Trial by Desire, Page 5

  “You’re not a duke’s daughter?” He looked about the room in exaggerated confusion. “Does anyone else here know that? Because I shan’t tell if you won’t.”

  Her hand shifted under his, and he won another reluctant smile from her. This, too, Ned remembered—his attempts, at breakfast, to make her choke on her toast and reprimand him for making her cough. It had seemed a dangerous endeavor then, even in the bright light of day.

  “Don’t be foolish,” she admonished.

  “Why not?” He reached out and tapped her chin.

  She tilted her head. And then, he remembered why conversing with her had always seemed so dangerous. Because she looked up at him. The years washed away. And for one second, the look she gave him was as old and complicated as the look Delilah had once given to Samson. It was a look that said Kate had seen inside his skin, had seen through the veneer of his humor to the very unamusing truth of why he’d left. She might have seen how desperately he needed to retain a shred of control over himself…and how close she came to taking it all away.

  His wife had been a threat when he’d married her. She’d been a confusing mix of directness and obfuscation, a mystery that had dangerously engrossed him. He’d found himself entertaining all sorts of lofty daydreams. He’d wanted to slay all her dragons—he’d have invented them, if she lacked sufficient reptilian foes. In short, he’d found himself slipping back into the youthful foolishness he had forsworn.

  He’d run away. He’d left England, ostensibly to look into Blakely investments in the East. It had been a rational, hardheaded endeavor, and he’d proven that he, too, could be rational and hardheaded. He’d come home, certain that this time, he would leave off his youthful imaginings.

  “Are you planning to play the fool for me?” And in her face, turned up to his, he saw every last threat writ large. He saw the sadness he’d left in her, and felt his own desperate desire to tamp it down. And he saw something more: something stronger and harder than the woman he’d left behind.

  He had come back to England, planning to treat his wife with gentlemanly care. He would prove once and for all that he was deserving of their trust, that he was not some stupid, foolish boy, careening off on some impossible quest.

  Kate made him want to take on the impossible.

  When she smiled, the warmth of her expression traveled right through his spine like a heated shiver. It lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone, a hook planted in his ribs, pulling him forward.

  For one desperate second, he wanted to be laid bare before her. He wanted her to see everything: his struggle for stability, the hard-fought battle he’d won. He wanted to find out why she sat as if she were not a part of this group.

  And that was real foolishness. Because he’d worked too long to gain control over himself, and he wasn’t about to relinquish it at the first opportunity to a pretty smile. Not even one that belonged to his wife.

  “No,” he said finally. “You’re quite right. I’m done playing the fool. Not even for you, Kate. Not even for you.”

  THE SMELL OF HAY and manure wafted to Ned as soon as he stepped inside the stables. The aisle running down the stalls was clean and dry, though, and he walked carefully down the layer of fresh straw. The mare he had pulled from the mews in London for the journey here put her dark nose out over the stall, and Ned reached into his pocket for a small circle of orange carrot. He offered it, palm up; the horse snuffled it up.

  “If you’re looking for that new devil of a horse, he’s not in here.”

  Ned turned at the sound of this ancient voice. “You’re talking about Champion, then?”

  Richard Plum scrubbed a callused hand against an old and wrinkled cheek. It was the only commentary Ned expected the old stable-master would make on the name he’d chosen. Ned could almost hear the man’s voice echo from his childhood. Animals don’t need fancy names. They don’t know what they mean. Names are nothing but lies for us two-legged types.

  “I’ve seen a great many horses,” the man offered.

  Ned waited. Plum spent so much time around animals—from the horses in the stables to Berkswift’s small kennel of dogs—that he sometimes forgot that ordinary human conversation had an ebb and flow to it, a certain natural order of statement and response. Plum seemed to think all conversations had only one side, which he provided. But if left unprompted, he usually recollected himself and continued.

  “This one, he’s not the worst I’ve seen. Not the best, neither. Conformation leaves a lot to be desired, and even after we’ve put some flesh on his bones, he’ll likely always be weak-chested. But his temperament… He’s as wary as if the devil himself were pissing in his grain. I don’t trust him near my mares.”

