing about.
He waited about four minutes and then shouted again. “Are you lost yet?”
“Well, no…not exactly. I’m in a little clearing. Where are you?”
“Just stay where you are,” he said, and he headed toward the sound of her voice. He could hear her snapping twigs. “Stay where you are! Otherwise we might both get lost.”
“There’s an awful—” Suddenly there was a scream and Ewan’s heart jumped into his throat. He tore forward, catching Annabel in his arms as she dodged between two trees. “Ewan, Ewan! There’s a lot of bees!”
In a ray of sunshine peaking between the tall firs, Ewan saw exactly what she meant. Without a word, he swung her to the far side of a large tree and pressed her against his body, wrapping himself over her and tucking her face securely against his shoulder. “Don’t move,” he breathed.
They stayed frozen while the bees flew by, a whole swarm of them, from their angry hum.
“Oh, God,” Annabel moaned a few moments later. “Ewan…”
“I think you found the honey tree,” he said, lifting his head.
“Yes, it must be in that clearing,” Annabel said, sounding a bit more cheerful. “Peggy will be happy to hear that, won’t she? Even though she has no chickens left.”
“A few of those bees found me,” Ewan said glumly.
“Oh, no,” she cried. “You’ve been stung!”
“Only twice.” Then he added, “Perhaps three times.”
“I’m very, very grateful that you rescued me,” Annabel said. “Shall we return?” She started in the wrong direction.
“This way,” Ewan said, tucking her under his arm.
“Where did they sting you?”
“In a most tender place.” He was rewarded by her giggle. He thought fleetingly that he wouldn’t mind a whole tribe of bees attacking his ass if he had that giggle as a reward. Annabel’s giggle was just like herself: enchantingly feminine, with a husky undertone that showed both a wicked sense of humor and a sensual appetite.
“I could make some more potatoes,” Annabel said, once they were back at the cabin. “Although the fire appears to have gone out again.”