Chapter 6
Elizabeth had said yes.
Given the fact she’d gone out of her way to avoid him for nearly ten years, he’d anticipated it would be a good deal more difficult to attain her capitulation.
At best, he thought she’d give a polite no and send him on his way.
At worst, he’d foreseen himself begging her to return.
Copernicus whinnied and danced about on three legs.
“Easy,” he murmured, stroking his withers. “Forgive me. I was distracted.”
The chestnut stallion tossed his head, snorting loudly.
“I know,” Crispin mumbled. “You deserve my full attention. You have it now.”
Even as he sank back to his haunches to resume his inspection of the abrasion on Copernicus’ right hoof, he sensed the lie as much as the loyal horse who drew his injured hoof protectively closer.
Crispin had done his best to forget Elizabeth. Through the initial terror of imagining her off on her own, logic had prevailed. There had never been anyone more resourceful or capable than Elizabeth Brightly. What she lacked in brawn and height, she far surpassed in wits and cleverness. No, the same girl who’d managed to knock out, with nothing more than a pebble aimed at the bastard’s temple, the village bully who’d been mocking the vicar’s simple daughter, would always do just fine on her own. Those assurances hadn’t erased his fear, but they had prevented him from spiraling into madness because of the perils she’d face as a woman on her own.
Crispin stared blankly at Copernicus’ wound. It had been more than just fear that had gripped him in those days, it had been heartache at her betrayal. They’d quickly plotted and planned a future together, friends who’d become companionable spouses.
Bitterness twisted at his lips. It hadn’t taken her but a handful of days to come to regret her decision.
Copernicus nudged at the top of Crispin’s head.
“You’re right. I’m being remiss.” He glanced up at the massive creature. “Again.”
Copernicus whinnied in equine agreement.
Yanking the crisp white kerchief from inside his jacket, he snapped the fabric open. He proceeded to carefully clean the gravel and dirt from around the wound, and then he applied the fabric to the lightly bleeding injury.
A circle of crimson immediately stained the scrap, and Copernicus rumbled through his nostrils and danced away from him.
“Easy,” he murmured in calm tones. “I have to stop the bleeding.”
Copernicus immediately stilled.
In quick order, Crispin tugged free his cravat and set to work making a makeshift bandage, pausing in midwrap.
He sensed her presence before he heard or saw her. It was an intrinsic sense of knowing when Elizabeth was close that had always been there.
Crispin finished his task and stood.
The half-moon hanging in the night sky cast a soft circle of light about Elizabeth, with her same loose, too-big spectacles and drab skirts.
When, as a duchess, she should be wearing the softest, finest fabrics. Even as that had never been her way, she deserved to be draped in them. Anything but the coarse, dreary articles that made up her new wardrobe.
Uninvited, she came over.
Copernicus’ ear pricked forward, and he burrowed his broad snout against her chest.
“Poor dear. Up to trouble again, are you?” she murmured, scratching the mount between his eyes.
Crispin stared on.
“Can you not find other friends? Those of the noble sort? Male ones? The girl is an oddity, Crispin,” his mother implored. “She speaks to horses.”
He, too, had spoken with those loyal creatures, but never when anyone had been about. Elizabeth had been unrestrained and unapologetic in her affections for all creatures.
As if feeling his stare, Elizabeth glanced up.
She abruptly released Copernicus’ nose and stepped back.
The horse bleated, dancing forward for another hint of her affections.
Just like me, the poor fellow.
“Brambly indicated he was hurt.”
“It is a flesh wound. I’ve already bandaged him—” She dropped to a knee. “I’ll return shortly. You’ll be safe with Brambly—”
Elizabeth scowled up at him. “Let me see to his bindings.” She was already unwinding the sloppy one he’d assembled.
Yes, she’d always been splinting wounded sparrows and rabbits and had been far more skilled at it than he… or anyone he’d known.
She disentangled the lightly stained cloth, and feeling around the wound, she inspected the injury.
Pulling off his stained gloves, he went to a knee beside her. “What is your opinion?”
