Fourteen

Genevieve plunked the water bucket inside the stall. “Hot, salted water as you requested.”

Lord Bowles crouched to pour the salt water into a shallow wooden box. His muscled thighs moved with grace in wool breeches above well-worn hip boots on long legs. Forearms flexing, he tipped the bucket, flashing the black horse tattoo. He’d long ago removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

Heat singed her cheeks when she stared long at the leather folds ending inches above his knees. She’d ridden those leather folds and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again. Sex was on her mind, but not his lordship’s. The master of Pallinsburn traded quips with her, but he spent his day courting four-legged creatures with masterful care.

“You won’t haul anything upstairs for me,” he teased, setting aside the bucket. “But you’ll haul water through a mud-drenched yard for a horse.”

She removed her cloak and hooked it on the beam. “If you’re injured, milord, I promise to haul buckets of water wherever you want.”

His hands fascinated her, attractive and long fingered. What would happen if he touched her bare skin? At the moment, he was mashing a fresh poultice with a mortar and pestle, working a potion the same as the old apothecary she’d frequent off Lombard Street.

Stone clinked against stone. “Is that it? A man has to be injured to win your attention.”

“If you’re laid up in bed, I’ll see to your needs.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He grinned, grinding the pestle’s round head against the bowl.

In and out. With small, careful strokes, he rolled his tool inside the mortar with precision. He was a man who had a care with menial tasks. The hour was late, yet his smile was a broad slash of white in a dirt-streaked face. Queue in disarray, his shirt open at the neck, Lord Bowles mixed his concoction, a man born to heal horses.

She leaned against the stall’s post. “I’d say you’re in your element.”

The mashing paused. “Don’t let on with Samuel. I want him miserable for at least another day.” He set down the bowl and dipped a hand inside.

“Is this about the gambling?”

His thumb rubbed circles over four fingertips, testing the remedy. “You heard that.”

“When I brought the linen strips earlier. I couldn’t help it.”

“We were”—Lord Bowles paused, searching the air—“discussing the merits of my gambling.”

“More like the merits of you not gambling, if I heard you right.”

“Exactly. With cards, my talent is passable at best.”

“But it’s not the gaming, is it?”

He sniffed the poultice on his fingers. “I need to stay above reproach…not even a whiff of scandal. The name ‘Marcus Bowles’ and ‘gambling’ in the same sentence won’t sound good.”

“Because of your brother looking for a bride.” She cast a sidelong glance at the new row of horses. “Wouldn’t it be worthwhile to make a go of it one more time? To save these horses? We’re far away from London, milord.”

He wiped his hands on a piece of linen and tossed it into an overflowing bucket of rags. “While Samuel’s assured of the outcome, I’m not.” Lines etched the sides of his mouth. “It will be me sitting at the table.”

“A gambler who’s lost his edge.” She toyed with the laces on her gown. “Could be a simple matter of sharpening your skills.”

Lord Bowles stilled, his satyr’s smile gleaming at her from the shadows. “As in finding the right whetstone?” His raspy chuckle was sensual. “Miss Turner, you are a surprise.”

Her skin tingled, more alive for the aromas of leather and hay and being near him. Little things snared her attention. His cambric shirt opened at the neck, the white edges grazing his skin. The plain gray waistcoat he wore enfolding a lean waist. She already knew his chest was nicely muscled and covered with a dusting of hair. Despite her general ease with men, she stood in an unknown place. This was his world, and she was in it. The stamped earth should be level underfoot, but she couldn’t shake the sense of having stepped on uncertain ground.

“While I’d like to further our conversation, this little beauty requires attention.” Lord Bowles crouched low and tested the hot, salty water.

“What are you going to do?”

“Put her hoof in this pan. She has a small abscess. Then I’ll wrap a poultice around her hock.” Forearm resting on his knee, he nodded at the joint. “She has a cut there.”

“Won’t the salt sting?”

“A little,” he said, touching gingerly near the wound. “That’s why I’m doing my best to gentle her.” Inch by inch, his expert fingers slid along the horse’s leg.

“How do you gentle them?”

The horse neighed, the whites of her eyes showing. Genevieve sprang back against the stall’s gate. The horse yanked against her tether, her ears twisting back and nostrils flaring.

Lord Bowles grabbed a brush and stroked the horse. “Shh. Sweet girl,” he cooed. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Patient caresses flowed over the dirty horse to the cadence of soothing words said under his breath. For all she knew, Lord Bowles could be reciting Ben Franklin’s pamphlet on electricity, yet his magic worked. The horse’s ears turned forward, and snorts slowed to even breaths.

