Ten

A few days later…

“Have you kissed her yet?” Samuel asked.

Marcus and Samuel rode along the pasture’s perimeter with an eye to the cottage. Miss Turner’s vibrant red cloak stood out against the mellow sandstone. Shovel in hand, she jabbed the earth with determined thrusts. The weeds didn’t stand a chance.

“I assume we’re speaking of my housekeeper,” Marcus said, halting Khan. “A hardworking, respectable woman of excellent character. She’s done a fine job with Pallinsburn. I wouldn’t besmirch her honor with talk like that, nor should you.”

Samuel rode on, his shoulders bouncing with laughter. “And every night she ascends to heaven on angels’ wings.”

Marcus frowned. If his friend saw right through him, how soon before others did? “Came on strong, did I?”

“A little.”

He urged his horse forward. “I don’t want her reputation damaged.”

“Should’ve thought about that before making her your housekeeper. People will talk.”

Marcus searched Miss Turner out again, a gust boxing his ears like an admonishing aunt. Was it so wrong to want to help a woman in need? Her serious exterior belied deep-seated passion, evidenced in the way she dove into every task. Miss Turner’s brand of serious enthusiasm fascinated him as much as her other features.

“What will people talk about? Her youth?” he retorted. “Does a woman have to be long in the tooth to hold a decent position?”

“No, but it’d help if you were toothless. Or married.” Samuel stared ahead, the wind assaulting his queue. “We don’t make the rules, Marcus, but we both know them.”

“You hired her, and you’re not a married man.”

Samuel’s gaze pinned him. “Nor do I have your unsavory reputation.”

A twinge pinched Marcus’s conscience. “I’d wager my housekeeper has more honor, more determination in her little finger than most women of my acquaintance,” he said fiercely. “Who I am should have no bearing on her.”

“Me thinks you doth protest too much…or whatever that drivel is. A clear sign you have it bad for her, but haven’t touched her. Yet.”

Why did Samuel hunt for sordid details? Likely he’d seen through Miss Turner with her low-cut bodices and saucy skirts. Didn’t matter. She worked hard. Marcus didn’t care if she fit the proper housekeeper stamp or not. He ought to buy a dull, gray gown and a handful of ugly mobcaps for her, if only to aid her reputation. Smiling against his collar, he guessed she wouldn’t wear them, nor should she have to.

Khan snorted, his nose tipping high. Their late-afternoon gander was too tame. Did the horse feel his master’s disquiet? One look at his red-cloaked gardener, and Marcus was certain of one thing: he’d do anything to keep his friend, or any man, on the straight and narrow when it came to Miss Turner. She deserved a fresh start.

His housekeeper had nabbed another piece of his heart when she’d clutched the ragged pamphlet. But the afternoon ride wasn’t meant to discuss his housekeeper’s allure. Samuel pulled his hat low, failing to look him in the eye.

“Quoting Shakespeare,” Marcus said. “You must be reading with Adam again.”

“I am.” Samuel nodded at a cluster of docile mares sniffing the ground. “Once these beauties start producing, I’ll hire a tutor. The lad has promise…isn’t as thick-skulled as Alexander and me.”

That thick-skulled youth was throwing his shoulders into scraping the warped cottage door. Alexander drove the plane along the door’s edge, conversing with Miss Turner in the late-day sun.

Marcus had unhinged the door to fix it himself. New tasks cropped up each day requiring him to use his hands. To repair the tack shed. Build a new stall. Chop more wood. By fixing Pallinsburn’s door, he’d planned to demonstrate to his housekeeper that he was more than a randy cottage master, but Samuel had shown up, claiming the need to ride the meadow’s perimeter and check newly repaired stone fences. Again.

The call for another inspection meant one thing: Samuel had a request. A big one.

“You don’t need to worry about Alexander poaching on your interests,” Samuel said, his deep voice rumbling.

“Alexander would be a fine match for Miss Tur… I mean Miss Abbott, should she accept his attentions.”

It burned to say those words, but Marcus could acknowledge the truth. Alexander was a fine young man, respectful of his brothers and solid in nature. Everything Marcus was not.

Samuel steered his chestnut closer, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. “That’d be the second time in recent days you’ve started to call Miss Abbott by another name. Is there something you need to tell me?”

“No.”

Khan trotted forward, putting distance between them. Beyond the road, the landscape opened wide. Marcus felt his blood coursing with need. To go fast. To hear wind fly past his ears and see the ground surging beneath him.

Oh, how he needed sex. Stroking himself in the tub was getting tiresome.

A good, fast ride between soft, feminine thighs…

He glimpsed Miss Turner’s red cloak and cursed under his breath. Samuel caught up, blocking Marcus’s view of her. Their mounts slowed when they neared the second meadow’s gate, a sorry excuse for a barrier propped up by wooden stakes.

Samuel squinted at the empty pasture. “You haven’t asked why Alexander won’t give you any competition with your fair housekeeper.”

