She looked at him with quiet eyes. “I should have been different.”
“Hold that thought.” Ned couldn’t touch her, not without risking another flinch. Instead, he knelt before her, making himself seem small and harmless. He looked up in her eyes from his vantage point on the floor. “Hold that thought tightly, with both hands. Can you feel it?”
She clasped her hands together.
“I believe what you just said was that if you had been a different person, your husband might not have hit you.”
She gave a second jerky nod.
“Well, let me show you something I’ve learned. Now, are you still holding on to that thought? Gather it all up in your hands—don’t leave any of it out. Have it? Good. Now stand up.”
She stared at him suspiciously. “Is this some sort of trick?”
“Lady Harcroft, if I wanted to betray you, I wouldn’t need any tricks. I would have come here with twelve men and your husband. I’ll stay here with my knee on the floor for now—you stand up.”
Warily she clambered to her feet; as she did, she started to drop her hands to her waist.
“Careful,” Ned warned teasingly. “You’ll drop the thought, and I specifically told you to hold it with both hands.”
“But there’s nothing there.”
“Nonsense. You can feel that thought in your hands, even if you can’t see it. You’re holding it, all one great weight. It’s bowing your shoulders. And if you run your thumbs over it, you can feel the surface. What does it feel like?”
Lady Harcroft glanced down at her empty hands. “It’s a harsh, spiked thing,” she said softly, “full of bitterness and recrimination.”
“I’m going to stand up now.” Ned did, and then, giving her a wide berth, he walked to the door and threw it open. He took three steps back, so that she could stand in the doorway without coming too close to him. Then he motioned her forward.
She crossed over to him.
“Now this is the hard part. Draw back your arm—yes, like that—and throw the thought as far away as you can.”
“But—”
“Just toss whatever you were thinking right out the door, like the slimy piece of refuse that it is. That sort of thinking has no place in your life. It wasn’t your fault. It’s never your fault if a man hits you.”
She glanced at him in hesitation.
“Go on. Throw it.”
“But I’m not holding on to anything.”
“Then it shouldn’t bother you to discard it.”
Tenuous logic, but then, doubts that wormed into his own heart had little truck with logic. Ned had discovered a thousand ways to cast out that legion on his own.
Louisa drew in a tremulous breath, and then looked out the door. Her gaze sharpened, and she focused on the valley that lay below. Slowly she raised her hands to her waist. Then she mimed a throw—a girl’s throw, halfhearted and tentative, the sort that would have made him toss up his hands in outrage if she had been bowling in cricket—but a throw nonetheless. And then she turned and gave him a faltering smile. It was the first smile he’d seen on her since he’d arrived.
“There. Now don’t you feel better?”
“That,” she said, stepping backward, “should not have worked. It was entirely irrational.”
Ned shut the door behind her. “It helped, didn’t it?”
“You’re a black magician, Mr. Carhart. How did you know? Did Kate send you to cheer me up?”
Ned shrugged. He knew because…he knew. He’d known doubt and uncertainty. He’d grappled with fear. And he’d won, damn it. Eventually.
It shouldn’t have mattered that he needed to employ such cheap tricks to claim his own triumph. It shouldn’t have mattered that in the worst of times he still needed every scrap of dark magic he could conjure, just to maintain his illusions. All that mattered was that he won, every damned time.
“It’s my job to know irrationality,” Ned replied with more airiness than he felt. “As for my wife…” He looked around the cabin and a second truth struck him. Someone had thought of everything. There were provisions. A little washtub stood to the side—no doubt where the infant’s napkins had been cleaned this morning, something Ned would never have thought of in a million years. She’d planned for this as carefully as for a siege. Now that he glanced into the small adjoining room, he could see the shadowed form of a nursemaid, holding a child in her arms.
And he’d thought Kate was delicate. He felt as if he’d glanced into a room, expecting to see a china tea set, and found instead an intricate mass of gears, silently running the clock tower to which every man set his watch.