“Is she young?”

The flat of his hand rubbed the horse’s chest. “She’s a filly. Not yet four years, I’d guess, but injured from overwork and lack of proper care.”

“How can you tell?”

“Her teeth.” He grinned at Genevieve over his shoulder. “When she lets me see them.”

“I shall have a care with my smile then.”

“You’ve become generous with your smiles, Miss Turner, but more would do you good.”

It was true. She’d smiled often these weeks serving Lord Bowles. Stepping off the gate, she craned her neck for a better view of the horse’s hoof. “Her injuries… Is that why she’s so nervous?”

“That and being unsure of her new surroundings. Toss in having a strange man’s hands on her, and you’ve got a nervous filly.”

“Tell me how I can help.”

Lord Bowles faced the horse, one hand stroking her neck. The other extended the brush carefully outside the horse’s sight line. “Use this. Keep your hands low. No sudden movements.”

She took the brush and slid it along the horse’s neck. “There, there, sweet girl,” she whispered.

“Keep that up even if she startles.”

Genevieve drew the brush along the thick hair splattered with mud. “What’s her name?”

Lord Bowles scooted the wooden pan with his boot, the side touching the abscessed hoof. “She doesn’t have one,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why don’t you name her?”

He was poised, an eye on the horse, waiting. He stroked the filly’s haunches, nudging the pan with his foot. The horse stepped back, lifting her hoof as if favoring it. Lord Bowles quickly toed the pan under her, and the flat of the filly’s hoof dropped into the salt water with a splash. The young horse snorted, her ears twitching backward.

“Shh, Hester,” Genevieve cooed. “Yes, that shall be your name.”

Lord Bowles stood still, hands splayed to react. Little Hester snorted but stayed put. “You’ve worked a miracle. She kicked over two other pans and tried to unman me.”

“Tell me,” she said, calming the filly with soothing strokes. “How do you gentle a horse?”

He smeared the poultice onto a linen strip. “You wish to know all my secrets.”

“You know a few of mine.”

“A trade for a trade.”

From her side vision, Genevieve could see Lord Bowles tying the wrap. Comforting sounds of horses settling in for the night echoed in the barn. Sweet little Hester snickered her approval of the attention she received.

“How did you come by your knowledge of horses? Your grandfather?”

“Northampton’s stable master,” he said at her shoulder.

She startled, and Hester jerked against the tether, her hooves dancing. How did he get so close?

“Shh,” he hushed, his body pressing into Genevieve’s backside.

Lord Bowles reached around and placed his warm hand over hers on the brush. Long masculine fingers slid between her fingers and gripped the brush with her. She was spellbound. Currents pulsed through her veins, sparking her skin. Arms touching as one, they smoothed the brush over the filly’s back.

“Gentling a horse requires patience,” he murmured against her ear. “Lending an ear to hear what she has to say.”

Her lashes hovered low. Was he speaking of her? She drank in the intimacy of simply being with Lord Bowles, her backside molding to him. His placket’s buttons nudged her bottom. Up and down their strokes went on the little horse. Lord Bowles took the lead. Their joined hands skimmed the horse, neck to chest, the movement fluid.

“You’ve said that before. That horses talk.”

“Same as people.” His breath was warm on her neck. “You have to pay attention as much to what’s said as not said.”

Her bottom pressed into his groin, and his breath hitching was her reward for the small, saucy push.

“You mean the way our bodies move?”

His free hand rubbed her hip. “Movement, habits, everything.”

His mouth pressed into the back of her hair, smelling her. She’d used plain soap. Would he like her smell?

Gentle fingers slid over her hip to her belly. “Keep your movements slow and careful if you want to calm skittish fillies. They can’t know what you’re doing. Arms waving high or frantic movements make them nervous.”

Her other hand covered his resting on her gown’s front laces. “Hands must go higher at some point.”

“Eventually.” His low, raspy laughter tickled her neck. “Trust needs to come first.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.” He feathered a kiss on her shoulder where cloth ended and her skin began.

“Just curious.”

“This phase can take a long time,” he said, his mouth on her skin. “Patience is of the essence.”

She shivered and tipped her face to the timbered ceiling. The dimly lit barn could be heaven. Mud caked her hem, but the flat aroma of oats and a good man at her back thrilled her. His hand fell away from under hers. She mewled her disappointment until he touched her unbound hair.

