Chapter 4
I step out into crisp morning air that bites at my cheeks.
The first rays of sunlight gild the trees, their bare branches dusted with frost. Loreena’s soft black leather riding boots hug my legs as I crunch across the stiff grass.
I’m snug in her loaned pair of jods and jacket.
Even if I’d known she had horses, I no longer own riding gear, so I’m grateful we’re a similar size.
I stride towards the dove-grey stone stable block, eager to be back in the saddle.
Of all the pastimes my father insisted on to polish me for a higher place in the world beyond my humble Scottish small town—tennis coaching, piano lessons, an elocution teacher, chess—riding was the only one I truly loved.
Not that I dared let him know. He had a habit of taking away things that might be for pleasure alone.
MacDonald children didn’t waste time on leisure.
Every spare moment had to be bent, in his words, to shaping a future grander than anything Cluanie could offer.
Ahead of me, a stone archway, dressed with a garland of pine and holly, leads into a large cobbled courtyard.
Haley has found her Christmas-obsessed twin in Loreena Bunt.
Even the stable block is decorated, with giant wreaths flanking a huge set of double doors.
When I reach for the smaller person door set into them, it sticks a little from the cold.
I lean my shoulder into it, giving a shove, and as it swings inwards, the warm sweet smell of horses and hay engulfs me.
“You must be Rachel.” A soft Irish voice comes from beneath the flank of an imposing but kind-eyed bay, tied to a stall door, already saddled.
The horse whickers a greeting echoed by the equally lanky grey horse saddled alongside.
A chorus of horsey hellos ripples around the stable from the other occupants of the stalls.
A small, wiry woman with salt and pepper hair pulled back in a severe ponytail emerges from between the two horses.
This must be Poppy, Loreena’s stable manager.
Before I have time to reply, a second voice sounds from beneath the grey horse.
“Morning, Rachel.” Teddy’s copper-topped head appears, his face with its constellation of freckles split wide in a boyish grin. My dropped-open mouth and wide eyes betray me.
“Yeah, I know. Thought I’d be a no-show, didn’t you? But here I am.”
I really didn’t expect he’d even remember my invitation, let alone turn up. He tosses me a wink, and I melt. He’s so damn cute and, fuck, it’s doing me in. Teddy Hargrove is nothing like my usual type, yet I’m drawn to him.
They say girls are attracted to men like their fathers. Up till this moment, I’ve been living proof. My father hates most people, barely tolerates his kids, but adores my mother with a devotion no one would ever suspect him capable of. I hitched myself to a man just like him for three whole years.
Pierre is an arrogant, ruthless, condescending person who surveys the world with a brutally critical eye and finds most of it wanting.
I was the exception to that, basking in his adoration, until somehow, a few months ago, things changed.
I’m still bewildered, unsure of how I became just another person he despises.
In front of me is a very different sort of man—sweet and playful. I’ve forgotten what those are like. Maybe it’s time to remind myself.
“And here you are,” I say, feeling suddenly lighter than I’ve felt in weeks, as if by simply giving myself permission to think beyond Pierre, it’s chased off the heavy dark clouds of his influence on my life. “I’m impressed. Didn’t think rock stars would drag themselves out of bed before noon.”
“Still remembered how to saddle up a horse, too, eh Poppy?” Teddy’s magic even works on stern-looking Poppy as the thin line of her mouth edges into a smile.
“You did well,” she agrees, checking the girth on the bay gelding. “Rachel, I’ve given you this boy, Solstice—Solly to his friends. Teddy’s taking Boadicea. Bodie likes men.”
Teddy bends to scoop up a helmet from the ground beside him while the grey mare playfully nudges at his red curls with her muzzle. Damn it, even the horse is already a little bit in love with him.
I take the helmet Poppy offers me, pull it on firmly, adjusting the chin strap till it’s sitting tight, while opposite me Teddy fits his own.
The whole time his eyes are on me, dancing with interest. He finally breaks my gaze, unclips the lead, scoops up the dangling reins, and he and the mare follow Poppy.
She swings open one of the tall barn doors, and a breath of cool air rushes in.
I lay a hand on the sleek neck of the bay horse, and he softly nickers a hello. A tickle of whiskers brushes my hand as his velvet muzzle nuzzles at it, seeking a treat.
“Nothing for you. Sorry buddy,” I say. “I’ll bring you something later.”
