Was he one of the locals who boarded their horses at Ashcroft? Prudence mentally ran down the list of boarders in her grandmother’s ledger. There had been no new names that she could remember.
She was also certain she had never seen this man before. Sizing him up, she ran her gaze from the top of his wavy brown hair over his broad shoulders, across his trim waist, down his muscled thighs, to the tips of his riding boots.
No, she would definitely have remembered seeing him before.
He must, therefore, be the new stable master. Prudence opened her mouth to return his greeting, expecting him to be just as eager to meet the woman who would someday be his employer. When he brushed past her without a second look, she clamped her mouth shut as though her jaw were hinged on a spring.
She pushed her irritation aside. Perhaps he didn’t realize who she was. After all, she had yet to introduce herself.
But then, what other woman would be wandering around, unaccompanied by servant or chaperone, in her grandmother’s stables in late afternoon? Certainly not one of the housemaids and not another boarder.
So this was to be the first test of her authority? Prudence straightened her shoulders, determined to demonstrate the same steel spine that ran through all Ashcroft women. She assumed she had one. She was an Ashcroft. At least in name.
“You there,” Prudence said in short, clipped tones, “saddle up my horse.”
Had that been too harsh? She had meant to sound confident, not rude. Despite her irritation, she pasted a facsimile of her grandmother’s benevolent smile on her lips.
The man turned, a slow graceful movement, as though he were moving through water while those around him had to be content with mere air.
“Pardon me?” His dark eyes seemed to see her for the first time.
Her smile drooped for a fraction of a moment before she remembered she was supposed to be in charge.
She had never seen eyes like his before. A deep gray as to be almost black, his eyes had the clarity of one of her grandmother’s thoroughbreds. They were framed by the same dark, long lashes. She found her gaze drawn to his narrow hips and long legs, assessing him as she would the value of a potential stud.
Prudence grasped a nearby rail for support and yanked her gaze back to his eyes.
“Saddle up my horse, please.” The please was a nice touch, she thought. If only she could have controlled the tremble in her voice that seemed to have found its way from her knees.
Had he noticed?
The corner of one eyebrow twitched, but the rest of his expression remained as calm as Smuggler’s Bay on a windless day.
Prudence met his gray gaze, fighting the urge to squirm.
Had she presumed wrongly? Had she just issued orders to a new boarder that had yet to be added to the books? Not a good beginning, to be sure!
She opened her mouth to clarify her mistake when, like a statue coming to life, he set the blanket and blade down on a hay bale.
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was soft, but firm.
Prudence let a small sigh of relief escape. She hadn’t been wrong. Now that the tall, dark-eyed stranger had resumed his proper role, she could resume hers. Maybe if she asked a few get-to-know-you questions, she could put him at ease.
“When did my grandmother hire you?”
It was an easy enough question, but when his eyes met hers, she could almost see him calculating his response in their gray depths.
He turned his back to her to peruse a line of saddles hanging on the wall. “Last week. Just arrived today.”
The answer was frustratingly thin. Prudence considered the few words with which he had gifted her. He had a soft accent. Not harsh. Not guttural. Almost musical. Certainly not American. At least not fully.
“English?” she asked, as miserly with her words as he had been with his.
Surely her grandmother wouldn’t hire an English stable master. That would be akin to inviting the proverbial fox into the henhouse. Or was he a sympathizer? Grandma Rachel had an ability to judge people with uncanny accuracy almost from the moment she met them.
“Welsh, actually.” He turned in his water-filled world to give her a head to toe perusal that left her skin singed in its wake.
Payback for her earlier assessment of him?
Of course not. He was only sizing her up before selecting the proper saddle. So why did his gaze linger far longer on her hips than was necessary—or proper?
He turned back to the wall of saddles, leaving Prudence wondering if she met his standards. Probably not. She wouldn’t make the best of brood mares. It wasn’t in the Ashcroft bloodline.
From where had that thought come? Prudence shook her head.
“I’ve been in America for almost twenty years now, so perhaps I cannot claim to be Welsh either. Then again, I’m not really sure I ever was Welsh. Someone left me at the door of the Sisters of the Divine Mercy thirty-one years ago.” He shrugged. “I could be French for all I know.”
“You don’t look much like a stable boy.” Prudence interrupted him before he could analyze his muddy heritage further.
She cringed at her poor choice of words. He didn’t look much like a boy at all.
There were lines at the corners of his eyes when he turned this time. “Thank you. I do believe that is the first time anyone has ever said that to me.”
Was he laughing at her? Heat flared in her cheeks. Darn her red hair. With her complexion, even the slightest embarrassment set her cheeks aflame. There could be no hiding it.
“Not that one,” Prudence snapped when he reached up to pull down a sidesaddle.
Why did men always assume a woman wanted to ride sidesaddle?
The man replaced the sidesaddle and pulled down a regular saddle.
“You’ll pardon me for saying, miss, but you’re not dressed to ride astride.”
His voice was soft and soothing, as though he spoke to one of the mares. He was probably better with horses than people. Prudence glared at him. For some reason, she didn’t like that they had that in common.
The stable master shrugged. “So which one is your horse?”