“Why do you always wear your hair down?”

Her scalp tingled. Lord Bowles was stroking her hair. “Is that part of your tutorial on horses, milord?”

“A small question to feed my curiosity,” he said, fingering a lock.

“I hate hairpins.”

He brushed her hair back from her other shoulder and planted a kiss on bare skin. “What do you have against pins?”

“They…hurt.” Genevieve breathed the words more than said them. She bent her head, giving him more of her neck. Their joined hands halted on the horse’s withers. Spangles of desire and contentment spread warmly through her body.

“And combs? They do the same?”

“I comb my hair once a day. It’s mostly the weight that bothers me. My hair pinned up gives me a headache.”

His hand found her rib cage. Masculine fingers spread over her gown’s front lacing again. He kissed her neck, openmouthed kisses, tender and warm. Each touch of his lips was a message.

Lord Bowles was gentling her. Healing her.

He pleasured her skin with his mouth, winning her body and, she feared, her heart. This was more than naked lust. Yearning bloomed inside for this man, to care for him and be cared for by him, a novel thing indeed. The horses, the cottage, and Lord Bowles entwined her daily life. London was becoming a hazy memory.

Teeth nipping her lower lip, she clutched her skirt, ready to turn around. Lord Bowles kept her backside firmly pressed against the fall of his breeches. He kissed her ear, and she hoped desperately his mouth would go lower. With each hard breath, her breasts pushed against her bodice. She was ready to untie the laces, but Lord Bowles inched back, his hand rummaging in his breeches pocket.

“To finish the gentling, you give them something they want,” he said, his mouth lingering over her shoulder. “Something sweet.”

His warm breath tickled the top curve of her breast, her collarbone, at the exact moment a damp, crescent-shaped object touched her palm.

She blinked, lifting her hand. “An apple slice.”

“Make your hand flat and stretch out your arm.”

Lord Bowles guided her hand to the horse’s mouth, and the offering was made. Velvety soft lips brushed her palm. The crunch was quick.

He kissed her temple and pulled away. “That’s how you gentle a horse.”

Her back was cold. Her heart pounded. Her nipples were tight and needy against her stays. Both legs could have been tied in knots, forbidding movement. Lord Bowles cleaned the stall, removing the pan with its now tepid salt water. He poured the dirty salt water into the bucket with the soiled rags.

“It’s not good for their hooves to be in water too long. Softens them.”

“Like what you did with me just now. Softened me, then left me standing here, my head spinning.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. His smile brimmed with male satisfaction. He grabbed the bucket of soiled rags and set it outside the stall. “If we keep this up, we’ll eventually get caught. I’ve heard some of the villagers have taken to gossiping about us.”

She slipped into her cloak a tad grumpy. “What if I don’t care about gossip?”

“You should,” he said, untethering the horse. “That is, if a respectable new life is what you want.”

“Respectability can hang for all I care.” She tied the cloak under her chin.

This was a neat twist. The man she craved between her thighs fought valiantly for her honor. How ironic. Liquid heat coursed through her limbs. She was in a sluggish haze, wanting their bodies writhing hot and naked.

Lord Bowles shut the gate and slipped on his redingote and hat. Dressed in black in the barn’s dim interior, he could be a highwayman ready to ravish her—and she could do with a good ravishing. The notion of him being a highwayman had struck her the first night when he tore across the meadow near Lowick village, brandishing his pistol.

She wasn’t sure what to make of this…of their comfortable companionship and flagrant lust. Lord Bowles plied friendliness and flirtation with consummate skill. A woman had to be quick on her feet with him.

He was slow to unhook the lantern off the beam. “Before you toss respectability to the wind, you need to see something, but I ask a promise first.”

She grinned. “Have you a pamphlet to negotiate with, milord?”

He dug inside his pocket, his eyes serious. “No.” He held up a slip of paper. “Before I give this to you, before you decide anything, promise me you’ll sit with me and eat dinner.”

She studied the paper in his hand, not touching it. “Eat dinner together?”

Lord Bowles ate in the kitchen since the cottage had no dining room furniture, but she’d whisk about from one task to another. It was natural to be in his vicinity. But dine with him? Servants didn’t dine with the master.

“Yes.” One word, yet his voice tinged with sadness and a touch of desperation.

“Of course, milord.”

He handed over the message. She unfolded the scrap, the words leaping at her.

Maude Turner lives in Coldstream. You’ll find her at the vicarage.