“Very well. Why?”

“Because he asked me to purchase an army commission. He’s set on going to the colonies.”

“And you discouraged him.”

“Of course I did. I want him to stay.”

Marcus faced the pasture, looking but not seeing. “And because he’s as hardheaded as you, he threatened to leave with or without your blessing. Is that it?”

“He should partner in this venture,” Samuel groused. “I’ll need help after you leave.”

Marcus’s grip on the reins tightened. Samuel took every opportunity to push, sometimes pound, for what he wanted. He’d not rise to the bait.

“About my staying, I don’t know…” He let his words trail off.

“Whether you stay or go, we’ll need more mares.”

Marcus jabbed a thumb at the herd nibbling dormant grass. “We’ve thirty. Right here. That’s enough.”

“Not when we can put thirty more over here.”

Spine military straight, Samuel eyed the vacant pasture. They hadn’t fixed the fences there. The propped-up gate kept the mares in place, but it would need to be repaired if horses were added.

“Why the push for more? We’ve barely started.”

“My brothers deserve a better life. If we accelerate our plans, I can give it to them.”

“You mean hire the tutor posthaste and buy Alexander’s commission.” Marcus shook his head. “A venture like this takes time. You said so yourself.”

“I can’t wait.” Samuel’s jaw ticked. “If an opportunity arises to do something for my brothers, I will seize it.”

Marcus stared into the distance. Adam and Alexander labored on behalf of his cottage. Young Adam pushed a wheelbarrow, while Alexander tested the newly planed door. Samuel was willing to bend himself in knots to give his brothers what was best, a stark contrast to himself and his brother, the Marquis of Northampton. He couldn’t recall a single kind overture from North. Nor could he recount the last time he’d extended himself for the marquis.

“Alexander’s impatient to leave,” Samuel went on. “He’ll be twenty next month, nearly a man full grown. I won’t hold him back from what he wants.”

“You can if you don’t have money to pay for it.”

As soon as the words were said, Marcus’s dazed stare drifted over the barren field.

Wasn’t this the crux of problems with his brother?

Once his brother, Gabriel—North, as most people called him—became marquis, he had fought to mold Marcus to family expectations. Being a miser with Marcus’s annual allowance was how he wielded his power. And here Samuel was, extending himself, taking huge risks to ensure his brothers had the lives they wanted.

By reflex, Marcus’s hand settled over his heart, ready to slip inside his redingote. But the flask was gone. His fingers curled into a fist and dropped to the pommel. “You’ve brought me out here for some request. What is it?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Next time you ask to inspect a fence,” Marcus said drily, “make a show of looking at it.”

A breeze stirred the frocked layers on Samuel’s shoulders. “I’ll have to get better at this…this asking for things.”

“Because you can’t always force your way into getting what you want.”

Tense lines framed Samuel’s mouth. “I’ve a man in Lowick and another in Flodden, both willing to sell their horses well below the going rate. Mares, geldings. Some mares ready to foal this spring.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“A few with bowed tendons and bad knees. Nothing you couldn’t solve.”

“The better question is how do we buy these herds?”

Staring at the horizon, Samuel pulled a missive from inside his coat. “With this.”

A gust riffled the paper. An elaborate red wax seal had already been broken, but Marcus recognized the mark. “Baron Atal.”

“Just read it.”

He took the invitation and scanned the ornate script before jamming it against Samuel’s arm. “No.”

“Why not? This is perfect. A house party at Castle Atal filled with wealthy people who have nothing better to do than throw their money away.”

“No.”

“Not even if they want to throw it away?”

“I don’t—” He started but cut himself short, taking a deep breath. “I won’t gamble for our funds.”

“We’ll get what we need.” Samuel stuffed the invitation inside his coat. “It’s the quickest solution.”

“That’s assuming I win. You haven’t kept up with current events. I was tossed out of the Cocoa Tree because of my gambling trouble.”

“Because you drank too much. If you keep your wits about you, you’ll win.”

Marcus chuckled drily. “Your faith in me is misguided. I don’t have that kind of focus anymore.”

“I’d be there to support you. Come now, Marcus. A chance like this? To buy thirty horses for the prices I negotiated?”

“At best, you’re hoping I’ll fleece our neighbor’s guests.”

“Gamble fairly for the winnings,” Samuel corrected.

“At worst, you’re asking me to dive back into a vice that divided my family.”

“They won’t know—and I’m sure won’t care—how you pass the time with the esteemed Baron Atal and his guests. Ought to restore your reputation, being in their company.”

“No.”

“Stay away from the whiskey,” Samuel chided. “You’ll do fine.”

“Have you not heard me? And since when did you start dancing on the fine edge of morals?”

Blunt sharpness lit Samuel’s eyes. “Ambition and need have forced my hand. When your brother’s wed, you’ll return to London and live as you please. I cannot.”