Prudence pointed. “The big red at the end of this row.”
“That so?” The man eyed her again, his skepticism evident in the slow path of his gaze from the crown of her cap to the scuffed toe of her boot.
Prudence gritted her teeth against the insult. It was one thing to suggest she wasn’t dressed for riding. That much was obvious. It was quite another to suggest that she couldn’t handle her own horse.
With another shrug of indifference, the stable master set the saddle on the nearest bale and went to fetch Bolt from her stall.
The chestnut mare gave a sharp snort of protest when the strange man tried to put the bit in her mouth. Trained though Bolt might be, she only responded well to Prudence, and that was only when in the proper frame of mind.
Please, Bolt, just this once, behave, will you?
To Prudence’s amazement, Bolt must have heard her silent plea, for in the next moment, she followed the stable master out of her stall like a puppy, hooves clacking against the stone floor.
“Begging your pardon again, but this is a lot of horse for someone as petite as yourself.” Despite his spoken reservations, the stable master settled the saddle on Bolt’s back.
While Prudence was determined to give him the benefit of the doubt, he seemed just as determined to find ways to irritate her. On any other day, she wouldn’t have taken the bait, but today her frayed nerves were already at the edge.
“Are you suggesting I can’t handle her?”
Bolt danced when he reached beneath her with deft hands to tighten the straps.
“Not at all. Just making conversation.”
He nudged Bolt in the side with a knee to force her to exhale, then gave the strap one last tug before buckling it. As though bobbing on a wave, he dodged Bolt’s sharp teeth when she swung her big head around.
“You just might want to keep those comm
ents to yourself if you expect to have a long career at Ashcroft Stables.” She reached for Bolt’s reins.
“Sorry, miss. I shall endeavor to do so.”
He sounded contrite enough, but she couldn’t shake the feeling he found something amusing.
With one last glance at his face to assure herself that he wasn’t smiling, Prudence grabbed Bolt’s saddle and prepared to mount her.
“Argh!” She groaned when the buckle on her boot caught in the hem of her skirt.
Hopping on one foot, Prudence ignored the sound of her best petticoat tearing as she forced her way free. She really should have stopped by her room to put on her riding habit. She might have changed her mind about a ride now if not for the weight of his gaze on her.
Prudence gasped when a pair of large hands circled her waist. Before she could protest, she found herself hoisted through the air.
“Get your hands off me!” she said from atop Bolt’s wide back. A ridiculous statement since his hands were once more at his side.
She quickly adjusted her position and tried to pull her skirts over her bare knees in order to reclaim what little remained of her dignity.
Bolt, spooked by Prudence’s outburst and the sudden weight, lived up to her name. Had it not been for Prudence’s extensive experience with the mare’s temperament, she would have ended up in a heap right outside the stable door while her horse rode off into the setting sun.
As it was, she was still struggling to regain her balance by the time she reached the first rise. The cool breeze from the ocean caught her skirts, and they billowed up, settling well above her knees. Once more she could feel the stable master’s gaze boring into her back. She chanced a glance back at the stable just in time to see him repress a toothy grin.
She would speak to her grandmother about dismissing him in the morning.
Chapter Two
Prudence allowed the chestnut mare to set her own pace over the thawing earth.
The musty scent of newly awakened soil filled the air as Bolt’s hooves kicked up clods of matted grass and mud. The setting sun cast golden edges to the soft lavenders and pale pinks of the early spring flowers. Swallows swirled above, dipping low into the meadow to collect dry grasses for their nests.
Prudence scarcely noticed any of it.
Instead, a pair of clear, gray eyes filled her vision. On any other man, she would have called his face handsome, his grin infectious. Perhaps if her humiliation weren’t the source of his amusement, she might find him so.
Prudence tamped down her irritation. She had spent years being laughed at, taunted for simply being a girl. But with her return to Ashcroft, she had put that behind her. It would not happen again. She would not allow it.
Bolt surged forward, threatening to pull the reins from her grasp.
“Easy, now.” Prudence gave Bolt a reassuring pat on the neck. “You always were one to sense what I’m feeling weren’t you, girl?”
Bolt nickered in response.
“Well, we won’t let him get the best of us. Let’s just enjoy our ride and put him out of our minds, shall we?”
If only it were that easy.
He had picked her up as though she were no heavier than a child. The heat of his hands about her waist, the sensation of being lifted into the air had been shocking. And perhaps something else. Thrilling?
Like a puddle, the warmth spread from her waist to her cheeks, her arms, her limbs, her… Prudence squirmed in her saddle as the memory of his heat touched her in places his hands would certainly never linger. Nor any other man’s for that matter.
What had her grandmother seen in him? He hardly seemed the type to be a stable master.
Rachel Ashcroft had always been faultless in her judgment. If she saw something in a man, Prudence hesitated to second-guess, but with her grandmother’s illness, perhaps her keen eye for character and ability had dulled.
In her mind’s eye, Prudence admired the man’s broad shoulders, his power evident from the way his brown woolen coat stretched over them. But being accustomed to hard work was only the half of it. A stable master needed to be able to give orders as well as receive them. Her few minutes with the new man had left her with the sense he was unaccustomed to taking orders—from anybody. Giving them, perhaps. But not taking them.
