Thirty-five

“Milor—”

“Marcus,” he corrected.

“Very well. Marcus.” She cradled the jar in her lap and waited.

With his eyes closed, his brown lashes made crescents on his cheeks. Long, dark, gold-tipped lashes. The envy of most women. He stretched on the wine-colored counterpane awash with satisfaction. He could be some exotic, foreign king freshly sated by a concubine.

“I’m racing Khan tomorrow morning.” Eyes opening, he angled his head toward her.

“I don’t understand.”

He chuckled. “It’s very simple. Bets will be placed. We need funds to pay for horses, and Khan is worth more than a dozen workhorse herds.”

“I know that. Will you place a bet? And what about the mud? Doesn’t that make racing dangerous?”

“Uncertainty adds to the thrill. The bets are sure to be higher than for a staid two-horse race in good conditions.” He toyed with her apron to the noise of wind whistling outside. “As to me placing any bets, I can’t. I’m going to ride Khan.”

Marcus was nonchalant, but the tightness around his mouth gave him away. Moonlight slivered through the open curtains. It was a good night for souls to seek their beds early.

“Aren’t you afraid of him getting hurt?”

“That’s not important.”

“Yes it is. You love that horse. And he loves you.”

Marcus pushed up fast and slid off the bed, jerking up his breeches. “How I feel doesn’t matter.” He jammed buttons into buttonholes. “There’s a strong chance he’ll win.”

“Or lose.”

“It’s the only way. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.” Shoulders squared, he brushed aside the curtain, staring at the night.

Did he wrestle with telling her about Miss Rutherford?

Though weary around the edges, he was a man who considered his options and forged ahead with purpose. It was in the set of his shoulders and the calm determination of his face…different from the man whose path she’d crossed on Devil’s Causeway.

“Then I support you.” Glancing at the papers on his bed, she added, “And plans for your future.”

Marcus deserved it. She’d not stand in his way. Bed ropes squeaked as he found a seat on the mattress again, this time to collect the documents strewn everywhere.

“What are these papers for?” she asked.

“Baron Atal requested I produce proof of Khan’s bloodlines.” He held up a page. “I found it.”

He set it aside and stuffed the rest of his papers in a leather folio with no sense of order. Marcus had been like a man possessed with his correspondence and documents and the midday ride in the rain into Cornhill.

Snapping the folio shut, he leveled a gaze on her that brooked no argument. “There’s something else. I need you to stay away from the race.”

“You don’t want me there? Why not?”

“It’s not a matter of want,” he said, tossing the folio aside. “It’s Herr Wolf. Things might get…heated.”

The Wolf. She’d forgotten she was a hunted woman.

“I’m doing everything I can to ensure your freedom.” Marcus reached for her hand. “I need you to trust me on this.”

Trust. The one virtue she hoarded. It came in such short supply.

Firelight lit his bed, a haven from the world. What a fool she was for keeping herself from him! From the first night they rode away from Coldstream, his arms around her, he’d promised to take care of her. She should’ve claimed her wifely rights every night instead of running downstairs full of stubborn independence.

If she couldn’t have till death do us part, she’d take what she could.

“Wives of quality avoid the races…an unworthy spectacle for tender sensibilities,” he said, laying it on thick.

“Don’t. Not tonight.”

“Don’t what?”

“Use humor to get what you want. Not tonight.”

He balked like a man caught naked.

“Nor do I need anyone looking after my so-called tender sensibilities. I’ve never had them.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I will go to the race, Marcus. I need to be there.”

Someone could’ve tied a millstone around her heart, so heavy and dull was the sinking sensation inside her. Fanciful dreams with him in this quaint cottage were coming to an end.

His bedchamber had darkened from the sun setting and a lack of candles. She’d missed the hour for lighting the sconces. Embers glowed like orange stones in his fireplace. A chill set in. The fire needed stoking. Belowstairs, scents of ham and linseed oil from the mural wafted into his room. Pallinsburn had become a hideaway in her tumbled life, its master her rustic rescuer.

Nodding slowly, Marcus gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “So be it.”

“You’ve got to be careful, or the chilblains will return.” She dipped two fingers in the salve and smeared it over rough skin. “You need to wear your gloves.”

“First, no quips. Now you require me to wear gloves.” His charming smile spread. “I cringe to think what you’ll demand next, Lady Bowles.”

Smiling, she slid off the bed and set the jar on the washstand. “I wondered how long you’d manage without witticisms. You might’ve lasted a minute.”

“I’m painfully undisciplined,” he jested. “Clearly I need a sergeant in russet skirts to keep me in line.”

His beautiful smile lit up the room, warming all the places aching inside her.

“Why don’t I bring up a tray? We can eat in here. And read.”

“Then I don’t need my clothes, do I?”

“Not tonight.” Her soft laugh was bittersweet.

She caught her reflection in the mirror. The woman she saw appeared different. Water wetted her skirt. Hair fell loose. Her eyes were glossy and bright. All her features were the same, but she was luminous. And determined.

All her life, she’d taken care of others. This path of thinking only of her own care was still untried territory.

The time had come to get back on it.