“I’d like to thank you,” Frederick said, puffing out his chest. “For helping my mother.” He stretched his hand out. “I appreciate your coming to her assistance.”
Graham placed his gloved hand in the boy’s, closing his fingers for a formal shake, but not before noting the coarse, dry skin dusted with blood. He narrowed his eyes, sharpening his gaze on the boy’s bruised knuckles. “Don’t thank me,” he murmured. “That is merely what a man should do. Help where one is able.”
Frederick nodded his ascent. “Yes.” His eyes darkened. “But that isn’t always the way people are, though.”
In that moment, he who’d been hopelessly uncertain around the boy found a kindred connection. “You are right on that score.”
“Were you talking to her?” Frederick cleared his throat. “That is… I heard you speaking to her. The horse.”
Graham followed the boy’s gaze to the white horse. “Indeed.” He rewarded the mare with another caress. “What is her name?”
“Guda.”
“That is quite an interesting name for a beautiful girl,” Graham murmured to the horse, continuing to stroke that sensitive place between her ears. “Guda.” Feeling Frederick’s eyes on him, Graham looked down at his small companion.
“It is kind of silly, talking to horses, no?” Frederick asked. “I mean, they are just animals. I used to speak to them…” The boy stole a peek up at Graham. “My mother insisted I stop speaking to them.”
Graham frowned. “Did she?” It fit with the serious young woman, cool at every turn.
Frederick nodded.
Graham retrieved another piece of peppermint and offered it to the mount.
They are just animals, Sheldon. I’ll not have you visiting them and speaking to them as such anymore.
Graham rested his arms along the top of the doors leading into the stall. “They are just animals,” he concurred, warming to his and Frederick’s discussion. For all his earlier discomfort, this was a topic on which he could speak with any person. “Horses are just animals who are responsible for helping us travel. Or plowing fields.” He grinned wryly. “I’d say better than most men. Our mail is delivered because of them. They’ll charge into battle, with nothing more than a command, and give their lives without so much as faltering in the face of cannon fire.” Opening the stall door, Graham slipped inside to better inspect the horse’s condition. As he evaluated the Donaldsons’ remaining mare, Graham made a show of stroking Guda’s withers.
“Did you know”—he glanced back to the boy lingering at the threshold of the stall—“the ancient Greeks would use horses for those people with incurable diseases?”
Wide-eyed, Frederick sidled closer. “For what purpose?” Unabashed curiosity coated his question.
“Hippocrates—”
“The Greek physician!” Frederick interrupted, his eyes glowing with excitement.
“You’ve heard of him?”
The child nodded frantically. “My grandfather…” His words died, and the light went out. And just as that brief moment of pleasure had emanated from Martha Donaldson outside the inn, and then died moments later, so too was Frederick’s joy extinguished.
What secrets and sadness plagued this family? Graham knew not to prod, instead allowing the boy to finish his thought.
“My grandfather told me of him,” Frederick finally said, offering nothing more.
“Hippocrates discovered and wrote about the therapeutic value of riding. Since then, there have been writings all hailing the benefits of equine riding for gout, neurological disorders, and people…” Suffering from low morale. He looked to the boy and found the child’s eyes on him.
“And people…?”
Graham returned his attention to Guda. “And people of a vast many other needs.”
“Hmm. I never heard any of that,” the boy marveled. Going up on tiptoe, he mimicked Graham’s gentle caress and stared on with a new appreciation in his expressive eyes.
Outside, the increasing tempest pummeled the stables, sending the aged wood creaking and groaning.
Guda tossed her head back and bared her teeth.
“Easy,” Graham soothed. “Do you know the most wonderful thing about horses, Frederick?” he asked when the fierce wind had died down.
Frederick shook his head.
“They ask for nothing in return. They only give.”
Chapter 7
The mysterious stranger, Mr. Graham Malin, spoke to horses… and children.
