EIGHT #2
Matt cringed at his own naiveté. Kinship based on what? A few hours of observation ten years ago and a handful of words exchanged now?
How pathetic.
He could not court Mrs. Armstrong. There were lines a gentleman did not cross, and romantically pursuing a servant was the firmest of them all.
And even if she somehow became Miss Cecily Moulton once more—a respectable lady in all ways—why would she choose to spend her time with a deformed recluse who lacked rudimentary conversational skills?
As ever, he was thirty ways a fool.
Frustration mounted in his chest. Irritation with his own wayward emotions and the sheer futility of his desires.
Abruptly, Indira whinnied and stomped, tossing her head and prancing sideways. The mare’s shoulder connected with Mrs. Armstrong’s torso, knocking her backwards into the wooden stall with an alarmed shriek.
Without thinking, Matt threw himself between the lady and the horse—caging Mrs. Armstrong against the wall, instinctively protecting her.
Indira huffed and stomped at his back, jostling his shoulder blades.
Matt was a bloody idiot. Indira was a sensitive horse and, naturally, had reacted to the tension in his body, his hand tightening in her mane.
He held still, waiting for the mare to settle. She huffed behind him, a hoof stamping and rustling hay on the flagstone floor.
“My apologies,” he murmured to Mrs. Armstrong. His body engulfed hers but didn’t touch. He could feel the heat of her regardless. She smelled of sunlight and violets, the brim of her bonnet brushing his chin. “Let’s give Indira a moment to settle. She can be unpredictable when spooked.”
He expected Mrs. Armstrong to nod or say something. Instead, she held herself preternaturally still.
Frowning, Matt looked down.
She stared straight ahead, gaze fixed on a point beyond his shoulder, eyes glassy and unseeing. A terrible tremor racked her skeleton—her body trapped in its own private earthquake. Her breath came in sharp pants.
“Mrs. Armstrong?”
She remained unmoving, unhearing.
Alarm zinged Matt’s spine. Perhaps she wasn’t as comfortable around horses as she had claimed.
He repeated her name to no effect.
“Cecily!” he shouted, desperate to break whatever trance held her.
She flinched and clutched at her elbows.
Indira had finally calmed down. Matt took a half-step back and—
Mrs. Armstrong pushed past him, shoulder bumping into his chest in her eagerness to be free. Her hands reached for the mare, burying her face in the horse’s neck, lungs gulping for air as she stroked the animal’s hide.
Matt stared in horror.
Indira had not been the cause of the lady’s distress.
No.
It could be that Mrs. Armstrong found Matt himself violently repulsive. However . . . he was clear-headed enough not to run away with that idea.
Several facts slotted into place with abrupt clarity.
Miss Cecily Moulton had cut ties with all former friends and family for a reason.
She had abandoned her station as a lady and taken employment as a lowly housekeeper for a reason.
Through that lens, her alarm and panic looked different.
Matt might not know people. He certainly didn’t comprehend women and all their confusing layers. But he did understand wounded animals.
And Cecily Armstrong’s reaction had been that of a terrorized, cornered creature. One who had known brutality.
He replayed the scene in his mind—him lunging toward her, her flinching away, the stuttering panic of her breaths—
Somewhere in this woman’s life, a man had harmed her. Probably many times. Perhaps even multiple men.
Matt took a step back. And then another.
He was not given to anger. In fact, he could rarely recall feeling the emotion. Frustration and despair were his closest companions. But fury? The sort that set his blood to pumping and colored the world red?
That he rarely felt.
But in this moment, Matt was quite sure, had he a pistol to hand, he would happily send a bullet through the black heart of every man who had placed such a bleak expression on Cecily Moulton’s face.
How dare they take the spirited young woman she had been and squelch the vitality out of her.
How dare they drive her into a life in service.
He stood outside the stall, watching her. The tilt of her elegant neck, the pert tip of her nose poking out from the brim of her bonnet. She crooned to Indira, stroking the mare’s neck and petting her mane. Indira soaked up the attention like the primadonna that she was—whickering, ears twitching.