Elizabeth continued to probe the slight gash. “He was scraped. See here?” she murmured, trailing a fingertip vertically, taking care to avoid the seeping wound. “There’s bits of gravel and rock lodged within that are irritating him, but he’d not go lame from it.” Elizabeth held her palms up for Copernicus, and he nudged her fingertips. “I need to see the underside, sir.”
He bleated.
“Tsk, tsk. You’re braver than that.” She softened the chastisement with a soothing caress along his elbow.
Crispin stared on as she ran her fingers back and forth in a gentle touch, and swallowed hard. He and Elizabeth had known everything about each other, and yet… he hadn’t known her in the way Copernicus did now. He hadn’t known the feel of her fingers, the brush of her hand in a lover’s caress. “That’s it, love,” she was saying softly, and there was a husked quality to her voice that hypnotized.
He gave his head a disgusted shake. It was a sorry day indeed when a man envied his horse for the attentions he received.
“Did you feel each hoof?” she asked, sparing him a quick glance.
“I didn’t,” he said, his ears going hot. He’d been too busy lamenting what might have been and nursing wounded feelings at her betrayal to properly attend his horse—his loyal horse.
Scooting around Copernicus’ right side, she started her examination of the back hooves.
“Did you find any variations in temperature?” she asked. “To indicate a possible injury or abscess,” she added, the way he had schooled countless young men at Oxford on astronomy.
What a bloody waste of her talents these years. “I didn’t.”
She’d spent so much time instructing girls on matters of deportment and decorum, and all along, she’d had so much more to teach them. He hated that truth as much for the students she taught as for Elizabeth herself.
“What is your opinion?” he asked, forcing himself to abandon the past and focus on Copernicus’ injury.
“He is fine. At least, his rear limbs are.” She moved the heels, tapping the hoof walls. “You check for yourself,” she urged.
While Elizabeth moved her study to Copernicus’ front legs, Crispin inspected the back hocks for himself. As he did, from under the enormous mount’s legs, he studied Elizabeth.
She was almost ten years older than when he’d last seen her, and there was a greater maturity to her heart-shaped face, a restraint that hadn’t been there in her youth, but served her well in her examination now. For those changes to her temperament, an even greater intelligence sparkled in her eyes. It was a feat he would have believed impossible. She’d already been more clever than anyone he’d known.
“Ah,” she was saying as she sank back on her heels. Several curls fell across her brow, and she pushed them behind her ears.
Using that as an invitation to join her, as he’d wanted to from the moment she’d moved out of his reach—always out of his reach—he looked to the hoof she lightly held. “What is it?”
“It’s not merely the scrape,” she explained. “Here, see?” And with her long, graceful neck bent, hair drawn tightly at her nape, he caught sight of a pink birthmark at the center of her nape—heart-shaped with a jagged, arrowlike slash through it. For everything he remembered and knew about this woman, that enticing mark hinted at all the ways in which she remained a mystery. And all the ways he longed to know her. Desire stirred, a potent hungering filling him to touch his lips to that tempting mark and explore it with his mouth. “Do you see here?” she asked, not raising her gaze.
His throat bobbed up and down. You. I see you…
Elizabeth shot a puzzled glance up at him.
He coughed into his fist. “I don’t.” Because he hadn’t been attending the lesson she doled out. Rather, he knelt there, lusting after her.
“It’s not your fault,” she reassured, entirely too forgiving. “It is dark, and as such, you would not have necessarily noticed in your earlier examination.” Elizabeth gently lifted Copernicus’ left hock, and grazing her fingertip just above the horseshoe, she drew his attention to the discoloration there.
Crispin cursed roundly. “Bloody hell.” How had he missed the darker spot? Because you’ve thought of only Elizabeth Brightly since you discovered her whereabouts.
Copernicus danced nervously on his back legs, drawing the injured limb closer.
Collecting the reins, Elizabeth offered soothing words to the mount, and the horse immediately calmed. Once he’d settled again, she returned to her previous ministrations. She sniffed at the bottom of his hock. “There’s no odor.”
“And no discharge,” he noted, finally giving his horse the attention he deserved.
