SIXTEEN
Matt grinned as Cecily tore past him, laughter trailing behind like shimmering gold coins.
He kicked Zephyrus into a gallop, flying after her—a sailor helpless to resist the lure of a siren call.
Matt had never been in love, but he suspected this was what it felt like—champagne bubbles in his veins as he raced hell-for-leather after the bonniest lass in the kingdom.
Cecily was a dream in the saddle, her seat easy, her hands soft on the reins. He had stared enraptured as she calmly tamed Indira’s exuberance in the paddock with gentle commands, not force—clearly understanding that training meant engaging in a conversation, not an argument, with the animal.
The former Miss Cecily Moulton wasn’t simply a competent rider. No, she was a horsewoman of high caliber. Had he known that particular fact a decade past in London, would he have rallied his courage and spoken . . .
Well.
He would drive himself mad with such thoughts.
She was here now. He had been too timorous at twenty-one to open his mouth and speak with her. This time, however, he would live without regrets. He would, at the very least, foster a true friendship between them.
But Hope thumped treacherously against his sternum, and he dreamed that this might be the beginning of a wondrous new life.
He ruthlessly silenced the small voice that pointed out the recklessness of his thinking. That Cecily was still his housekeeper, and he would endanger her reputation if he courted her company.
He liked her too well to stop.
Cecily paused at the top of a small rise, waiting until he slowed alongside. Her chest heaved from exertion, and the wind had put a lovely pink on her cheeks. But it was the joy in her blue eyes that had him smiling in return.
“I fear you underrepresented your capabilities as a horsewoman, Cecily.” Matt nudged Zephyrus to a walk beside her.
The laughter of her reply sent a jolt of yearning through him. “I certainly had a moment of doubt standing on that mounting block. It has been so long—and I will certainly be painfully sore tomorrow—but . . .” She drifted off on a radiant smile. “Thank you, Matthias.”
She had begun dropping her Scottish accent when alone with him, sounding like a proper English lady.
“No thanks needed.”
“You have it nonetheless. I had forgotten how incredible it feels.” Indira tossed her head, but Cecily settled her with a quick shift of weight and a pat on the neck. “Indira is a magnificent animal. You have done marvels in retraining her.”
Pride swelled his chest. “The two of you make an excellent partnership.”
They turned back to the road, passing clumps of prickly gorse with clusters of yellowing buds. A few enterprising trees had begun to send out the beginnings of leaves. All the world crouched, eager to burst into life.
“Have you always enjoyed riding?” Matthias asked. “You mentioned your father was a cavalryman?”
“Yes and no. My grandfather was the cavalryman. My parents died when I was a babe, and so I was sent to live with my paternal grandparents. Grandpappa was the younger son of an earl and had a long career in the 15th Light Dragoons. I adored spending time with him, so it was only natural that I learned to share his love of horses.”
The small drops of her history landed like rain on parched summer earth. Matt greedily soaked them in. “Where did you grow up?”
“Just west of Kidderminster, southwest of Birmingham. My grandparents had a wee estate near the Wyre Forest.”
“You sound wistful.”
“Perhaps, I am. They were loving and kind and gave me the sort of childhood every lass deserves. They passed away over six years ago, mere days apart. I was devastated when I learned of it.”
Six years. Everything hinged on that time span, as by Cecily’s own account, she had been employed as a housekeeper for six years.
However, she had been married for at least nine.
What was the sequence of events six years past?
Matt opened his mouth to inquire, but Cecily shifted the discussion to him.
“What about yourself?” she asked. “Have you always felt a kinship to horses?”
She nudged Indira onward with a subtle tap of her riding crop. Zephyrus didn’t need Matt’s encouragement to match the mare. He suspected that their horses were also a wee bit fond of each other. He would need to inform Forbes and Mackenzie. A stallion and a mare could get into trouble together.
A warning Matt himself would be wise to heed.
“Yes,” he answered her. “I’ve always been a bit horse mad. Gray likes to tell the story of the time Nurse lost track of me. She had every maid and footman in Dunmore scouring the house.”
“The same nurse who would cross herself to ward off evil before touching you?”
“Yes, the very same.”
“No wonder you ran from her, if she treated you so cruelly.”
That . . . was true. He likely had been hiding from her cutting tongue and fingers that gripped his one arm so tight they left purple bruises.
