Thirty-one

“This?” He shook the bottle. “Purely for medicinal purposes.”

“Like the brandy.” Genevieve laughed. “Do tell.”

“For the horses.” He smiled, glad to have lifted the cloud that hovered after Lord Barnard’s visit.

Whiskey sloshed in hand. He didn’t want it. Last night had been a mistake, and he’d have to forgive himself and move on. The drink had never enslaved him like some men, but he was never as free as others. Most days at Pallinsburn, the craving hung in the periphery, a specter waiting to devour him. There was truth in facing what hounded him, the same as he found truth with Genevieve.

“Sometimes…the way you look at me…I believe I can conquer anything,” he confided. “I want to be the man you believe in.”

“Thank you. You’re a grown man, milord. I shouldn’t have questioned you.”

“I meant what I said. You, the horses, Samuel and his mad plan to make us king of northern horse trading…” He grinned. “Even Pallinsburn. I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Her lips parted as though she debated kissing him or saying something. The kiss against the front door was nearly his undoing—and hers, if he judged the carnal light in her eyes.

He eyed her gown’s front lacing. “If we stand here much longer, I’ll devote my day to untying your gown, removing every layer. One. By. One.”

“Oh.”

His stare wandered upward, pausing on the pink flush above her bodice. “Protecting you is my solemn vow, but you and I have work to do. Certain four-legged beauties will be sorely neglected if we don’t get to the barn.”

“Then we’d better tend them.”

Heat bounced between them in the humble kitchen. Pure lust. Yet Genevieve’s eyes sparkled at the mention of working at his side. Women had always been a distraction, a pastime, never a partner in life’s daily motions.

Folding his hand around hers, he led her out of the kitchen. “I want you to know, after I left London, I hadn’t had so much as a sip of whiskey until last night.”

“That’s what I mean about me causing you trouble,” she said to his back.

In the entry hall, he set down the bottle and handed over her cloak. “You think you drove me to drink last night?”

“I didn’t help matters.”

Marcus donned his redingote as Genevieve wrapped herself in red wool. His young wife surprised him with her uncanny insights, but here she’d missed the mark.

“My mistakes are my own,” he said, sliding on his gloves.

“As are mine, milord.”

“Stubborn woman,” he muttered and opened the door to a blast of cool, mind-cleansing air.

Chickens scratched the ground. Horses ambled along the pasture’s stone fence.

Genevieve lingered on the front step, scanning the roiling skies. “Another storm’s coming.”

“You know, I’ve never had to work this hard to convince a woman to stay with me,” he said, putting on his hat.

Dark eyes flirted from the red hood. “There is a first for everything.”

They walked to the barn, the wind nipping Marcus’s cheeks. Alexander stopped his hammering and waved across the pasture. The new herd clustered on a knoll for warmth. Marcus flipped up his collar. This was his home, and Genevieve was part of it. He’d gladly married her to keep her here.

He yanked open the barn door. “Remember. Keep close.”

Genevieve nodded, brightening when Hester poked her nose over the stall. “There’s my girl,” she cooed, rushing to the young horse.

Brisk air carried aromas of hay and earth. Marcus breathed in deep, listening to his wife. Her red-gloved hands petted the little brown horse. She deserved better than what life had served her.

But how? They had three days. What more could he do to save her?

He fetched Khan and tied him to a center post. The proud gray snickered at the sight of the brush. Khan sniffed at his coat pocket.

“No apples today, my friend.”

Genevieve approached with bandages. “Why don’t I brush Khan and you wrap these?”

Her hand joined Marcus’s, taking over the task. He dropped a light kiss on her forehead, the act as natural as breathing. His mouth was on her skin when hooves clip-clopped outside the barn. Horse and rider trotted casually into the drive. Marcus pushed in front of Genevieve and reached for the pistol in his hip boot.

It wasn’t there.

He dropped the bandages and grabbed the pitchfork leaning against the stall. “If it’s the Prussian, run to the woods and get to the Beckworth cottage.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue.” Marcus hefted the tool, forked ends out.