“My wife,” Ned said, “will handle the eggs.”
Lady Harcroft raised her chin. “Tell Kate thank you, then. This was as good as eggs for breakfast.”
THE MILES BACK to Berkswift blurred in Ned’s mind, dust and the scent of burning leaves commingling into a confusion in his mind. The slow trot of his horse seemed to drum the important points into his mind.
Lady Harcroft had escaped her husband.
Kate had helped. And she’d not said a word of it to Ned—or, as far as Ned could tell, to anyone else.
She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust anyone, so far as he could tell. And it was probably partially Ned’s own fault.
Whatever their marriage might have been, he’d destroyed those nascent seeds of hope when he had left. Their marriage had been a convenience, an accident. It had only seemed polite to leave her alone, to not inflict on her the worst of his faults. He hadn’t wanted to burden her.
But now he wanted to be more than a burden.
It was in this mood that he arrived at home and handed his horse off to Plum. He headed round to Champion’s pasture, armed with a bag of peppermints. Easier, perhaps, to talk to a horse than to carry on a conversation with his wife. Anything he could imagine saying to her came out in his mind as a confrontation. And the last thing he wanted to do at this point was engage in recriminations.
But it was not Kate who found him as he leaned against the railing. It was Harcroft. Ned had not had time to sort his thoughts about his wife into place. He wasn’t ready to think of Harcroft. He strode through the thick grass, his boots gleaming as if even the cow shards made way before his shining magnificence.
He walked up to Ned and stared through the fence rails. “That’s the most flea-bitten, mange-ridden, hollow-chested mongrel of a horse I’ve ever seen. Why was it never gelded?”
“His name,” Ned said in abstraction, “is Champion.”
Harcroft sighed. “You always did have an odd sense of humor, Carhart.” He spoke those words as if he were hurling insults.
Ned shrugged. “You always didn’t.”
Once, Harcroft’s epithets might have stung Ned, along with the implication that Ned was too frivolous, too ready to make a joke. If Ned had just pledged himself to knighthood, Harcroft was his enemy. He was the dark knight across the field.
He didn’t look much like a villain.
A pause.
“Any luck?” Harcroft finally asked.
“Nothing.” Ned had gone on to visit Mrs. Alcot after he saw Lady Harcroft. “Just an ancient widow, who insisted on talking my ear off. She was delighted to answer my questions—and to tell me about the health of her pigs, her ducks and Kevin.”
Harcroft frowned in puzzlement. “Her grandson?”
A point to Ned. He smiled grimly. “Her rooster.”
“Ah.” Harcroft’s lip curled. “Women. Always talking. Naming things.”
Harcroft’s wife had surely kept her silence long enough. Years and years. And all this time, Ned had known the man and never guessed. It made him feel queasy.
What he finally said was, “And your day?”
Harcroft didn’t answer. “Where did you get this horse?”
“I bought him for ten pounds.” If Ned were a knight in rusted armor, Champion—mangy, distrustful Champion—might have made an appropriate steed.
“So the story I heard today was true. You happened upon a carter struggling to control a vicious animal, and you intervened to save the brute from a beating.”
Ned nodded. “Talking about that in the village, are they?”
“You always were too soft-hearted.” Harcroft spoke in smoldering disdain.
“It’s true. I’m funny and modest. I really shouldn’t be kind, too—it makes life difficult for the rest of you fellows, who never will measure up.”
Harcroft’s eyes narrowed, and his face scrunched up. He peered at Ned in confusion. Slowly his expression cleared. “Oh,” he said flatly. “You’re joking again.”
Go ahead and believe that. “We’ll talk tonight,” Ned said. “I’m more than willing to help you continue the search. The faster we work, the less likely that any trail will grow cold. I want to make sure you finish what needs to be done here, as quickly as possible.” And that last was no joke.
Harcroft stared at Champion one last time. Finally he shook his head. “Was Lady Kathleen with you when you purchased this beast?”