She nodded. “I need to slowly clean off the abrasion and then bandage him.” She offered Crispin the reins once more. Shrugging out of her cloak, Elizabeth gripped the collar of the coarse garment between her teeth and pulled hard.
Riiiiiiip.
The loud rending earned another nervous dance from Copernicus.
“Easy,” Crispin whispered for the horse’s benefit, patting his sweaty coat. All the while, Crispin remained riveted on Elizabeth as she shredded the fabric into long, jagged strips. Elizabeth saw to Copernicus the way a field surgeon might a wounded soldier in battle. “Here,” she instructed, handing over the makeshift bandages.
Here was a command perfectly befitting a duchess. That word, uttered in confidence, was refreshing for its sincerity.
Crispin accepted the brown fabric and shifted his weight over his legs. “Did Mrs. Belden have you tending to her livestock over the years?” he asked, his query nothing more than a pathetically weak attempt to draw forth the secret that had been her life these years.
If she knew he was fishing for information, she gave no outward indication. Not pausing in her task, Elizabeth snorted and countered with a question of her own. “Did Mrs. Belden take you as one who’d allow any young woman to care for horses?”
He found himself grinning. “No.” The old harpy, who had exuded an icy reverence for the existing social strata, would have sought to shape Elizabeth into the same pale shadow of all the ladies in London. His smile fell. And yet, his wife had preferred that existence to one with him.
Mayhap it was fatigue, or the shock of seeing her again, or mayhap it was simply the intimacy of caring for his horse with this woman, but the hurt he’d thought conquered reared itself. Sharp. Poignant. Stark.
Elizabeth passed dirtied bandages over and replaced them with new strips of her shredded cloak, until the blood flow slowed and then stopped altogether.
With a pleased little smile, Elizabeth sank back on her haunches and studied the neat bandage she’d expertly tied about Copernicus’ hoof. Several tight curls had escaped the familiar knot she’d always worn her hair in and hung over her slightly damp brow.
His fingers ached to test the texture of those red curls in ways he never had before.
“There,” she announced, brushing the back of her hand over her forehead. “That should keep until we have him in a proper stable where he might rest it.”
We.
One word that joined them together.
Without hesitation, she placed her long, blood-marred fingertips in his. Any other woman would have wilted at even the prospect of dirtying her hands, let alone staining them with a horse’s blood.
They stood, awkwardness setting in when there had only ever been an ease between them.
Elizabeth was the first to break the moment. She bent to rescue her cloak.
Crispin intercepted her efforts. Tossing it onto a nearby boulder, he shrugged out of his cloak, made of a fine wool and trimmed in velvet, as her own garments should have been.
She stared quizzically at him. “What are you—?”
“You shouldn’t be going about in a shredded garment.” She deserved better. And the evidence of how she’d been living set the muscles in his stomach twisting into knots.
“Pfft.” She stepped around him and reached for the article in question. “My cloak still serves its purpose.”
That had always been Elizabeth. Unimpressed by the material baubles and fripperies that enthralled the rest of the world.
She latched the button clasp at her throat, and her fingers trembled slightly. That slight quake indicated that, for her control, she was not as composed in this moment as she’d have him believe.
What’s become of us?
There’d only ever been a comfortableness in their exchanges, an ease that he’d never known with another single person. Crispin cleared his throat and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I should lead him on to the inn.” He motioned to the graveled Roman road ahead, and Elizabeth followed the gesture. “It’s but a short walk to the edge of Hampstead Heath.” And he needed time to collect his thoughts and resurrect the barriers he’d built in her absence. “I’ll return shortly.”
He glanced off to where Brambly sat atop the carriage. The servant caught his gaze from across the way.
“I can join you,” Elizabeth ventured tentatively.
Crispin whipped around. She wanted to accompany him?
“That is… I don’t have to.” Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the ground. She kicked a pebble with the tip of her scuffed boot, and it collided with the top of his foot. “If you’d rather…”
“Very well.” He forced the response out in neutral tones. Except, as they started onward, a lightness spread in his chest. He was surely pathetic for the warmth that her simple request had wrought, and yet, he’d always had a weakness for Elizabeth Brightly.
He was just as weak now.