  Technically, they were Ned’s mares, but Ned wasn’t about to correct the man. He’d hoped this morning’s equine tantrum had been nothing more than an aftereffect of Champion’s earlier mistreatment.

  “That sounds bad.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Plum seemed to think that bare mono-syllable constituted sufficient answer, because he put his hands in his pockets and looked at Ned. “An animal needs to know some kindness in its first years of life, Mr. Carhart. If your, ah, your horse—” Ned noticed that Plum carefully eschewed the name of Champion “—has never known good from people, that’s the end of it. It can’t be fixed, not with a day of work. Or a week. Or a year. And if that’s the case, there’s nothing to be done for it.”

  “When you say ‘nothing,’” Ned ventured gently, “you don’t literally mean nothing can be done. Do you?”

  “Of course not.” Plum shook his head. “Always something to be done, eh? In this case, you load the pistol and pull the trigger. It’s a mercy, doing away with a one such as that. What an animal doesn’t learn when young, it can’t find in maturity.”

  Ned turned away, his hands clenching. His stomach felt queasy. He hadn’t saved Champion only to have him put down out of some sense of wrong-headed mercy. An image flashed through his head: a pistol, tooled in silver, the sun glinting off it from every direction.

  No.

  He’d not wish that end on anyone, not even a scraggly, weak-chested horse.

  “How far gone is he?”

  Mr. Plum shrugged. “No way to know, unless someone gives it a try. Have to make the decision out of rational thought, sir. Me? I doubt the animal’s worth the effort.”

  He paused again, another one of those too-long halts. Ned began to drum his fingers against the leg of his trousers, an impatient ditty born out of an excess of energy. Another bad sign.

  “Very little use in him, sir.”

  “Use.” Ned pressed his palms together. “No need for an animal to be useful, is there?”

  Plum met his gaze. “Use is what animals are for, Mr. Carhart. Useless animals have no place.”

  Ned knew what it was like to feel useless. He had been the expendable grandchild, the non-heir. He’d been the fool, the idiot, the one who could be counted on to muck up anything worth doing. His grandfather had expected nothing of Ned, and Ned, young idiot that he had been, had delivered spectacularly. But he had learned. He had changed himself, and it had not been too late.

  “Where have you put him?”

  “Old sheep corral. It’s empty, this time of autumn, what with the sheep all brought to the lower fields.”

  “He’ll come around.”

  “Hmm.” It was a versatile syllable, that. Plum might have delivered an essay on his disbelief with that single sound. “In all those heart-felt do-gooding stories, some child rescues an animal and it then proceeds to take the cup at the Ascot. And the knock-kneed beast does so, just because it’s fed a decent measure of corn and lavished with kind words. But be realistic, Mr. Carhart. This is a barrel-chested animal that’s down on its strength. Even if you do somehow calm the thing enough to toss a harness on it, and convince it to pull in tandem with another animal, it’ll be skittish all its life.”

  “Skittish,” Ned said, “I can live with.”

/>   Plum stared at him a moment, before giving his head a dismissive shake. “Hope so, then. There’s still hay out in that field,” he finally said. “We’d been planning to bring it in soon, before the rains come. I’ll pull a pair of men from the home farm this afternoon and see to it.”

  “Don’t bother,” Ned volunteered. “I’ll do it.”

  This was met with a longer pause.

  “You’ll do it,” Plum finally repeated, looking off at a speck of dirt on the ground. He said the words as if Ned had just announced that not only did he plan to save a useless horse, he had five heads.

  And no wonder. Gentlemen offered to pitch hay approximately as often as they sported five heads. And a marquess’s heir was no common day-laborer to dirty himself with a pitchfork. But then, Ned wasn’t precisely a common marquess’s heir, either. He needed to do some thing to bleed off the excess energy he felt. It was beginning to come out in fidgets; if he didn’t do something about it, it would never dissipate.