I’m sure there’ll be a sack of carrots stashed somewhere in this upmarket stable complex. I untie Solly, and we make our way to the courtyard, the soothing beat of hooves on cobbles echoing off the walls.
Poppy stands beside a stone mounting block ready to help, but Teddy turns his back on the offer and springs lightly into the saddle. I do the same, noting Poppy’s smile of approval as I settle myself on Solly’s broad back.
“Now, these two are a steady pair.” She beams at the horses like a proud mother. “Wouldn’t put you on them otherwise. But it pays to remember—like the rest of them here—they’re rescues. We can’t know everything they’ve been through. So sometimes they might not react quite how you’d expect.”
“Someone didn’t want them?” How could anyone part with horses this beautiful? But that’s people, isn’t it? Changing their minds, falling out of love. What once meant everything ends up cast aside. I should know. And god help me, sometimes I wonder who’s meant to rescue me.
“No,” she says, giving Bodie’s neck a gentle pat. “But six months here with us, some good food, a bit of love, and look at them.” There’s a quiet satisfaction in her voice. “Just head around to the left out of the yard,” she says. “These two will do the rest. They know the way.”
Neat roadways of fine gravel criss-cross the estate, and we give the horses their heads, leading us away from the stables with a spring in their step as if energised by the promise of a fine day.
“When’s the last time you rode?” Teddy asks as, a few hundred yards down the road, our pre-programmed mounts veer off towards a bridle trail half-hidden in a wispy grove of trees.
I pause, unable to instantly answer his question, but I know I’ve missed being on a horse.
Then memories flood back of a weekend at a country house in Sussex—some clients of Pierre’s.
In his world of high finance, we spent a lot of time trying to woo rich people.
That day we had a fight because none of the other women were going on the ride, and he’d wanted me to stay behind too, playing ladies with the corporate wives.
We weren’t married, just engaged, but his expectations were the same—play the part, help him win the prize—their husband’s business.
I’d refused, and we had a blazing row that tarnished the peaceful ride across the rolling green hills of the estate.
I’d kept myself apart from the men, wallowing in my thoughts, the first miserable realisation that something was wrong.
I’d go on to waste another year after that trying to keep my relationship with Pierre on a steady course, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from blowing it apart in the end.
“Last year,” I say vaguely, leaving the details in the past where they can’t tarnish today. “I don’t get the opportunity often. You?”
“Not since we filmed that video. Too long. There’s something about being on a horse, isn’t there?”
“You had lessons?”
“Only the sort dished out by stroppy little ponies whose favourite thing was to toss you off. Or bolt unexpectedly. Evil little bastards.” He chuckles to himself. “But fun.”
He may not have had formal training, but Teddy looks comfortable in the saddle.
His posture, although not textbook straight, is easy, and he rises and falls in a fluid movement, matching the horse’s relaxed gait.
His wrists aren’t perfectly angled, the reins held casually in his hands.
His feet in a pair of scruffy leather boots relax in the stirrups, heels not precisely down as my instructors drilled into me.
Even so, there’s the suggestion of competence, of confidence, with his body attuned to the beat of the mare’s steps as she breaks into a lively trot.
Bodie is keen to take the lead, and Solly follows, weaving along a narrow path before it bursts wide open into a sprawling meadow. We pause and drink in the sight—picture-postcard English countryside.
“I miss the country.” Teddy gazes wistfully across the expanse of lush grass so green it dazzles, melted droplets of frost glistening on it like diamonds in the sunlight. “The peace.”
“You grew up in Cornwall, right?”
I know I’ve revealed too much the moment the words are out. In my job, I’m used to weighing what I say before I speak, but all common sense deserts me in front of this man.
“Been looking me up, have you?”
Heat flares up my neck and spills onto my cheeks.
Fine, I’ll admit it: I’ve been checking out Teddy.
Last night, somewhere between hammering through emails, I googled him.
Turns out he’s even got a Wikipedia page.
Theodore (Teddy) Hargrove, aged twenty-six.
Nine years younger. I tell myself it shouldn’t matter, but the number still flashes up whenever the thought of a fling with him sneaks in.
Too young? Maybe. Then again, for a fling, age doesn’t really count.
Born in Tintagel, Cornwall. Only son of renowned sculptor Gina Cosgrove and famous jazz pianist River Hart.