Yes, Mrs. Armstrong had spent ample time with horses in the past.
For the briefest moment, Matt considered asking her about it . . . her love of horses, the past events that had frightened her so, the circumstances that had led her to Avoch—
He discarded the idea almost immediately. He had decided it would be a kindness not to inquire, to let her continue as always.
But the silence cost him. The unspoken words burned his tongue.
Cecily couldn’t bring herself to turn around. Lord Matthias’s gaze pressed against her skin and stifled her breathing.
She had thought herself cured. That the events of years past were healed and scarred over. Yes, her heart still held fear, but George no longer had a stranglehold on her person.
How wrong she had been.
Moments ago, she had been speaking with his lordship about easy things—meals and horses and riding. A flash of who she had been as Miss Cecily Moulton. It had felt . . . lovely. A glimmer of renewal. Of a future that might, finally, be within reach.
But one loud noise and a man’s body looming, and it was as if no time had passed.
In a blink, Cecily had been tossed back six years.
George leaning over her, his face filling her vision—ruddy cheeks flushed from drink, blond hair limned in candlelight, fist raised to strike.
A scene from her marriage . . . one so prevalent and so oft repeated, it had imprinted into the very sinews and nerves of her body.
The nightmare’s resurgence originated with Uncle’s last letter—the frightening reminder that even George’s death hadn’t set her free—
Lord D hunts for you . . . remain quiet as a mouse . . .
No. She refused to be cowed. She was free of George, of the past. She had fought and clawed her way out of that despair, and she would never return to that cowering, helpless girl.
Bit by bit, her heart slowed its terrified thumping.
She could feel Lord Matthias’s eyes on her still.
How humiliating that he had witnessed her panic.
But . . . his lordship has seen so little of the world, a rational part of her brain pointed out.
He didn’t know of her past, or the choices she had made—the genteel lady she had been born or the woman she had been forced to become.
Surely, Lord Matthias assumed the horse had startled her, and she had reacted in fear like any other housekeeper might.
Yes. That was all he would think. He would stare over her shoulder and ask after her health.
Rallying her nerve, she turned to face Lord Matthias.
“I apologize for my reaction, my lord, I . . .” Words died on her tongue.
Lord Matthias looked anything but bland or unaffected, nor was he staring off as if uncomfortable.
No. He studied her with open, too-seeing eyes. As if he knew her secret and the reason for her terror, and both overset him to a furious degree.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Armstrong. I am working to improve Indira’s manners, but she is still anxious at times.
” His voice was calm and even, but she sensed a great riptide of emotion eddying just beneath the surface.
He continued, gaze holding hers, firm and steady.
“Indira’s last owner was not kind to her, you see. ”
It was a coded message—he understood that Cecily’s last “owner” had not been kind to her, either.
His gaze said, I will let your lie stand, for both our sakes. But know that I see what you hide.
Her cheeks burned.
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “I have faith that ye will mend whatever harm some beastly man did to her.”
“Yes.” A nod. “I would like to see her spirits restored entirely. She is a worthy creature.” He ran a fond hand along the mare’s mane.
Something tightened in Cecily’s chest. A sense of . . .
She tasted it for a moment.
Grief.
How unexpected. And yet . . . unmistakable in the hills and valleys she felt within. A depth of loss and vast plain of sorrow for the girl she had been. One who had known little of the world and even less about the brutal nature of certain men.
Tears pricked her eyes—ones she refused to let fall in his lordship’s presence. There was only so much humiliation a woman could allow in one day.
Cecily scrubbed her hands down her pelisse. “I have taken too much of your time, my lord. I am sure Mrs. Finlayson will relay her thanks for detailing your dining preferences.”
Bobbing a curtsy, she retreated toward the house. And though she didn’t look back, she could feel the weight of his gaze with each step.