That would change in time. He would soon learn that Rachel Ashcroft’s granddaughter was not someone to be trifled with, nor laughed at.
Prudence chuckled when Bolt chose her own route down a soft slope. Like her horse, she would give her intractable stable master free rein in his domain. But in the end, he would learn to follow her lead.
Prudence leaned back in her saddle, providing her mare with what counterweight she could to help her retain her footing. On flatter ground, Bolt surged forward, and Prudence pulled back on the reins once more.
“I know you want to run, and we will, but I need to think for a while.”
Bolt’s ear flicked as though she didn’t care to hear her master’s excuses, but she settled into a more sedate canter.
Prudence set the matter of the irritating stable master aside and tried to focus on her conversation with her grandmother. She hated to disappoint Rachel Ashcroft, but she really had no intention of getting married.
Somehow there had to be a way to please her grandmother without shackling herself to an overbearing man, one with whom she felt a mutual disregard, but who felt a need to meddle in her business.
Prudence clicked her tongue and guided Bolt away from a patch of muddy ground toward a less treacherous looking stretch of meadow atop a rise.
Suppose she did become engaged? Would an impending wedding give her grandmother the strength she needed to recover?
Bolt gave a nervous whinny.
“Don’t worry. It needn’t be a real engagement.” Prudence told her mare as though the animal had read her thoughts. “Once Grandma Rachel recovers, I will find a way to dissolve the engagement. Then everything will be as it should be.”
There was, of course, one major flaw in the plan. A fake engagement required a willing partner.
Richard would be the most likely choice. Prudence rarely had difficulty persuading her childhood friend to participate in her schemes.
Bolt snorted and shook her dark mane.
“You’re right. Richard won’t do.” Her grandmother had already declared Richard unsuitable.
An image of the stable master, all long lean limbs, strong back, and broad shoulders sprung to mind. Bolt started when Prudence scoffed aloud.
An unexpected thrill coursed through her at the idea, but she shrugged it off. She needed someone who would agree to a temporary betrothal, not sire her children. The stable master made perhaps an even poorer choice than Richard. Unlike Richard, the stable master hardly seemed the cooperative type.
Bolt slowed to a stop at the top of the rise and bent her head as if to enjoy the view of the stream meandering through the valley below before it emptied into the ocean in the roar of a distant waterfall.
Prudence remained content to sit atop Bolt’s broad back. She needed to work out her plans. She swung her leg over to sit sidesaddle, then smoothed her skirts back over her legs until only the badly scuffed toes of her boots peeked from beneath.
Unfortunately, the only men Prudence really knew aside from Richard were her classmates. She went through a roster in her mind, there were a few that she heard had already wed, but the rest she rejected as being insupportably arrogant, impossibly boorish, or just downright unacceptable in every way.
Prudence snorted, and Bolt whinnied and danced sideways, forcing her to grab the saddle to keep from tumbling off. She gave her mare a half-hearted pat, and Bolt stilled.
Not that they would have found her appealing either. Her classmates had taken great delight in teasing her about her red hair, her lack of curves, her unfeminine alacrity for mathematics. And those were their kinder taunts, the ones reserved for her presence. She didn’t want to think about things they said when they didn
’t think she was within earshot.
Despite their animosity, she supposed any number of them could be convinced to marry her in order to expand his family’s holdings. Men like them considered it their duty to marry wealth. And when it came to wealth, an Ashcroft was a catch of the first order, even if she was part of the bargain.
Nevertheless, there was no way any of them would be content to leave her with the running of the business once they were married. Marrying a former classmate would be as good as signing over Ashcroft.
Of course there were other candidates in Rhode Island and even beyond the colony’s borders. That she had never met any of them might be blamed on the strict watch the Sorensons had kept over her. Might be, if not for the fact she had never asked to go to any of the balls or assemblies in Boston. She had been certain she could never measure up to Boston’s ideal of a young woman making her entry into society.
Besides, any man she might have met would, most likely, be much like her classmates.
Prudence scratched behind Bolt’s ear as she reasoned out her thinking. Perhaps she needed to set her sights lower.
It went without saying that she had no need to marry for money, and a poor man would not have the experience to run a business. Perhaps he might not even want to try. A poor man might simply count his blessings at making such a fortunate match and be content to leave Ashcroft & Sons to her.
Bolt shifted again and stamped a hoof on the muddy ground. Prudence absently patted her mare’s silky neck.
She might even convince Richard to draw up a contract, ensuring that Ashcroft would remain hers and hers alone. Prudence tapped her lips with a gloved finger, ignoring the smell of horse. Surely, the estate could afford to give her husband a sufficient allowance, one that permitted him to do as he pleased while encouraging him to leave her and the business alone.
The sun flickered and dipped below the hills. Prudence looked skyward. It was still too dark for the stars, but Venus winked back at her.
Prudence lifted her leg to swing it back over Bolt’s back. Sensing her mistress’s willingness to move again, Bolt started down the hill before Prudence got her foot over the horse’s broad neck.
Willing Love Page 2
