Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“It is simple, Lord Oliver! Just swing your leg over!” the instructor huffed, his arms crossed as he put a rolled cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a match. “You can do this!”
It was an unusually warm afternoon for December.
After tackling the day’s accounts, Isla pulled on her riding habit, not wanting to waste the fair weather.
She had just received another letter from Eilidh, reporting that all was well in London and that the whispers really were dissipating.
Her heart was feeling lighter than it had been in days, and she felt the need to exert herself.
She had been craving the feel of a horse beneath her, the rush of wind in her face. As she approached the stables, she heard voices in the riding ring.
Peeking through the wooden fence, she saw Oliver and his riding instructor. He was a portly man with a scowl, arguing about something or other with the young boy.
Oliver’s small face was a mask of shame and frustration. His governess stood nearby, wringing her hands.
“I can’t!” he said, his voice small and defeated.
Isla noticed instantly that his limp was more pronounced on the soft dirt of the ring, and he stumbled as he tried to lift his foot to the stirrup, even with a small stool.
Isla’s heart ached. The boy wasn’t just struggling with his leg. He was struggling with a shame that was etched into every line of his body.
She unlatched the gate and walked in, her skirts swishing. She knew how hard it could be, thinking back to the months it took for her face and arms to heal over. She closed her eyes as she remembered the pain of it all, both internal and external.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice gentle. The instructor and governess looked at her, startled. “May I try and be of some help?”
The instructor scoffed, but Isla paid him no mind. She walked to Oliver, kneeling so she was at his eye level.
“That is a magnificent animal,” she said, nodding toward the horse. “And she knows it. She wants to be ridden by someone strong and brave.”
Oliver’s eyes were filled with tears at her words in an instant. “I am not strong,” he whispered. “And I am slow.”
“There is nay shame in being cautious with a great beast,” Isla replied, her voice firm yet compassionate. “The brave ones are the ones who try. Now, a horse is a livin’ thing. We do nay demand from them, we ask.”
“We ask?”
“Aye, let us try something different.”
She got to her feet, took his hand, and led him around the horse, talking to the animal in a soft, musical voice.
“Tha thu socair,” she said, her Gaelic accent soothing to both boy and beast.
“What does that mean?”
“It means You are calm.”
“Tha thu socair,” he repeated perfectly, bringing a wide smile to both of their faces.
Next, she showed him how to stroke the horse’s neck and make a clicking sound. The instructor watched, baffled, and the governess, surprised.
Finally, she had him stand at the horse’s side, and instead of telling him to mount, she simply guided his foot into the stirrup, a supportive hand on his back, and ignoring the stool altogether.
“We can take our time,” she said. “We have nay where to be and nay rush at all. We will only go as fast as ye feel ready. Ye are in charge now.”
He didn’t hesitate this time, and with a grunt of effort, he swung his leg over.
He looked at Isla with a wide grin, his eyes shining in the bright sun.
The instructor, though clearly put out, said, “Perhaps you would care to join us, Your Grace?” as he strode toward them.
Isla smiled, an easy, genuine grin that lit up her face. “I would love to. Thank ye.”
For the next few minutes, Isla and Oliver rode together, the instructor’s lessons forgotten as they trotted through the grass, which had snow on it only days before.
“It is just like prancin’ about,” Isla said as they went on through the vast grassy field. “Let me show ye how to do a simple trot. Watch me movements and imitate them. I willnae lead you astray!”
“I think I can do that,” Oliver said. “Oh wait, I think this is a bit wobbly.”
The air was filled with Oliver’s excited giggles and Isla’s warm laughter as he tried his best to keep up. Yet for all his persistence, the horse was able to follow, and soon he was in a graceful stride in time with Isla.
“I did not know riding could be so fun!” Oliver said as he nudged the horse a little too hard, eager to push himself further.
The animal startled, let out a sharp whinny, and began to gallop frantically in the opposite direction they had been heading. Oliver’s face went white with terror, and he clung to the horse’s mane, his knuckles white.
“Oliver! Hold on!” Isla spoke out, trying not to yell to avoid spooking the horse anymore, spurring her own horse into a gallop. “I have got ye. Dinnae fash, keep yer composure and remain in control!”
She and the instructor raced after him then. The instructor rode parallel to the panicked horse, calling out commands in a sharp voice that Isla could barely register. She was focused on riding just behind Oliver, her voice a calm, steady counterpoint to the chaos.
“Oliver! Look at me! Hold on tight! Ye are safe, ye hear me? Ye are safe!”
She reached out and managed to grab the horse’s bridle, pulling it to a slow, steady halt. The instructor was there moments later, helping her calm the animal with a carrot. Oliver sat on the horse, trembling, his face streaked with hot tears.
Isla dismounted quickly and went to him, her arms outstretched. “Ye are a brave little rider,” she said, her voice filled with admiration. “Ye were so strong.”
He didn’t reply, but as soon as she helped him off the horse, he threw his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly. Isla held him close, her own heart still thumping from the near disaster. She buried her face in his hair.
