CHAPTER EIGHT #3
‘No, I’m not.’ The man was unrepentant and smiled balefully at her, giving nothing away.
He continued to take Sage in through slanted brown eyes that were bloodshot and half-asleep, and which rested on high, shadowed cheekbones over a square jaw covered in day-old stubble.
His large mouth creased into a half-smile, as if he knew all her secrets.
Despite the signs of a heavy night, he was extremely good-looking, and his arrogance all too familiar.
‘Is he here?’ Sage asked abruptly.
‘He’s in the yard, I think. I’m not sure – I’ve just woken up,’ the man said, stifling a wide yawn.
‘Are you the errant brother?’ Sage asked curiously, finally connecting the dots together.
‘I guess so. Hi, I’m Louis,’ he said, holding out a hand like an invitation.
Sage ignored it. She had met boys like Louis too many times; he held no allure for her.
‘I’m Sage Deverill. I mean, Beaumont. I won’t shake your hand, I’m freezing.
Go back to bed – sorry for disturbing you.
’ With that, she turned tail and bolted back through the gate, trailing Custard and Hal in her wake.
‘You can disturb me any time,’ muttered Louis into the wind, shaken for once out of his habitual cool by the ravishing woman striding away from him. Far too good to be wasted on boring old Rafe, he thought unscrupulously as he closed the door and climbed the stairs to go back to bed.
Sage did not want to take Custard into the yard.
Some trainers were extremely particular about who was allowed into their stables and she did not expect that a scruffy little pony would be high on Rafe’s invitation list. They had just reached the road when she heard her name being called.
Looking back through the archway, she saw Rafe loping towards them, two red setters trotting behind him like bodyguards.
He was wearing boots, riding jeans and his customary flat cap on his dark hair, and embroidered in green on the breast of his blue coat were the words Dunbarton Racing and an emblem of a monkey holding a pineapple.
As he came to a stop in front of them, Rafe gave a rare, genuine smile. Sage’s pulse raced.
‘Hello, Master Hal. How do you do?’ he said, raising his hand to his cap in a respectful salute.
Hal looked at him in wonder; grown-ups often spoke to him in ridiculous baby voices. He shyly smiled up at him.
An enormous grey cloud suddenly blotted out the feeble late-January sunshine and it started to rain again; fat, wet, cold drops went straight down Sage’s neck, making her audibly shudder.
‘Come into the tack room, it’s warm and dry in there,’ Rafe said, taking the lead rope from her. He jogged across the yard, leading the way with Custard and Hal following willingly, the child bumping about as the pony’s little legs moved into a trot.
‘Hold onto the mane, Hal!’ Sage called, jogging alongside in case Hal might tumble off.
Rafe put a hand on Hal’s leg to keep him in the saddle but carried on running to the tack room in order to escape the rain.
Inside was a smart Persian rug that was laid out on the sandstone floor before a crackling log fire.
It was a large room with saddles and bridles, all on their own racks, covering an entire wall.
The walls were painted duck-egg blue and the racks were dark green. The effect was staggering.
‘What a beautiful room,’ Sage said. She looked about with astonishment. Her grandfather’s tack room was musty and covered in cobwebs with ancient metal racks on wooden walls; this one looked as though it were straight out of Architectural Digest.
‘It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ Rafe was laughing.
‘This is what happened when I left my mother in charge of decorating. She is completely impractical, but an absolute angel. I just haven’t had time to paint anything since starting up but after a year, Mum decided that the tack room needed tarting up to impress the owners.
This is the result – and I must admit, people do seem rather impressed by it, although after seeing it for the first time, I was relieved not to find the stables painted in gold leaf!
What do you think, Master Hal? Do you like it in here, out of the rain? Custard seems to be enjoying himself.’
‘Sweeties?’ Hal asked hopefully, sensing weakness and sliding off his pony.
‘Ha! You may be in luck. Have a look in the top drawer.’ Rafe gestured towards a huge walnut dresser that stood against the far wall.
‘You should find some Polos that you can share with this jolly smart pony.’ Rafe stroked Custard’s damp white star as the pony stood quietly, his eyes half-closed.
‘He’s unbelievable. Aren’t you lucky to have such a cool pony? ’
Hal returned with a roll of Polo mints clasped in each sticky hand.
‘He’s a bugger,’ he said calmly, unwrapping the foil and putting two sweets into his hand. ‘One for you,’ he added, holding out the offering to Custard on a tiny, outstretched palm. ‘And one for me.’
‘Hal!’ Sage was embarrassed, and promptly rummaged in the large pockets of her coat to produce the bottle of whisky. Shyly, she passed it over to a grinning Rafe, who took it, bowing his head in thanks.
‘Thank you, so much, for rescuing Skylark this morning. For rescuing me, really. I know that this is not anything near enough, but I wanted to come and express my sincere thanks.’ Sage sounded strangely formal.
She was waging a war in her head; she found herself liking him despite fearing him, though there had been no trace of the anger she’d witnessed since the day she first saw him riding. She smiled at him apologetically.
‘Don’t be silly, you didn’t need to do that, it was all Warhorse – he said we could not possibly leave two damsels in distress.
’ He held her gaze, forcing her to make eye contact.
Sage curled her toes in embarrassment as she felt herself blushing.
‘I am very glad that we were able to be of some use though.’ Rafe, appearing not to notice, looked out of the open door and up at the overcast sky.
‘How was Dennis when you got back?’ He gestured for Sage to take a seat in a button-backed chair upholstered in a timeless Colefax and Fowler chintz.
He pulled down the lid of an old military trunk that was filled with leather headcollars and sat down opposite her, still holding onto Custard.
‘Safe to say he wasn’t very pleased with me …’
‘I can’t imagine that lasted. Would you like a cup of tea?’ he offered, half standing again to go and turn the kettle on.
Rafe was trying to repress the immoderate tenderness he felt towards this bedraggled woman and her child; such feelings were not in his plan.
He was a man with clear goals and was – so far – on track, having achieved everything he had wanted to at this point in his life.
He was twenty-eight years old and had twenty racehorses in his yard, all of which were relatively exciting prospects; three of them were actually extremely promising.
His owners were only those whom he trusted and who, in turn, trusted him.
His family were proud of him and hopeful of a bright future for him.
A woman with another man’s child in tow should not even feature on his radar, but he had simply not been able to get Sage out of his head since that dinner a few weeks ago.
He set about making her a cup of tea, even though he could not remember if she had said that she wanted one. He had so much to do but was racking his brain as to how he could keep them here longer now that the rain had stopped. Christ, I need to get a grip, he berated himself.
Sage was saying in her low, soft voice, ‘You’re right. Bumpa has been unbelievably kind and let me off the hook ridiculously easily. I was expecting him to totally freak out. It was all my fault.’
‘I very much doubt that – I’ve seen you ride, Sage. I know that filly too, she’s sharp,’ said Rafe, shaking aside his thoughts and trying to focus.
‘No, it was definitely me today.’ The whole saga then spilt from Sage’s lips involuntarily; her attempts to initiate the divorce papers, Santiago’s demands for overseas custody of Hal, it all came out.
As she finally got to the end of her story, Sage was suddenly aware that Rafe had become very still and serious. She must have been boring him silly. She turned pink with embarrassment. He had been so patient and listened so well that she had unloaded all of her worries onto him.