Ned put his head to one side, unsure how to respond. The truth seemed innocent enough, though, and if he were caught in a lie, Harcroft might begin to suspect that Ned knew something. “Yes,” he finally said.
“Thought so. Trying to impress her?” He snorted. “Women. They’ll make you weak, Carhart, if you allow them to sway your actions. Be careful of her.”
“And here I thought she did nothing but shop.”
Harcroft shrugged. “Well, there’s that wager about her. You might have heard. Whoever seduces her, and produces one of her undergarments as proof, will win five thousand pounds.”
Ned felt his sense of humor rapidly evaporating. “Nobody’s collected.”
“Where there’s smoke…” Harcroft trailed off, spreading his hands suggestively.
“Where there’s smoke, there’s arson.” Ned’s hands gripped the rail. “And arsonists will be dealt with. Let me assure you, Harcroft—for all my humor and kindness, I’m not weak. Just slow to anger. I won’t brook any insults. Not even from you.”
Especially not from you.
Harcroft paused thoughtfully. “Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And you know the old saying. Speak of the devil…”
Ned glanced toward the house. Kate was picking her way across the field. She could see that he was talking to Harcroft, and Ned felt a sudden urge to push the man away and disclaim all knowledge of him. Harcroft had made no effort to modulate his tone; she might even have heard him. But her expression did not change, not even in the slightest, and Ned was struck again by what an exquisite, complicated thing she had accomplished. To have had Lady Harcroft brought here, with only a hint of a whisper of talk—and even that, evanescent—was a tremendous thing. To not show her natural revulsion—to welcome Harcroft into her home with so little reaction…Well. She was playing a tremendous role indeed.
Behind that seemingly fragile femininity stood something strong and indomitable.
She walked toward them, sure-footed through the ankle-high grass. She was wearing a sober high-necked walking dress, in a purple so bruised she could have been in half-mourning. The fabric shone subtly in the afternoon sun; the lower hem was darkened with dew.
Ned reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of candies.
“Peppermint, Harcroft?” The man stared at the white blob. His nose wrinkled and he took one, popping it into his mouth.
“Lady Kathleen?”
His wife glanced at him distrustfully, and then reached out and took the candy. She tossed it back and forth, from gloved hand to gloved hand. Then, without once looking at Harcroft, who crunched his treat noisily, she said, “I assume Champion’s licked the peppermints in this batch, as well?”
All crunching stopped. Harcroft froze, a pained expression on his face. Too polite to spit; too fastidious to swallow. Instead, he turned bright red and choked.
Ned swallowed a delighted chortle. Champion hadn’t come close enough to Ned to lick anything, but the look on the earl’s face was too precious to interrupt.
Kate threw her peppermint into the field.
“Excuse me,” Harcroft choked out, his words garbled around the candy in his mouth. “I have to—I have to—” He pointed vaguely, desperately, in the direction of the house.
“Horses have clean mouths,” Ned intoned innocently. “Harcroft, where are you— Ah. Well.” He turned to his wife. “There he goes.”
A slight, satisfied curl to her lips was the only indication she gave that she’d intended to drive the man off. The signs were all there, for anyone to see.
“You,” Ned said, “are…”
“He did speak of the devil,” Kate said. “A little taste of the diabolical, I believe, would do him good.”
“Oh, yes. I have it. ‘Speak of the devil, and he licks your peppermints.’”
Kate snickered. “Something like that.”
“Also, thank you.”
“For driving off your friend?” She looked surprised.
“No. The more I discover about what transpired in my absence, the more responsibility I realize you’ve taken on. I had assumed that Gareth would take on much of it—that was our agreement when I left, you know. But then, responsible as Gareth always has been, he would never have noticed the little things. The human touches. Like Mrs. Alcot.”
Like Louisa Paxton, Lady Harcroft.
Kate nodded regally and held out her hand again. For a tiny instant, he contemplated taking those delicate fingers in his. Stripping off her glove, baring that soft skin to the sun and his touch.