Martha remained rooted to the entrance of the stables. Even with the chill cutting through her and snow slapping at her face, she was unable to enter. Because in this moment, she would be an interloper. Because of the intensity of that exchange. And because of the foreignness of it.
They ask for nothing in return. They only give.
Those nine words, just two sentences, stirred equal parts guilt and wonder in Martha.
At every moment, she’d questioned Graham Malin’s motives, even the story he’d given her about his work with horses.
Only to find herself humbled by her own cynicism.
Through her tumult, Frederick and Mr. Malin continued their easy discourse about horses, their exchange as natural as two who’d known each other a lifetime rather than a handful of minutes.
“…a horse can run just hours after their birth.”
“Truly?” her son asked with an enthusiasm she’d not heard from him… mayhap ever. Oh, he’d always been an excitable child, easy to smile, and easier to laugh. But he hadn’t been untouched by life’s cruelty. Having an absent father, one he forever asked after, Frederick spent too many hours wondering about a man who’d never deserved him.
Emotion clogged her throat as a mere stranger proved that mayhap there were men who listened to and spoke to children.
“And look here,” Mr. Malin was saying. “Do you see how her eyes are on the sides of her head? Because of that positioning, they are able to see nearly three hundred and sixty degrees at one time.”
“Mayhap my mom has horse eyes,” Frederick muttered. “Because she’s always able to see what I’m doing.”
Mr. Malin laughed. That unrestrained mirth, joined with her son’s, suffused her chest, filling her. With a lightness. With a joy, she herself had also not known… in more years than she could remember. Such warmth went through her that she ceased to feel the cold ravaging her through her garments. She closed her eyes, allowing the two distinctly different and wonderful expressions wash over her.
A heavy wind yanked the stable doors open, and the loud creak slashed through the quiet.
“Hello,” Mr. Malin called out, rushing forward. He held a staying hand up behind him, warding Frederick off.
Oh, God. That protective gesture on her son’s behalf sent her heart flipping over itself.
As he caught Martha standing there, Graham Malin stopped abruptly.
Frederick crashed into him. “Mother?” her son asked in high-pitched confusion, like old Mrs. Blackwood had when she’d caught a thirteen-year-old Martha sneaking through her properties in the dead of night to sketch a star shower.
She forced herself to move. Avoiding the older, more mature of the gazes trained on her, the probing one, Martha hurried inside, closing the door behind her. “You should be inside.”
Frederick stepped out from behind the stranger he’d been speaking so freely with moments ago. “I said I was going to help Mr. Malin before you send him away.”
She winced at those slightly emphasized words delivered as an accusation. “Run inside so I might speak to Mr. Malin.”
Her son opened his mouth to protest, but Martha fixed a look on him. For now, the potency of that “mother’s look” still possessed some power.
With a sigh, Frederick kicked at the hay. Except, instead of rushing off, he turned to Mr. Malin. “Thank you for the lessons.”
Mr. Malin inclined his head. “A pleasure, Frederick.”
By the ease with which that assurance slipped from the da
rk stranger, Martha believed it, when she still wanted to distrust him and his motives. It would have been easier to face him, to send him away, to doubt him… had he been coolly aloof or unkind to her son. But he hadn’t. He’d proven himself a man who not only tolerated a child about, but treated him with the same respect he would a man. She waited as her son took his leave and closed the door, leaving her and Mr. Malin… alone.
“I did not properly thank you before,” she said, beginning her prepared speech.
He made to speak, but she held a hand up, silently begging for him to allow her to finish her thoughts. Exhaling, her breath stirred a little cloud of white, and she continued her rehearsed words. “I know you did not intervene because you sought my gratitude or… or…” She recoiled. My body. That favor that so many had come here asking for, demanding, and expecting. “Anything,” she finished lamely. There had been a time when she’d been an honorable lady, respected by all, a young woman who honored and adhered to all propriety. All that had been lost the moment she’d committed bigamy. Giving this man a proper thanks restored one piece of normality to her upended existence. “It is important to me that I express a deserved gratitude for not only what you did earlier at the White Stag, but also on the walk here.”
