TEN
Aweek after the incident in the stables, Matt watched Mrs. Armstrong drive away from Avoch Castle in an aging gig. Jura plodded in the harness, head down.
Tuesdays were the housekeeper’s afternoon off. Each week, no matter the weather, she requested the gig be hitched, drove off down the bumpy lane, and then returned several hours later.
Today, though the Highlands knocked on May’s door, a chill wind blew off the North Sea and hurtled through the braes. The sun, what there was of it, peeked anemically through the scudding clouds. A gathering tempest on the horizon promised an impressive cloudburst before evening.
Matt knit his brows together as the gig disappeared from view. Where did Mrs. Armstrong go each week? She would be chilled to the bone by the time she returned, assuming the gig didn’t become mired again. What garnered such risk?
It was none of his affair . . . just as were questions about her past, her deceased husband, and her plans for the future. He hated this in-between place, knowing some of her history but not enough to truly understand. Worse, he could say nothing about it.
Matt managed to ignore his concerns for an hour before worry—and no small amount of curiosity—got the better of him.
He ordered Zephyrus saddled and pulled on a well-oiled overcoat to repel the rain.
His horse needed exercising. That was what he told himself.
But given the way Zephyrus huffed as Matt led him out of the stables—fat-bellied raindrops already tumbling from the sky—they both knew it to be a lie.
Following Mrs. Armstrong’s wheel tracks wasn’t difficult. The lane was half-bog, and the gig left a clear mark. He urged Zephyrus to a canter, knowing the stallion would easily gain on the much slower Jura.
Wind tugged at Matt’s hat, and rain lashed his cheeks. He wanted to pronounce Mrs. Armstrong a fool—an eejit, as the Scot in him would say—but instead, he pressed a palm to his racing heart. What demon drove her to venture out in weather such as this? Because of a surety, she had good reason.
He reached the crossroads, but the crisscrossing wagon tracks hid the direction Mrs. Armstrong had turned.
Mouth twisting, Matt urged Zephyrus over a stone fence and up the side of a brae that loomed over the fields.
The wind bit with a vengeance on the exposed summit, rain whipping horizontally, but the vantage point allowed him to scan the countryside.
It took only a few moments to spot Mrs. Armstrong through the sleet, red cloak pulled tight as Jura trudged along the rutted road.
She turned down a lane and pulled to a stop before a traditional whitehouse—a rectangular cottage with chimneys on each end, peat smoke trailing upward. Mrs. Armstrong disappeared inside, leaving poor Jura in the wet and cold.
Hmm.
So this is where his housekeeper went. A crofter’s house, by the looks of it.
A friend, perhaps? Matt contemplated and then rejected the notion that Mrs. Armstrong might have a lover.
First, she might be unconventional, but she wouldn’t risk her reputation in such a manner.
Second, the woman who had frozen in terror at his closeness would not welcome a man to her bed.
Matt knew nothing of such matters, but a traumatized horse didn’t selectively permit certain saddles and not others.
It was all or nothing. He assumed a woman would feel the same.
Matt stared at the cottage, contemplating his options.
Surely, Mrs. Armstrong would remain inside for a while.
Water flowed off the brim of his hat and streamed down his back.
He would be a fool to wait in this foul weather.
But Jura would become chilled if left too long in the rain, hitched as she was in the traces.
As he pondered possible courses of action, the door opened, and Mrs. Armstrong stepped out, hunching into the hood of her cloak. She waved at the house’s occupant, climbed into the gig, and clucked Jura into motion.
So . . . not a long visit then.
Matt should return to Avoch. If he cut across the fields, he would arrive before Jura and the gig, Mrs. Armstrong none the wiser. Zephyrus stomped his feet in agreement. Rain pelted the field around them, drenching the sprouting green oats.
And yet, Matt couldn’t bear to leave Mrs. Armstrong to her own devices. When the gig disappeared around the bend, turning left toward Avoch at the crossroads, he urged Zephyrus back onto the road.
He dawdled behind the gig at a discreet distance, as there wasn’t much foliage for cover. Spring came late this far north. Trees would not leaf out, nor would the heather green, for another month at least.
Matt rounded a corner just past the crossroads and, to his surprise, found Mrs. Armstrong standing beside Jura, inspecting the horse’s front right hoof.
She whirled at the jangle of Zephyrus’s tackle, eyes wide under the brim of her bonnet.
He could tell the moment she recognized him—her arms relaxed, and her neck sagged in relief.
“My lord,” she nodded.
“Mrs. Armstrong.”
“I’m relieved to see yourself. I felt eyes upon me as I drove, but figured it must be my vivid imagination.” Her head tilted. “I didn’t know ye were prone to riding so far afield. And in such weather.”
“I would wonder the same of you.”
She shrugged in answer. “Merely calling on a friend.”
“I see.” Matt didn’t entirely believe her—this was hardly the weather for a casual social call—but he let it go. “Is Jura well?”
He swung out of the saddle. Thankfully, the rain had subsided to a drizzle, but a freezing chill nipped at his gloved fingers.
