The Lords of Kendal Manor

Chapter 19

~ Bricket Wood, Hertfordshire, 15 October 1815. ~

Charlotte watched Lachlan dismount and lead his horse, Penny, to the stream. The sun was beginning to stain the sky with the warm colours of an autumn morning, and the scant clouds in the sky were glowing against the diverse rose palette.

Her horse, Damsel, dipped her head and began tearing at the green tufts banking beneath the oak they remained beneath. She'd been seated astride the mare, fitted out in the stable boy's breeches, with another pair in the saddlebags adorning Damsel's flanks for most of the night.

At times, Charlotte was a wild child and frequently rode astride when heading out with Lachlan to jaunt across the Westmorland countryside.

This, however, was torturous. Her sex was manipulated into extreme arousal last night, and now it ached as she'd never known it could.

In fact, the cold water looked soothing to her.

She dismounted and walked toward it, tugging Damsel's reigns and leading her to abandon the fresh grass she was devouring.

Crouching before the gurgling water, she dipped her hand to feel the blessed cool liquid pass languidly through her fingers.

Dropping the reigns, she sat on the moist bank and began taking her shoes off.

"What are you doing? We can't stay here." Lachlan voiced, coming around Penny and standing before her.

She refused to look up at him and pulled the breeches up as far as she could manage to pull her stockings down.

"Charlotte, if you're determined to cool your feet, you have half an hour at most." He complained and turned to loosen the girth of Penny's saddle.

Ignoring him, easier now that his back was turned, she stood and began undoing the buttons on the breeches, securing the flap at the front.

A hand struck out and stopped her. Lachlan's hand, of course.

"What are you doing?" He questioned fiercely.

"I am taking my breeches off." She answered, gritting her teeth in frustration.

"You will not do that." He demanded, pushing her hand away and trying to do the buttons back up.

Swatting his hand, she pushed and parried with him, trying to return to her objective, until she realised she was not winning and grappled with moving out of his reach.

Unfortunately, he followed.

"I am going to soak if you must know." She shouted at him, shoving him away once more.

He stood back and looked at her.

"No, you are not!" He argued angrily, his face contorted in frustration.

"I bloody well am you devil of a man. You may have reduced your need with a casual flick of your wrist last night, but my parts are swollen without reprieve, only to be gifted hours of precise friction to torture and maim me with your harried speed across the landscape." She divested, sucking in the air for fear of fainting from breathlessness.

Lachlan turned away and kicked a rock clear across to the far side of the stream, his breathing laboured, evident by his shoulders lifting and dropping drastically.

Slowly she returned to unbuttoning all those he'd resecured.

"Don't! Try this instead." He offered, going to his saddlebags and pulling a thick cloth from a wad of them. Placing the others back in his bags, he walked to the stream and dipped it into the cold water, swishing it a moment, before lifting it and squeezing the bulk of the water out, leaving it damp but no longer dripping.