“Perhaps I want to stay longer.” He took in the cottage and the red-hooded woman walking through the garden toward the woods. “What makes you so sure I’ll leave?”

“Because that’s what you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus pulled his hat low. Right about now, a swallow of whiskey would be good. The dry sensation came back, creeping up his throat, promising calm.

Samuel nudged his horse closer. “Three years in the army, and you were gone. Your service done. That’s what I mean.”

“The same for you.”

“Because my mother and father died. For you, it was an irresponsible escapade, getting your mother to purchase your commission behind your father’s back. All to goad him.”

“How good of you to remind me,” he snapped and rode on.

“Marcus…”

“And now,” he yelled over his shoulder, “you’re counting on my irresponsible gambler’s skills to boost your place in the world.”

“And yours,” Samuel shot back.

Winds kicked up. Strands of hair blew loose from Marcus’s queue. Vermilion cloth flashed from the Pallinsburn woods. Miss Turner. The bright spot in his life. Their flirtation had been reduced to few words, so exhausted was he each night. His patient housekeeper gadded about, skirts swaying as she put the cottage in order, patching plaster walls and renewing the garden. He could find no fault with her. The food was decent, the bath hot, and his hip boots clean by morning.

But there were no more friendly conversations, such as their bath-time scullery talk. He missed it. He missed her despite living under the same roof with Miss Turner.

After dinner, he’d yawn before the parlor fire, reading a broadsheet until he nodded off like some boring country squire. One evening puff was all he allowed himself before grinding out his cheroot, for fear of setting his breeches on fire.

At the rate he was going, that’d be the only scorching activity in his breeches.

Samuel had the right of it. Marcus had joined the army for adventure and for the chance to escape the Northampton shadow; Samuel had joined for duty to king and country. His friend quit to look after his brothers; Marcus had come home to look after himself, spending time in pleasurable pursuits.

His vision narrowed on the empty country road winding beyond the pasture. The comparison wasn’t pretty.

Cold wind whistled past his ears. Leather creaked in his hands. Khan’s head tipped skyward, his nostrils flaring. The reins. Marcus’s gaze dropped to his lap. He pulled the straps hard. Uncoiling the leather, he stroked Khan’s neck, murmuring soothing words as Samuel rode up.

“Prime opportunities like this don’t drop in a man’s lap every day,” Samuel argued. “How else will we come up with enough quid in so short a time?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“It’ll be more work, but the rewards will come,” Samuel said with granitelike certainty.

Marcus slanted a look at his friend. “Planning to drive me to an early grave?”

“You’ll adjust. London made you soft. If you’re not careful, this place will grow on you.”

Northumberland? Grow on him?

Aloof northern climes trifled with the senses, the land wide open, yet frigid. Magpies pecked at cracks on the stone fence. The sun lit iridescent blues in their tail feathers. A long-ago ramble with his grandfather along this same fence passed before his eyes… The summer sun and laughter, his grandfather pointing out whinchats and warblers, pretty red-legged partridges and scarlet rose finches with his gnarled walking stick.

Marcus had forgotten about those simple wonders.

Pallinsburn was growing on him, the way moss took over shadowed crevices. If he wasn’t careful, he’d become entrenched the same as the ancient stone fences.

“Wind’s picking up.” Samuel pointed at clouds stirring. “Rain’s coming. We need it.”

Marcus swallowed, the parched sensation lingering. The craving grew weaker every day, her siren calls few and far between. His vision drifted lower. The leather gloves he wore. The chilblains were nearly gone too. Miss Turner reminded him nightly to rub on the slick unguent. Calendula ointment she’d called it. Each morning his gloves sat in a neat pile on the entry-hall table. Those thoughtful gestures, small yet significant, whispered of her care.

Or was he becoming an infatuated simpleton over gloves and calendula unguent?

“Marcus? Are you well?”

“A bit off today,” he said, taking in the ranging clouds.

“Perhaps we have been working too hard. Joining Baron Atal’s house party for a hunt and a card game or two might be what you need.”

Marcus shook his head, choosing silence. Samuel was, if anything, persistent.

Geese flew overhead. The birds would settle in for winter, and when the season was ripe, they’d leave. It was what birds did. Was he so different? Across the pasture, a golden-haired figure emerged from the Pallinsburn woods. Miss Turner, ever curious about her surroundings, pulled her red hood up, watching them across the distance.

She was waiting for him. He was sure of it.

Squirming on his saddle, he wanted sorely to be with her. In all the wrong ways.

“I need to leave for a few hours,” he said.

“Will you consider my idea? The gambling?”

Marcus flipped up his collar and steered Khan in a wide circle. Neck arching, Khan gamboled sideways. His horse craved excitement. So did he.

“Marcus?”

“Yes,” he barked, eyeing open land to the west. “I’ll consider it.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Learmouth village. I need a hard, fast ride.”

The sky darkening, he hunched forward, his knees pressing Khan’s withers. With a snort, his horse lunged, galloping full speed at the stone fence.