  Instead, it would go careening off at the first opportune moment. Or, more like, the first inopportune one, as he’d learned by experience.

  “This is a joke?” Plum asked, bewildered. “You always were one for jokes, when you were a child.”

  Oh, the inopportune moments of his childhood.

  “I’m perfectly serious. I’ll manage it.”

  Over the past few years he’d learned he could contain the restiveness, his simple inability to just stop. All he had to do was channel that excess energy into physical tasks. The more mundane, the more repetitive, the greater the strain on his muscles, the better it worked.

  Plum simply shook his head, no doubt washing his hands of his master’s madness. “Cart’s already in the field,” he said.

  Ned found the cart in question half an hour later. Champion watched him, his eyes lowered, yards away at the fence. Pitching hay into a cart was excellent work—back-straining and tiring. Ned could feel his muscles protest with every lift of the fork. His back ached in pain—the good sort of pain. He worked through it.

  One hayrick. Two. The sun moved a good slice in the sky, until Ned was past the point of tiredness, past the point of shoulder pain, until his muscles burned and he wanted nothing more than to set down the pitchfork and leave the work to the men Plum would undoubtedly send.

  But he didn’t. Because not only did this bleed off all that extra intensity, this was good practice. While there were days like today, when he felt vigorous and invincible, there also came times when he wanted nothing more than to simply come to a halt.

  Those were the poles of his life: too much energy, almost uncontainable, followed by too little. When the next pole came riding ’round, he’d be ready for it again.

  For now, though, he pitched hay.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KATE FOUND her husband’s coat carelessly tossed across a fence rail. She’d trudged down a muddy footpath in search of him. The trail meandered behind a short scrubby line of trees, past an old, weathered line of fence. In the distance, ducks gabbled peacefully.

  By the time she found him, her dress, once pristine, had picked up a band of mud at the hem. The starch of her collar had become limp against her skin. Not quite the way she’d wanted to confront her husband.

  He, on the other hand… Ned had stripped to his shirtsleeves. His dark waistcoat hung open. He was wielding a pitchfork with the deft efficiency of a farmhand. Beneath the unbuttoned waistcoat, she could see the loose folds of his shirt swinging in time to his work. He had no cravat. A moment’s search found that white length of cloth draped near his coat.

  The other gentlemen of her acquaintance would have looked foolish, without the armor of their clothing to hide thin shoulders, or the bulge of their bellies. But Ned had an air about him, not of disorder, but of casual confidence. Perhaps it was the self-assured rhythm he’d adopted. That uncivilized swagger suited him.

  He had never seemed dangerous before he left, and she felt no fear now. And yet there was something different about him. Too casual to seem arrogant; too controlled to come off as happy-go-lucky. He’d changed.

  He had a touch of the carefree ruffian about him even now, when he thought nobody was watching but a solitary, skittish horse. Champion huddled on the opposite end of the pasture, ears plastered against his head.

  Ned was friends with Harcroft. He’d been the one to introduce the man to Lord Blakely and his wife. Anything he discovered—and as her husband, Ned had the legal right to discover a great deal from Kate—would ruin all of her carefully laid plans. He was already ruining her plans. He had unquestioningly taken the side of Lord and Lady Blakely. He had ushered Harcroft in with hospitality. And he would want to know—quite reasonably, he would think—how his wife spent her time. His presence would impede Kate’s ability to communicate with Louisa. How could she see to her friend’s safety if she couldn’t even visit her?

  No. Even if he didn’t know it himself, her husband was a danger to her. The slightest word to him, carelessly spoken, could be repeated. In the blink of an eye, Louisa could be exposed.

  He was dangerous in a more subtle way, too.

  Five minutes of conversation, and she could still feel the mark his finger had left on her chin. Her hand bore an invisible imprint, where he’d laid his atop it. Five minutes, and he’d stirred her to laughter.

