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dispassionately in the closest pen, most with lambs hopping playfully nearby. The young ones danced around their sedentary mothers with a glee Adelaide found impossible to resist. Maybe sheep weren’t so bad after all.
    Sheba snorted as she caught the scent of other horses and nudged Adelaide from behind.
    “All right. I’m going.”
    They entered the stable, but no one arrived to offer assistance. Deciding it would be easier to locate an empty stall herself than wait for someone to find them, Adelaide led Sheba down the alleyway. The mare’s hooves clicked against the planked floor, drawing the attention of the other residents. Numerous heads bobbed over stall doors to inspect the intruders. Adelaide’s experienced eye noted two saddle horses of Thoroughbred quality mixed in with quarter horses, a draft animal or two, and even a pony—which surely belonged to the young princess of the castle. Mr. Westcott had quite an eclectic collection of horseflesh.
    “Here we go, girl.” Adelaide found a tie stall near the rear of the stable and hitched Sheba in. She checked the hay in the feedbox and picked up an overturned bucket from the ground. “I’ll get you some fresh water and see if I can’t rustle up some oats for you.”
    The bucket handle creased her palm as she headed back to the stable entrance. A feed bin along the wall drew her attention. She veered to the side to investigate and caught the sound of approaching male voices.
    “Esmeralda finally dropped her lambs, Miguel. Twins.”
    “Ah. Muy bien, señor .”
    “Keep a close eye on her, though. She didn’t seem too fond of the little tykes. You’ll probably need to tie her up and force her to nurse them for a while.”
    “ Sí. I watch her, patrón . You go clean up for your guests.”
    Patrón? The first man had spoken with a British accent. Was she about to meet Mr. Westcott? Her pulse raced in alarm. She hadn’t had the chance to freshen up yet. Adelaide retreated until her rear bumped into the feed bin. She clutched the bucket tightly against her chest and held her breath. Just her luck. The proper ladies were up at the house awaiting him in the parlor, and she was off cavorting in the stable. She could only hope she hadn’t stepped in horse droppings. Nothing like the smell of manure on a person to win over a potential employer. Her hair was probably a wreck, too. Why hadn’t she gone inside with Mr. Bevin when she’d had the chance?
    She stood utterly still and trained her ears on the noises outside the stable. The pad of footsteps moving away from the building buoyed her spirits. Maybe she’d get out of this unscathed. She continued to listen, not sure if one man or both had left. When everything remained quiet, she inhaled deeply and let her muscles relax. Determined to get Sheba taken care of as quickly as possible so she could skedaddle up to the house, she took a nose bag down from the wall and heaved open the heavy, wooden hinged lid of the bin, leaning it against the wall.
    Drat. It held oats all right, but the bin was nearly empty. She bent over the side, the worn edge digging into her stomach as she reached for the large tin scoop. Pushing up on her toes, she stretched her arms down as far as she could and managed to get a fingertip grip on the scoop handle. The scoop scraped against the bottom of the wooden box as she cornered the grain. It would have to be enough. All she needed was for someone to come in and see her dangling over the side of the feed bin, bottom up.
    “Might I be of assistance?”
    The rich, masculine, and very British voice startled her so badly that she flung herself backward too fast. She lost her footing and knocked her knees against the bin. As she swung her arms out in a desperate bid to regain her balance, the oats sailed out in a powdery arc and splattered all over the front of the man who could only be Gideon Westcott.
    His blue chambray shirt must have been damp from his exertions with the laboring ewe,