Neddy looked at her alertly. “Your farms, milady?”

“They’re my son’s,” she admitted. “I’m looking after them until he comes of age.”

He looked sympathetic and interested. “You be a widder, milady?”

“Yes.”

“You should buckle to Mr. Ravenel,” he suggested. “A fine husband he’d make. You’d get some great rammin’ bairns off that one, certain sure.”

Phoebe smiled uncomfortably, having forgotten how frank country folk could be in discussing highly personal matters.

They were soon joined by Mr. Ravenel, Sebastian, and Justin. Her son was bright-eyed with enthusiasm. “Mama, I pretend-steered the engine! Mr. Ravenel says I can drive it for real when I’m bigger!”

Before the tour resumed, Mr. Ravenel ceremoniously escorted Justin to a shed containing cisterns of pig manure, claiming it was the worst-smelling thing on the farm. After stopping at the shed’s threshold and sniffing the rank air, Justin made a revolted face and hurried back, exclaiming in happy disgust. They proceeded to a barn with an attached dairy, a feed house, and a shed of loosebox stalls. Red-and-white cows meandered in a nearby paddock, while the rest of the herd grazed in the pasture beyond.

“This is stock rearing on a larger scale than I expected,” Sebastian commented, his assessing gaze moving to the rich land on the other side of the timber rail fence. “Your cattle are pasture-raised?”

Mr. Ravenel nodded.

“There would be less expense involved in stall-raising them on corn,” Sebastian pressed. “They would fatten more quickly, would they not?”

“Correct.”

“Why let them out to pasture, then?”

Mr. Ravenel looked somewhat chagrined as he replied. “I can’t confine them in stalls for their entire lives.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Phoebe glanced at her father quizzically, wondering why he found the subject so absorbing, when he’d never shown any interest in cattle before.

“Mama,” Justin said, tugging at her elbow-length sleeve. She looked down to discover the black cat brushing against the hem of her skirts. Purring, the creature wound around Justin’s legs.

Phoebe smiled and returned her attention to Mr. Ravenel.

“. . . would be a better business decision to keep them in stalls,” he was admitting to her father. “But there’s more to consider than profit. I can’t bring myself to treat these animals as mere commodities. It seems only decent . . . respectful . . . to allow them to lead healthy, natural lives for as long as possible.” He grinned as he noticed the expression of a nearby workman. “My head cowman, Brick-end, disagrees.”

The cowman, a heavyset mountain of a man with piercing gimlet eyes, said flatly, “Stall-fattened beef brings a higher price at the London markets. Soft, corn-fed meat’s what they want.”

Mr. Ravenel’s reply was conciliatory; clearly it was an issue they’d discussed before, without a mutually satisfactory resolution. “We’re crossing our stock to a new shorthorn line. It will give us cows that fatten more easily on pasture grass.”

“Fifty guineas to hire a prize bull from Northampton for the season,” Brick-end grumbled. “It would be cheaper to—” He broke off abruptly, his sharp eyes focusing on the cow paddock.

Phoebe followed his gaze, and a shock of horror gripped her as she saw that Justin had wandered away and climbed through the paddock’s timber fence rails. He appeared to have followed the cat, which had scampered inside the enclosure to bat playfully at a butterfly. But the paddock contained more than cows. A huge brindle bull had separated from the herd. It stood in an aggressive broadside display, shoulders hunched and back arched.

The bull was no more than twenty feet away from her son.

Chapter 11

“Justin,” Phoebe heard herself say calmly, “I want you to walk backward to me, very slowly. Right now.” It took twice as much breath to produce the usual amount of sound.

Her son’s small head lifted. A visible start went through him at the sight of the bull. Fear made him clumsy, and he tripped backward, falling on his rump. The massive animal swung to face him in a lightning-swift change of balance, hooves churning the ground.

Mr. Ravenel had already vaulted the fence, his hand touching the top of a post, his feet passing over the top rail without even touching it. As soon as he landed, he ran to interpose his body between Justin and the bull. Giving a hoarse shout and waving his arms, he distracted the animal from its intended target.

Phoebe scrambled forward, but her father was already easing through the rails in a supple movement. “Stay,” he said curtly.

She clung to one of the rails and waited, quivering from head to toe, as she watched her father stride swiftly to Justin, scoop him up, and carry him back. A sob of relief escaped her as he handed her child through the fence. She sank to her knees with her arms around Justin. Every breath was a prayer of gratitude.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .” Justin was gasping.

“Shhh . . . you’re safe . . . it’s all right,” Phoebe said, her heartbeat tumbling over on itself. Realizing Sebastian hadn’t climbed out yet, she said unsteadily, “Father—”

“Ravenel, what can I do?” he asked calmly.

“With respect, sir”—Mr. Ravenel was double-dodging and darting, trying to anticipate the bull’s movements—“get the hell out of here.”

Sebastian complied readily, slipping back through the rails.

“That goes for you too, Brick,” Mr. Ravenel snapped, as the head cowman climbed the fence to straddle the top. “I don’t need you in here.”

