ONE
The Black Isle, North of Inverness
The Highlands, Scotland
Eleven Years Later
At the ripe age of two and thirty, Matthias resolved to enact a plan for his life. A forced transformation of sorts.
Change, as it turned out, arrived whether he wished it to or not. And quite frankly, anything was better than drowning in the stagnant pool of regret that had been his past decade.
Yes, he was missing an arm. Yes, some viewed him as a pariah. However, neither point meant he had to live in isolation, dreaming of how his life might have progressed had he been born with two functioning arms.
He needed to do something with his life. Even if matters became messy and complicated, at least he would be living. Trying. Building. Engaging in activities and inhabiting a space of his own choosing.
This desire for change—forever that word—explained why he urged his horse, Zephyrus, along a badly rutted road outside Inverness. Only five more miles until they reached their new home—Avoch Castle. At least, that was the distance the sign at the last crossroads had promised.
Beside Matt, Gray rocked in the saddle, tugging his thick scarf around his ears. Their travel coach, trunks, and servants lagged a day behind.
Matt had been shocked when his ducal brother announced that he would accompany Matt in his relocation from Dunmore to Avoch.
After all, this move was Matt’s choice and his plan and had nothing whatsoever to do with Gray, specifically.
Moreover, King George III had passed away just two months ago, and Gray—as a prominent Duke of the Realm—had been needed in London for the funeral and Parliamentary proceedings.
Yet as soon as that business concluded, Gray returned to Scotland and insisted on joining Matt for this journey.
Matt was unsure if his brother’s presence signaled care or a need to control Matt’s decisions as he attempted to forge his own path.
A chill breeze blew off the North Sea, tugging at Matt’s hat and snapping the ends of his caped greatcoat.
Winter had lingered this year—endless weeks of biting cold and snow—delaying their departure.
Even now, the muddy road squelched under Zephyrus’s hooves, and the approaching dark clouds promised more rain.
“I’m not sure the Black Isle is the correct location to raise horses, Matt,” Gray muttered, huddling in his wool scarf and glancing askance at the threatening sky.
Matt hated the doubt in his brother’s voice. Given how Zephyrus shifted under him, even his horse sensed the frustration in Matt’s body. But he hadn’t come this far to retreat.
Besides, Gray had been fractious the entire trip north.
He had deemed the mutton served for dinner at their hotel in Aberdeen five days past as “more fit for pigs than humans.”
Three days ago, Gray described the road outside Elgin as “a monstrosity from Dante’s Seventh Circle of Hell.”
Yesterday, when a torrential downpour caught them near Inverness, Gray had pulled his stallion under a set of pine, hunched into his coat, and glared at Matt in accusatory silence.
More than once, Matt had pointed out that Gray needn’t accompany him.
“I have business with Lord Gower at Dunrobin, north of Avoch. You are accompanying me,” Gray had snapped just this morning.
Gray’s waspish temper explained why Matt still hadn’t mentioned the letter tucked into the inner pocket of his coat. It had arrived last week, heavy with portent. A stinging reminder of that night ten years ago in London, when Matt had stepped into Gray’s study and his world had tilted on its axis.
Gray would be incandescent with anger once he learned of the letter’s existence. Matt was already enduring an irritated Gray. No need to spike his ducal temper into pure rage.
Three specific things never failed to goad his brother to fury:
Mention of their deceased mother.
Any interaction with the Balfour family.
And even a whiff of scandal tarnishing the Kinsey name.
The letter potentially touched on two of those three items.
Shifting in the saddle, Gray studied the surrounding landscape with a frown.
“I stand by my opinion. This isn’t an ideal place to raise and train horses.
Why do you continue to refuse the use of one of my ducal estates?
I have lands in England—Lincolnshire, in particular—that would be well-suited.
Not to mention, significantly closer to markets in London. ”
Yes, Matt knew. This argument was a well-trampled path.
“As I’ve said, if I remain in your shadow, I will never understand my own capabilities.”
Matt itched to be his own man. Living on one of Gray’s estates—his brother’s people hovering and reporting every incident—would defeat that purpose.
Matt had always had an affinity for horses. The large creatures didn’t care that he lacked a limb. They hadn’t once called him “demon spawn” or switched his backside to “chase out the devil.” Horses didn’t cringe at his touch or make the sign of the cross at his approach.
No, the beasts simply accepted him.
A missing right hand hadn’t prevented Matt from becoming an accomplished horseman. In the saddle, he was any man’s equal. His skill as an equestrian had been the only thing to draw an approving nod from his father—a love of horses the only language they spoke fluently together.
Somewhere over the past decade, Matt had realized that he had a talent for training horses as well.
Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He knew exactly when the realization had struck him.
About seven years ago, he and Gray had visited a horse auction house in Aberdeen.
A stunning chestnut stallion had caught Matt’s eye.
Tall with elegant lines and an arrogant tilt to its head, the horse had looked Matt up and down with a disparaging sniff.
Matt had grinned. Here was an animal with spirit—hot-blooded and bold.
The best sort of horse for riding. Matt intuitively knew the chestnut stallion would be agile, strong, and daring.
“Ye won’t be wanting him,” the owner had said in his drawling Scottish brogue. “Poor manners, that one. Temperamental and difficult. Threw his last rider.”
Poor manners? Matt had scoffed. The horse’s flattened ears and tense stance spoke of mistreatment—an animal forced to behave instead of coaxed. Of course he was difficult. He was in distress.
Perhaps Matt could mend him.
Gray had grumbled when Matt bought the beast. “You are too soft-hearted. That man took advantage of your inexperience.”