  He had not heard her approach, and so she had the chance to watch him. He finished moving the last of the hay into the cart and set the pitchfork down slowly. He stripped off his leather gloves, one by one, then pulled off the waistcoat and laid it on the tongue of the cart, next to the gloves and his cravat. Then he stretched and took a clay jug off the cart. Instead of drinking from it, though, he held it above himself and poured a thin stream of water over his head.

  His hair, already glistening from exertion, matted to the sides of his head. His white shirt turned translucent and clung to his chest.

  Oh, heavens. Kate’s breath stopped. The intervening years had been very kind to him. Fabric adhered to defined muscles—not thick, like a laborer’s, but lean and rangy, like a fencer’s.

  It was abominably unfair that he should leave for years and come back looking like that.

  She felt the glorious unfairness of it bite deep in her chest.

  Kate was not the only one watching. Some twenty yards distant stood the animal he had impetuously purchased today. The servants must have seen to it, because someone had transformed the beast from bedraggled to…slightly less bedraggled. The harness had been removed, and its dull coat had been brushed. Those small hints at grooming underscored how far the animal had yet to come. There were hollows where the animal should have sported muscle and worn spots where the ill-fitting harness had rubbed skin bare.

  Ned was not talking to the animal, not even in the low, gentle tones he’d used earlier that morning. For that matter, he didn’t act as if he was even aware that it stood so many yards distant. Instead, he picked up his discarded waistcoat and patted its pockets, as if searching for something. He plucked out a little sack and walked away.

  The horse—Champion, Ned had called the beast—watched him warily, turning sidelong to keep one eye on him as he walked. Ned whistled tunelessly and peered off into the distance, out at the short, scrubby stretch of trees that blanketed the nearby hill. Just as casually, he began tossing a tiny object from hand to hand. Kate caught a glimpse of white as it danced back and forth a few times, before he lobbed it off into the yellowing grass. He threw it with a sidelong motion, as if he were skipping a stone on the sea of shorn stubble.

  Kate took two steps closer, her hands closing on the fence rail.

  Champion’s nostrils flared at Ned’s sudden movement. He backed away, hastily. Ned turned from the horse. As he did, he caught sight of Kate. He stopped dead, and the small smile he’d been wearing slipped away. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked back to the cart. Once there, he donned his waistcoat and then his cravat, pulling the cloth around his neck. He tied the knot w
ith grave finality. Then he advanced on her.

  Behind him, Champion laid his ears back in dire warning to any predators that might attack. He stamped his feet—once, twice. Then he trotted forward, lowered his head, and lipped up whatever Ned had thrown at him.

  Ned still hadn’t said anything. But as he came upon her, he put his hand in that sack again. He set another object on the fence post in front of him. In the sunlight, the thumb-sized object gleamed like a lump of white porcelain.

  “Come,” he said to Kate. “Walk with me.”

  Kate’s corset seemed to tighten. Hot lines of whalebone pressed into her ribs while she tried to draw in a pained breath. Some trick of the light made his eyes appear darker, almost black; by contrast, the afternoon sunlight tinted his brown hair halfway to gold.

  Shaving had revealed the strong line of his jaw. But he could still have used a valet’s services to trim his hair. The ends, still dripping water, curled into his eyes. Slowly, he lifted one hand and brushed those strands back.

  It struck her as monstrously unfair. When Kate’s hair fell into her eyes, it looked blowsy. On her husband, the untidiness seemed nonchalant and approachable. And yet, if she were to approach him with the truth of what she’d done…

  When they’d married, she’d thought he had an essential sweetness to him, a kindness. Perhaps that was why she had agreed to marry him. Marriage was a frightening business for a woman; one never knew what one’s husband might do. The man she’d married would never have condoned what Harcroft had done to his wife.

  But this man? It had looked as if he had left a white rock atop the post. But as she walked up to it, the object he’d left shone innocently up at her. Her husband might have been careless and thoughtless, but he had never been cruel. A man who fed a wary horse—she sniffed the air delicately—peppermints was not the sort of man to make her fear for her safety.