This time, he offered no protestations. He simply lifted his head in silent acknowledgment.
Martha twisted her fingers in her damp cloak. “I also wanted to thank you for your patience with my son.”
“He’s a clever boy. As I said, I enjoyed conversing with him,” he murmured. Returning to Guda’s stall, Mr. Malin favored the old mare with a pat on her withers and then brought the door closed.
Her heart stirred. Frederick’s own father had not recognized Frederick’s worth. Hadn’t cared to recognize Frederick’s skills or strengths. Nor had he even noted his daughters.
He’s pathetically weak. How can I ever be expected to bring him to London? How could I be expected to bring any of you to London?
Hatred spiraled through her, that dangerously powerful emotion still as potent more than a year after her husband’s murder. Her soul was surely as dark as her father’s for being unable to muster anything but relief that her life was no longer haunted by Lord Waters.
She was so mired in those ugliest memories that she belatedly registered Mr. Malin walking past and drawing open the stable doors.
Wind tore through the entryway, snowflakes whipping inside, covering the old hay.
“Wait…” she called out after him, but he was already leaving. It was better that he went. There was nothing more to say… and yet, there was. Her pulse racing at the insanity of her own idea, Martha rushed after him.
And yet…
She caught the edge of the wood doorjamb and stared out as Graham Malin gathered the reins of his horse and drew the tall, regal creature forward.
Martha stepped out of the way, allowing master and horse entry, and then closed the door behind them. “I thought you were leaving,” she blurted out. She promptly curled numb toes into the soles of her boots.
“You’ve my word, I’ll leave shortly,” he said crisply, guiding the mount into the stall next to Guda’s.
And why should he think otherwise? You’ve done nothing but order him gone since he first approached you at the White Stag.
Moving with the ease of one who owned these stables, Mr. Malin proceeded to gather up tools scattered about the untidy space: the brush, combs, a shovel. His arms full, he carried the items over to the stall and set them down.
“You misunderstood,” she called after him and then winced.
Do not. Do not… Trust your instincts. Trust your instincts when you’ve not before. It is not too late this time.
Mr. Malin turned back.
There was a question in his dark blue gaze, the shade an entrancing hue of the summer sky early on in the day, when her family had slept on while she’d sat and sketched its wonder. Now, that color called to her for different reasons. With his square jaw and noble features, he fair begged to be captured on canvas.
Say something… You are staring like a lackwit. “I wasn’t turning you out.”
He angled his head, an endearing half tilt that tumbled a dark curl over his eye and softened him, giving him a boyish look.
“That is, I wasn’t turning you out now. Before, I was,” she clarified, rambling once more. “At the White Stag, and then again—” Stop talking. Martha pressed her lips into a silencing line.
She’d forgotten how to be around people. Martha tried again. “I don’t have funds with which to pay you,” she said before she could call back that humiliating admission. And then the words came slipping out and rolling unto one another. “It is why I am… was… no longer hiring someone.” Martha gestured to the disorderly stables. “As you can see, we’re in need.” They’d been in need since her secret had somehow come to light, and all of High Town learned the truth. And that had only been after her family’s funds were lost. “I simply cannot hire you.” She grimaced. “Pay you,” she corrected. “I cannot pay you.”
He set down Guda’s brush. “And that is why you turned me away?”
Tell him yes and leave it at that. There’d been so many lies, however, mistruths that had gotten her tripped up over herself. “No,” she said quietly, drifting over. “That isn’t why. I don’t trust many people. I’ve had strangers come through here. Men who’ve promised to help. Men who’ve offered to help.” She bit at her lower lip and shook her head once. “And they didn’t.”
*
Martha Donaldson did not specifically articulate what offers of help had been made, but as a rogue with little opinion of most men, Graham knew precisely what those men had sought.