“A stone wedged in her hoof. I fear it may have caused bruising.” Mrs. Armstrong stepped back, pulling her cloak tight.
Matt patted Jura’s neck and lifted her leg. Definitely bruised.
“You were wise to stop,” he said. “Jura would have gone lame pulling the gig on this foot.”
With quick movements, he unhitched Jura from the harness and wrapped the reins of her bridle around Zephyrus’s pommel.
“We’ll return tomorrow for the gig.” He shot Mrs. Armstrong a grimace. “I’m unable to provide you with a foothold to sit atop Zephyrus, but perhaps if you stand on the gig, we can . . .”
He trailed off. Mrs. Armstrong had grown so pale, her skin resembled fresh milk.
“You said you have ridden, correct?” he asked.
She nodded, freckles stark on her skin. “Where will ye sit, my lord?”
Ah.
“Ideally, with you. On my horse.”
Her eyes drifted longingly to Jura. The mare was in no condition to carry the weight of a person.
“Though I appreciate your gentlemanly courtesy, my lord, I shall walk.” Mrs. Armstrong set her jaw.
“Walk? Three miles of rough track buried in half a foot of mud?” He blew air into his gloved hand. “It grows colder by the minute. You’ll catch your death.”
The wind had chafed her nose red, and water beaded on her cheeks. Those wee details frustrated him. He needed her warm and safe.
“If you’re not comfortable riding with me, then I will walk, and you can ride.” He extended Zephyrus’s reins toward her.
“Through three miles of rough track buried in half a foot of mud? You’ll catch your death,” she parroted back. “I will be perfectly well on foot. I am not a lady in need of rescuing or special treatment.”
Matt ground his teeth, as that was precisely what she was. A lady. In need of rescuing. And, most particularly, special treatment.
“Be that as it may, my conscience will not permit—”
“I had best be on my way.” Her body language mimicked that of a frightened horse. Fists clenched. Gaze wide. Breaths quick. She was seconds from bolting.
“Please.” Matt took a step toward her, hand outstretched.
“Thankyougoodday!”
She flinched away from his reaching hand and darted down the road.
Matt stared after her, pulse a sharp tattoo against his eardrum.
He was woefully out of his depth.
What would you do if she were a horse?
Idiot thought that.
Cecily Armstrong wasn’t a horse. She was a lady who had suffered brutality at the hands of a man. Matt was male. Ergo, in her mind, he was to be avoided at all costs. Her terrified body couldn’t tell the difference between a threat and a well-intentioned offer of help.
Still . . . he gritted his teeth . . . were she a horse, he would allow her freedom until she felt ready to confront her fear.
Horses were prey animals. They needed assurances that they wouldn’t be harmed before giving their trust. Mrs. Armstrong, having once been prey, was no different.
And Matt wanted her trust more than anything.
Zephyrus’s reins in hand, he led the horses forward. They trailed in a line behind Mrs. Armstrong—Matt and Zephyrus and Jura following like recalcitrant pupils after a furious headmaster.
This lasted for all of three minutes.
“Ye needn’t accompany me to Avoch,” she shot over her shoulder. “I’m not a skittish horse to herd back to the stables.”
He snorted. Insightful and clever. Yet another reason to like her.
“Skittish horses are my specialty,” he said. “As you’ve witnessed, humans are rather beyond my ken.”
They slopped on, accompanied by the light patter of rain and the slurp of boots in mud.
Finally, her shoulders heaved, and she spun around, arms crossed. “Please be on your way, my lord. Imagine the scandal if we arrived at Avoch together.”
“I consider these extenuating circumstances. The rest of the staff will surely—”
“I don’t want your company,” she snapped.
Her words smarted, but he knew not to take offense when a wounded creature lashed out in pain.
“And yet, you shall have it all the same.” His voice remained calm. “I will not leave you in the cold on this dank stretch of road.”
Her eyes narrowed before she huffed, pivoted, and continued walking down the road—a slash of red cloak against the wool-gray horizon—head high, shoulders rigid.
Matt understood her fury. It was a simpler emotion than pain or terror or despair. Fury maintained its own weather—a whirlwind of ire that pinned other feelings against walls and trees and prevented them from making too much noise.
She pulled her cloak around her, huddling into its warmth. At this slow pace, night would fall before they arrived home. They would both catch their deaths of pneumonia.
None of those facts mattered.
“Please cease this!” She turned to face him again. “What do I need to say for ye to leave me be?”
Matt stared her down.
They both knew the answer was nothing.
Under her cold-reddened cheeks, her skin appeared ashen, eyes suspiciously shiny. Her gaze flicked to the horses, Zephyrus nudging Matt’s shoulder. Then she looked to the sky. The sodden ground. Finally, on a slow breath, she lifted her gaze to his.
Matt knew he wasn’t brilliant at reading emotions, but these he recognized—fear and determination.
Her hands closed into fists. “I saw your list.”
“Pardon?”
“Your list,” she repeated. “I read it.”