“Keep him circling,” Brick-end shouted. “He can’t move forward if he can’t swing his hindquarters around.”

“Right,” Mr. Ravenel said briskly, orbiting the enraged bull.

“Can you try to step a bit more lively?”

“No, Brick,” Mr. Ravenel retorted, running at an angle and sharply reversing direction, “I’m fairly sure this is as fast as I can move.”

More workmen had come running to the fence, all shouting and throwing hats in the air to draw the bull’s attention, but it was firmly fixed on the man in the paddock. The one-ton animal was astonishingly lithe, its glossy loose-skinned bulk stopping dead, shifting to one side and the other, then pinwheeling in pursuit of his adversary. Mr. Ravenel never took his gaze from the creature, instinctively countering every movement. It was like some macabre dance in which one misplaced step would be fatal.

Dodging to the right, Mr. Ravenel tricked the bull into a half-twist. Doubling back, he ran full-bore to the fence and dove between the rails. The bull pivoted and thundered after him, but stopped short, snorting in fury, as Mr. Ravenel’s legs slithered through the barrier.

Cheers of relief and excitement went up from the assembled workmen.

“Thank God,” Phoebe murmured, pressing her cheek against Justin’s damp, dark hair. What if . . . what if . . . God, she’d barely managed to survive losing Henry. If anything had happened to Justin . . .

Her father’s hand patted her back gently. “Ravenel’s been hurt.”

“What?” Phoebe’s head jerked up. All she could see was a cluster of workmen gathered around a form on the ground. But she’d seen Mr. Ravenel dive cleanly between the fence rails. How could he be hurt? Frowning in worry, she eased Justin out of her lap. “Father, if you would take Justin—”

Sebastian took the boy without a word, and Phoebe leaped to her feet. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed to the group of workmen and pushed her way through.

Mr. Ravenel was half sitting, half reclining with his back propped against a fence post. His shirt hem had been tugged free of his trousers. Beneath the loose fabric, he clasped a hand to his side, just above the hip.

He was breathing hard and sweating, his eyes gleaming with the half-mad exhilaration of a man who’d just survived a life-threatening experience. A crooked grin emerged as he saw her. “Just a scratch.”

Relief began to creep through her. “Neddy was right,” she said. “You are a sprack ’un.” The men around them chuckled. Drawing closer, she asked, “Did the bull’s horns catch you?”

Mr. Ravenel shook his head. “A nail on the fence.”

Phoebe frowned in concern. “It must be cleaned right away. You’ll be fortunate if you don’t end up with lockjaw.”

“Nothing could lock that jaw,” Brick-end said slyly, and the group erupted with guffaws.

“Let me have a look,” Phoebe said, kneeling by Mr. Ravenel’s side.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

He sent her a vaguely exasperated glance. “It’s . . . not in a proper location.”

“For heaven’s sake, I was a married woman.” Undeterred, Phoebe reached for the hem of the shirt.

“Wait.” Mr. Ravenel’s tanned complexion had turned the color of rosewood. He scowled at the workmen, who were observing the proceedings with great interest. “Can a man have a bit of privacy?”

Brick-end proceeded to shoo the small crowd away, saying brusquely, “Back to work, lads. Don’t stand there a-garpin’.”

Mumbling, the workmen retreated.

Phoebe pulled up Mr. Ravenel’s shirt. The top three buttons of his trousers had been unfastened, the waistband sagging to reveal a lean torso wrought with layers of muscle. One strong hand clamped a sooty, greasy-looking cloth a few inches above his left hip.

“Why are you holding a filthy rag against an open wound?” Phoebe demanded.

“It was the only thing we could find.”

Phoebe took three clean, crisp handkerchiefs from her pocket, and folded them to make a pad.

Mr. Ravenel’s brows lifted as he watched her. “Do you always carry so many handkerchiefs?”

She had to smile at that. “I have children.” Leaning over him, she carefully peeled away the dirty cloth. Blood welled from the three-inch wound on his side. It was a nasty scratch, undoubtedly deep enough to require stitches.

As Phoebe pressed the pad of handkerchiefs over the injury, Mr. Ravenel winced and leaned back against the post to avoid physical contact with her. “My lady . . . I can do that . . .” He paused to take an agitated breath, his hand fumbling to replace hers. His color was still high, the blue of his eyes like the flickering core of a heartwood fire.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But we have to apply pressure to slow the bleeding.”

“I don’t need your help,” he said testily. “Let me have it.”

Taken aback, Phoebe let go of the folded pad. Mr. Ravenel refused to meet her gaze, his thick dark brows knitting together as he held the cloth against the wound.

She couldn’t help stealing a covert glance at the exposed part of his torso, the flesh so firm and tanned it appeared to have been cast in bronze. Lower down near his hip, the satiny brown skin merged into a line of ivory. The sight was so intriguing—and intimate—that she felt her stomach tighten pleasurably. Leaning over him as she was, she couldn’t help breathing in the dusty, sweaty, sun-heated scent of him. A stunning urge seized her, to touch that brown-and-white borderline with her fingertip, trace a path across his body.