Men, who’ve promised to help. Men, who’ve offered to help… And they didn’t.
And with that, she’d revealed another detail about her life. Rage threaded through him. It knotted his gut, a seething sentiment that defied the cool pragmatism with which he was to approach each case.
That fury within him was a dangerous response, a careless one born of emotion that could end a mission and, on most any other assignment, a man’s life. He struggled to rein in the burning rage, to file it away and focus on nothing more than securing details to report back to his superiors.
“I thought you lied,” she confessed, toeing a piece of hay the way her son had earlier. “About working with horses, but I heard you with Frederick. You’re very knowledgeable of them.”
And with that, an encounter she’d secretly observed between him and her son, Graham had managed that which he’d previously failed to do—secure her trust.
There should be only a thrill of triumph and relief. The sooner he was able to acquire the requested information on Martha Donaldson and her circumstances, the sooner he’d return and be granted a meaningful mission.
So why did guilt shred his conscience? Why did he feel like the biggest bastard for that undeserved faith?
Stop. You’re a damned member of the Home Office. She is your assignment and nothing more. “Given your experience with previous… men, you are entitled to your suspicions,” he conceded. His efforts here were different. His were true. Telling himself that did not alleviate the slow-creeping guilt.
“Perhaps. But neither was it fair to judge you for the crimes of others.” Sweeping over, Martha retrieved the stiff brush and began to disentangle Scoundrel’s mane, which had become knotted from the wind. She moved the bristled comb deftly, a woman clearly accustomed to working in these stables, but also with a gentleness that displayed her regard for the animals. Yes, Martha Donaldson cared about animals. She simply didn’t have the funds to care for her own.
“What is his name?” she asked. Holding a hand out for the softer brush in Graham’s hand, she traded him for the one she had.
At his silence, she looked over. His neck went hot. “Scoundrel.”
Martha paused briefly. Her lips twitched, a smile ghosting her full mouth and transforming her delicate features. “They say a
man chooses the name of his horse as a reflection of his own character.”
Bloody hell. He deserved to be sacked from the Home Office. And when they did turn him out on his arse, they’d be wise to hire this minx in his stead. “Do they?” he asked, keeping his voice even. “Who, exactly, are ‘they’?”
“I read it in a book on the history of horseflesh.”
Of course she had. Clever. Cautious. And well-read. The woman was triply dangerous. “Is that how your son came to learn about Hippocrates?” The question was unfair. The child had revealed just where he’d learned that bit of knowledge.
Martha stopped mid-brush. The blood drained from her knuckles, indicating the death grip she had on it. Dancing back and forth, Scoundrel tossed his head. “He spoke to you about that?” she whispered.
“He did,” he said carefully, studying her reaction. “He mentioned his grandfather.”
“I… see.”
What did she see? Graham studied the top of her bent crimson head, trying to gather anything from that non-admission. The gentleness of her touch as she cared for Scoundrel belied the image of a woman who forbade her son from speaking to animals. And yet, according to Frederick, that was precisely what she’d done.
Abandoning her brush, Martha rushed off. She returned a moment later with a small knife. Dropping to a knee beside Scoundrel, Martha placed her near hand on the horse’s shoulder and slid her outside hand down the horse’s leg, near the fetlock. Sliding her other hand down the rear cannon, she lifted the foot and proceeded to pick out debris.
Graham had long had an appreciation for a voluptuous beauty draped in dampened silk. He’d come to admire the flirts skilled in the art of the wicked gaze.
Never, in his life, however, could he have imagined just how enticing it was seeing a woman skilled with horseflesh expertly tend a mount. Martha moved with a quiet ease and efficiency to rival the Duke of Sutton’s finest stable master. “You’ve some skill with horses.”
She briefly looked up from her exertions. A curl the color of sunset fell over her eye, and she blew it back. “A young woman on a farm comes to have many skills.”
The Rogue Who Rescued Her Page 8