But she wasn’t asking for importunity. He put another peppermint in her palm instead. She didn’t throw this one, though; instead, she weighed it from hand to hand, as carefully as if it were an ingot of metal whose worth she had yet to judge.
Finally, she looked up at him. “What does Harcroft matter to you?” Her eyes were almost silver with refracted light. They seemed to cut through Ned.
He had been so much in sympathy with her, he’d forgotten. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t know he knew. The question wasn’t idle. She wanted to know if he might betray her.
Ned swallowed.
She’d never trusted him with the truth of her competence. He wanted her to tell him the truth, let him into her life. He wanted her to judge him worthy of knowing her—the true Kate, the one she hid away.
“Harcroft is a distant cousin,” Ned said softly. “We were friends, long before, when we were younger. I think we’re rather too dissimilar now to be more than acquaintances.”
“But he’s your family.”
“Half of polite society is my family, if I must count him my relation,” Ned said dryly. “If you must know, my main obligation to Harcroft is that he assisted me with the people I think of as my true family. When Jenny and Gareth married, Harcroft and his wife welcomed Jenny—Lady Blakely—into society. It wasn’t clear at the time that she would take. With his assistance, she did. I am not insensible of my obligations to him. But he’s not true family.”
“True family,” Kate mused quietly. “Those are the people who ask, and on whose say-so, you go halfway round the world? People like Lord Blakely, then.”
She looked up at him.
“Rather like oxygen,” Ned agreed, “inhaled into lungs that burn with exertion. Family consists of the people who are vital, even though sometimes they hurt. But if you’re worried that I feel some obligation to Harcroft that would make me reveal that little trick you played on him with the peppermints, or, um, anything else—worry no more.”
She glanced at him, and then looked away once again. “And who do you include in this category of true family, then?”
“Jenny,” Ned said instantly. “Gareth. My mother. Laura—that’s Gareth’s half sister. She and I were practically raised together. It’s not a large group, Kate.”
Still she didn’t say anything. Her lips pressed whitely together.
He’d wanted her to kn
ow that the people who could command his loyalty were few, that she could rely on him. Obviously, that hadn’t worked.
She was looking at him still. Not one muscle had shifted in her face, and yet he could see that the glitter in her eyes was not hatred or even mistrust. He’d completely misunderstood; this wasn’t about Harcroft, somehow. He was never going to understand women. By the furrow in her forehead, he guessed he’d said something truly awful. He’d misread that silver glint all along. She wasn’t angry with him. She was devastated.
“Christ,” he swore in confusion. “What did I say? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
She shook her head. “Wrong question. It’s what you didn’t say.”
“Very well, then. What didn’t I say?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know.” Her words were bitter, and now she looked down. “And nothing that I couldn’t have expected. It doesn’t matter.”
The edge of the sunlight caught the smallest reflection of moisture in her eyes. She was doing a valiant job of not crying. Her nostrils flared. She took in a deep breath, no doubt intending it to be calming. “It does. Kate, I don’t actually want to cause you pain, you know. If you would just tell me—”
“Jenny,” she counted softly. “Gareth. Laura. Your mother. I don’t question your allegiance to any of them, or the sincerity of the connection. It’s foolish of me. We’re not that kind of husband and wife. But Ned, you are married to me.”
Oxygen? It was as if suddenly there were too much of it, as if his every breath counted for twice as much. Ned felt himself gasping—as if he were a salmon cast upon the sand.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It never does seem to be. You vowed to cherish me,” Kate said quietly. “You vowed to love me and honor me. When I spoke my vows, I meant them. I intended to cleave unto you for the rest of my life, but you disappeared for years. To you, that ceremony was nothing but words,” Kate said bitterly. She held up her hand, index finger pointed. And then she touched his chest—as if she were tallying up his mistakes on his ribs. Her finger swished along him as if making an accusatory notch: One.
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