After the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years, I’m roused by a cockerel crowing. Oh dear God, the joys of the British countryside. Peeling my eyes open I peek at the clock, 6:00AM, ugh, I need a good strong coffee.
Padding over to the window I pull back the curtains. In the field below I see the guy Simon was mad at yesterday. The slave, I assume. He’s chopping a tree trunk into logs. It’s winter and cold outside but the work must have made him hot, because all he has on are blue, faded jeans, which have obviously been well-worn judging by the holes at the knees and a thin, threadbare, white sleeveless t-shirt. Studying him I can see he’s attractive in a rough kind of way. He’s long and lean. I can’t see his hair because his head is covered with a black bandanna. His large hands grip the axe and as he raises it high over his right shoulder, I have a good view of his sculptured biceps and strong, broad shoulders. His expression is serious as he swings his axe down through the air, slicing through the log in front of him in a single, solid strike. Just then, he turns his head and gazes directly at my window. Our eyes lock. Startled, I jump back, feeling like a peeping tom caught staring at him.
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