Horse and rider came closer, their shadow stretching long. A man in a black tricorne and frock coat stepped past the barn doorway, leading a horse.

“Planning to spear me?” an amused voice called out.

“Samuel.” Marcus relaxed the pitchfork, his friend’s name gusting from his mouth. “You could’ve announced yourself.”

Eyeing the pitchfork, Samuel tethered his horse. “Didn’t think it was that bad between us.”

“The stallion.” With Lord Barnard’s visit, loss of the stud slipped his mind.

Samuel sauntered over, unbuttoning the top of his coat. “I’m the one who asked you to gamble despite your misgivings. It was my own fault.”

Genevieve touched his sleeve. “I should let you two talk alone.”

“No. It’s too dangerous. Stay here.”

“What’s too dangerous?” Samuel asked.

“We had a visitor. Lord Barnard. He threatened Genevieve.”

“What’s the old man got to do with her?”

“Barnard’s claims are purely political.” Marcus drove the pitchfork into soft soil and gave a cursory explanation of Lord Barnard’s visit.

“He wants to trade Miss Turner for copper rights?”

“Lady Bowles,” Marcus corrected. “And she’s not being traded for anything.”

Samuel’s eyes flared at the correction.

“Whatever name Mr. Beckworth uses doesn’t matter,” Genevieve said beside him.

Samuel undid another button. “She’s safe for now—”

“For as long as she bears my name.”

Samuel’s eyes narrowed on Marcus. “—because the baron took his guests grouse hunting. Today and tomorrow. I passed them on their journey to his hunting lodge.”

“All of his guests?”

“If you’re wondering about the Prussian, yes, he was among them, riding our stallion,” Samuel said bitterly. “What do you want to do?”

“I am capable of making my own decisions, you know,” Genevieve said.

Marcus touched the small of her back. “And your decision was to trust me.”

Cool winter sun lit strands of hair falling across her cheek. Her body relaxed under her cloak, the easing slight as an exhale on his hand. Lips parting and a gentle flush on her cheeks were private messages for him, the trust as sweet a gift as her body yielding to him. The earthy, sensual, rough-around-the-edges Genevieve sated his soul better than all the mannered misses of London.

A calmer Genevieve turned to Samuel. “In all the uproar, we forgot to ask about Adam. Is he well?”

“Fever broke this morning, but not before giving me a scare.” Samuel removed his hat and scraped a hand through his hair before jamming the hat back on. His normally tidy queue was in disarray, and dark circles marred the skin under his eyes.

“You should go home and rest,” Marcus said.

“Not yet. I’ve been thinking. We may have another way to get the stallion back and recoup our funds.”

“How?”

“A horse race. When Atal brings his guests back from hunting grouse. They hunger for new entertainment. They jumped at the idea when I suggested it on the road.”

A gust skirled through the barn’s open door, stirring Marcus’s redingote. “You want me to race Khan.”

The wind played with the frock layers on Samuel’s shoulders. The tip of his nose was red from his ride. “Against Atal’s new black. The one he bought at Tattersall’s.”

“The horse has excellent bloodlines. She’s younger than Khan.”

“But Khan’s a gelding with better bloodlines. The old boy has a good year or two left.”

Marcus ground his molars. “I don’t like it.”

“Khan runs like the wind for you.”

“Even if I raced him, we still have the problem of no collateral.”

Samuel kicked the dirt. “We have options. You could ask for a loan from any one of Atal’s guests.”

“You want me to go hat in hand and beg a loan from the same men who spoke disparagingly of our venture?”

“Pride is an expensive virtue we can’t afford,” Samuel ground out. “We can still come out ahead. There are options.”

Tension crawled between Marcus’s shoulder blades. Khan stomped the dirt, the vain steed having heard his name. Genevieve petted his neck, cooing sweet words. With the barn door left open, winter air blew in. Cold numbed Marcus as foreboding settled in.

“How, Samuel?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Explain how we’ll come out ahead when we have no collateral to offer.”

Samuel looked past him. “I don’t, but you do.”