“Let us make our way back now to the ridin’ ring,” Isla said as she shot a wink at the instructor to head back.
I vow to protect this boy, no matter the cost.
“What in the devil was that?” Benedict roared, his voice like a crack of thunder.
He strode toward them from the edge of the riding ring, his face a mask of cold fury. He didn’t bother to slow down, his long strides eating up the distance between them.
He pointed a gloved finger at the still-trembling horse trainer. “Did you not see? You’re meant to be teaching him! He could have been seriously hurt!”
The instructor stammered, “Your Grace, I…I…”
“You will be dismissed if this ever happens again,” Benedict warned.
Then his icy gaze landed on Oliver. “And you, young man! You will go to your room at once. You are to have no more riding lessons until I deem you ready to handle them.” Lastly, his eyes moved to Isla.
“You… I do not even know where to begin with you.”
Oliver’s small face crumpled. “But Papa, it wasn’t her fault! Isla helped me! She made me feel brave, and I had fun for the first time!” He gestured toward Isla, his eyes pleading. “The horse just got a little scared. I know better now. I learned my lesson!”
Benedict’s face remained a stern mask. “That is enough. Go. Now.”
Tears streamed down Oliver’s cheeks as he rushed off, his limp more pronounced in his haste to leave the ring.
“You,” he began, but Isla didn’t give him a chance to finish.
“That was a cruel thing to do, especially in front of everyone,” she said, her voice shaking. “He was nae to blame! He was happy, Yer Grace! Ye cannae just tell a lad he isnae allowed to feel joy… just because ye are so afraid of him gettin’ hurt!”
“I am not discussing this with you,” he snapped. “I did not ask for your opinion on how I handle my son. Your responsibility is to care for him as a mother would, and to keep him out of harm’s way.”
“And nothing happened to him,” she retorted, stepping closer.
“I will be the judge of that.”
“He was fine. We had the situation in hand. You cannae wrap him in cotton wool for the rest of his life, shieldin’ him from the world. He needs to live. He needs to ride and fall… and get back up again. He needs to face his fears, nae be punished for havin’ them.”
“He is my son,” Benedict said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “And his safety is my business. You will hear me on this.”
“And I am the Duchess,” she countered. “And I care for him. He isnae as fragile as ye think. He is just… a lad. He willnae be able to grow into the man he needs to be if you constantly shield him from every minor setback.”
They stood inches apart now, their chests heaving, their breaths mingling in the early winter air.
Benedict’s heart pounded, a chaotic rhythm of anger and something else entirely.
He realized with anger that it was the sudden, electric awareness of the woman before him.
Then, his eyes drifted further down, revealing the top two buttons of her bodice.
Undone.
The perfect fullness of her heaving chest, the barely contained fury in her emerald eyes that had such full, dark eyelashes. And now, the smallest bit of cleavage poking out of her bodice from the rushed effort to rescue Oliver.
His eyes raised back up to avert from her chest, landing on her rosy lips for a fleeting, searing moment before he took a decisive step back.
“Keep him out of harm’s way, Duchess,” he ordered.
He turned and marched away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the riding ring.
A tremor of pure, unadulterated fury coursed through Benedict. He felt his hands clench into fists beneath his gloves.
Keep him out of harm’s way.
The words tasted sour in his mouth, a hollow command directed as much at himself as at her.
He wished he could do better for his son, but the ghosts of his past pulled at him.
And ghosts?
He could still feel the phantom heat of her breath on his cheek, the electric shock of having been so close to his wife. He was close enough to count the frantic rise and fall of her chest, close enough for his eyes to betray him and drop to the fullness of her lips, of her breasts.
Damn her.
She had stood her ground and defied him, the Duke, in front of the stable hands in the shadows and that stammering instructor, who reeked of stale smoke. She was meant to be pliant, grateful, invisible. In fact, he had done everything he could to avoid her on most days.
Today, she was a storm of emerald eyes and fiery indignation that he could not ignore.
He strode away from the riding ring, the gravel crunching under his boots, each step a strained attempt to distance himself. He did not stop until he reached the heavy oak door of his study, throwing it open with all his strength.
The latch shuddered, and the sound of the thick wood slamming against the frame satisfied him. He crossed the room to his desk, kicking a footstool out of his path. The fire in the hearth was a low, sullen glow.
Benedict gripped the back of his leather chair, knuckles white, leaning into the resistance of the wood.
She called me cruel. Perhaps I am…
The accusation pierced through the thick hide around his cool heart as he sat down.
She does not understand why I am this way. She can’t, because I have not told her anything about me.
Benedict rested his elbows on the desk, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was trapped. Damned if he kept his secrets, damned if he didn’t.
Her presence is a fire I cannot control, he thought as he looked at the hearth.
He got up and grabbed the nearby poker, stoking the flames. They rose, growing higher, just like the fierce intensity of Isla, whose fire had seared him to the core.