But over the next few months of rehabilitation, Matt formed a tight bond with the beast, whom he had named Zephyrus in honor of the Greek god of wind. After a lifetime of falling short, Matt had been ecstatic to learn he had an intuitive knack for healing mistreated animals.
Slowly, this small realization had burgeoned into a dream.
A desire to own his own horse farm and forge a reputation for breeding and training.
As a gentleman, it was one of the few occupations open to him.
Every nobleman required a stable full of excellent horseflesh. Matt was happy to supply that need.
He had funds from his inheritance, but no property attached to it. His goal? Find the right spot of land for his venture.
“Are you hearing me, Matt?” Gray snatched his attention back to the sodden road. “The climate is too hostile this far north. The health of your horses will languish here.”
Matt took in a deep breath.
“If Avoch Castle proves inhospitable, then I’ll try elsewhere. The let is only for a year. It’s hardly final.”
The yearlong lease was a test of sorts. A trial period for Matt to dip his toes into the waters of horse training and running his own household.
Some nights, as he stared at the ceiling and doubts hovered about the bed, he feared that, like his disastrous summer in London ten years ago, he would fail spectacularly.
But . . . Matt had to try, once again, to catch Change by the tail. He didn’t want to look back in another ten years and feel regret. He had already experienced enough to fill a lifetime.
He and Gray rode on in silence.
Green grass poked through the brown remnants of autumn, and beneath the bare tree branches, hearty snowdrops nudged through the fallen leaves.
Spring wasn’t here yet, but the promise of it hovered in the corners.
A slight easing of the winter chill. The light lingering a bit longer every day. All the earth primed for rebirth.
It felt like a hopeful omen.
Given that Inverness stood in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, one would expect its environs to be a wasteland of craggy mountain peaks and inhospitable moor.
Instead, the landscape had more in common with the rolling farmland of England than the Highlands proper—rich soil and hills undulating down to cliffs overlooking the North Sea.
More importantly, land here was inexpensive and readily available. This meant Matt could save capital for purchasing horses to retrain and sell at a profit. In turn, he would use the gains to buy horses for breeding, expanding his operations.
At least, that was the plan.
Obviously, Gray remained skeptical.
Matt and Gray rounded a bend, cresting a small rise. The whole of the North Sea stretched before them, a turbulent gray expanse from ocean to cloudy skies. The wind kicked up, bringing with it the smell of briny ocean air and wet, damp earth.
There, on the horizon, stood a lone castle, a solitary turret reaching toward the sky.
Matt’s spirits lifted.
Avoch Castle itself.
He patted Zephryus on the neck. “Just a mile or two more, lad.”
The stallion pricked his ears and picked up his pace.
As they started down the hill, Matt finally noticed a gig in the middle of the road, left wheel mired in the mud. A woman sat on the carriage bench—reins in hand, bonnet ribbons snapping in the breeze. The slump of her spine looked far too much like resignation.
“Botheration,” Gray muttered. “What hare-brained woman would take a gig alone on a road like this?”
“A desperate one, I imagine.”
As they drew near, the gig didn’t appear damaged; just stuck and a bit worse for wear. The horse in the gig traces had a rigid, stiff posture and pinned ears, swiveling from side-to-side. Even from behind, Matt could tell the poor animal was spooked and anxious.
As for the woman, the cut of her pelisse said she was more than a household maid or farmer’s wife but not quite a lady.
She turned at the sound of their hooves on the rugged track, expression wary as they approached.
She was younger than Matt had supposed. Something about her tugged at his awareness.
“Good sirs,” she said on a pained smile.
“Madam,” Matt tipped his head.
Gray, of course, said nothing. This woman was beneath his dignity. His Grace’s irritation at having to stop—much less help—buzzed about his person like a nest of disturbed hornets.
Matt swallowed. Speaking with strangers usually left him sweating and tongue-tied, as Gray well knew. But Matt could not, in good conscience, leave this woman in such straitened circumstances. If he wished to solve this particular problem, he would have to do so alone.
Well . . . he had decided to become his own man. Situations such as this were part and parcel of that.
He sucked in a fortifying breath. “You appear to be in something of a pickle, madam.”
“Aye. I have gone and mired myself,” she sighed, Scotland threading through her vowels, “and Jura here is too scared to go another step.”
She pointed at her horse—wide-eyed and moments away from a full-on panic—before lifting her face to Matt, weak sunlight washing her cheekbones.
Recognition clanged like a cathedral bell, jarring his psyche and setting his ears to ringing.
Impossible.
A blink.
No. She was still there.
Wide blue eyes, pointed chin, rich brown hair.
Either he had taken a blow to the head, or this woman was Miss Cecily Moulton.
Impossible.
A rosy blush climbed her cheeks, and Gray cleared his throat. She dropped her gaze, fingers twisting in the reins.
Right.
Matt had been staring far longer than was polite.
Of course.
His specialty—making conversation uncomfortable.
Matt winced and bent low in the saddle to study the carriage wheels, praying his scalding blush blended into the red of his wind-blown cheeks.
Surely . . . he had to be mistaken as to this woman’s identity.
She was dressed like a lady’s companion or an impoverished widow.
She couldn’t possibly be the vivacious débutante Matt remembered from London.
Besides, Miss Moulton had married Mr. George Miller a few months after Matt had left London.
Or rather, there had been a small notice in the Times to that effect.
The news had throbbed for months, a motley bruise that Matt massaged over and over.
In short, Miss Cecily Moulton—or rather Mrs. George Miller—would not be mired in an aging gig in this rural corner of northern Scotland. No, this woman was merely a member of the local populace in need of assistance. A new neighbor for him to come to know.
The idea that she could be anyone or anything else was ludicrous.