“After several frantic hours, a groom found me standing tiptoe on a stool in the stables, patting my father’s enormous hunter on the forehead and feeding it bits of hay.”
“How old were you?”
“Three or four, I suppose. My only memory of the experience is the smell of hay and dragging the heavy stool with my one hand for a perch to stand on.” A pause. “And Nurse’s anger, of course. I do remember being switched and locked in a wardrobe for half a day as punishment.”
The words tumbled out
“Your nurse locked you in a wardrobe?” Cecily hissed in outrage.
“Aye.” He winced fearing he had revealed too much. Some secrets were perhaps too dark to voice in broad daylight. “My nurse had convinced everyone that I was part imbecile. That I was missing half my wits in addition to an arm.” He lifted his stump.
“That is dreadful! What changed their minds?”
“My father.”
“The previous duke?”
“Yes. He figured if I was brave enough to face down his great hunter—and, truly, the stallion was a tremendous beast—he would try me out in the saddle, as he had Piers.”
“Piers?”
“Grayburn’s Christian name. We are scarcely a year apart in age, he and I, so he was Piers to me growing up.”
“You used his first name instead of his courtesy title?”
“I recognize it was rather unusual. But Lord Southcairn was his courtesy title, and ‘Southcairn’—or even the less formal ‘South’—felt odd on my tongue. Perhaps because of our family’s rivalry with the Earl of Northcairn, whom everyone calls ‘North.’ It felt like one too many compass directions.”
Cecily looked at him, sunlight washing down her pert nose. “The same Northcairn who is Tavish Balfour’s father?”
“The very same.”
A frown dented her brow.
Matt gave a small grin. “Isla’s marriage was not well-received. Piers hasn’t spoken to our sister in over two years.”
“How sad.”
“It is.”
“You said she was expecting a new arrival?”
“Yes. I received news two days ago that Isla has been safely delivered of a girl. They named her Elspeth.”
“What a lovely name.” Cecily’s smile glittered in the sunshine. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I hope to meet my new niece later in the summer.”
Matt turned Zephyrus off the main road and onto a narrower track, one that led down to the ocean and skimmed the headland there. The North Sea stretched to the horizon before them, a vast expanse of cerulean blue, mimicking the clear skies overhead.
Indira whickered, eagerly matching Zephyrus’s pace.
Cecily patted the mare’s neck before bringing them back to their previous topic. “Your father put you on a horse, you said?”
“Yes. As he had with Piers, the old duke would put me in front of him in the saddle. I fell in love with riding. I would sneak out of bed at first daylight and race down to the stables, terrified I would miss my father’s arrival.”
Ho now, lad! the old duke would sometimes say in greeting. Are you going to jump a fence today?
As ever, thoughts of his father tightened Matt’s throat. The duke had been an odd mix of autocracy and indulgence, stern but amiable when he felt inclined. Unfortunately, Matt never knew which version of his father he would encounter on any given day.
Of the three children, Matt most resembled their sire.
They were both tall men with dark hair and faces so similar that the unobservant visitor often mistook the old duke’s youthful portrait as that of Matt himself.
More importantly, Matt and his father shared the same retiring, shy personality.
Father had always been more comfortable in the stables surrounded by his horses, hounds yipping and eager for the hunt.
Their mother, the former duchess, had been a great beauty.
The sort of lady who needed the presence of others to thrive.
Mamma had never been content with her own company.
Her life had been one constant social round, forever racing off to the next country party, ball, soirée, or dinner.
Though Gray would vehemently deny it, he had much more in common with her than their father.
That dislike and similarity also explained Matt’s reluctance to inform Gray of the letters he had received.
“My father quickly realized that I had a true affinity for horses,” Matt said, “and honestly, I think he took pity on me—this deformed son who was a pariah in his own household. I was given permission to ride whenever I wished, and a groom to ensure I had an excellent seat and knew what I was about. Horseback is the only place I’ve ever felt the equal of any other gentleman.
I was a disappointment in all ways but that. ” He lifted his stub of an arm.
“I am appalled that any adult would disregard a child based on their appearance at birth.” Cecily pursed her lips, huffing. “You cannot help the body your parents gave you.”
“No, but my birth was a harbinger of ill fortune. My poor mother took one look at me after delivery, screamed in horror, and fainted dead away. She refused to grace my father’s bed for the rest of their marriage, as she didn’t wish to birth ‘another monster.’”