The room filled as late diners wandered in. Gradually, companionable silence gave way to the clink of glasses and low male voices. Cigar smoke rose to collect against the ornate plaster ceiling.
“Why isn’t she married?” Rafe asked after a while.
“Who?”
“Miss Cathcart.” Seeing the grin spread across the Scot’s face made Rafe regret he’d asked.
“Have an eye for her, do you, lad?”
Rafe gave him a warning look.
Ash laughed. “Aye, and well you should. She’s an attractive lady. I dinna ken why she never married. When I was in Penrith—must be eight or so years ago now—I think she was maybe seventeen at the time—I heard whispers about her and some weak-chinned Englishman. Her father was in a fine state about it.”
“Yet they never married.”
“She’s a commoner’s daughter. He was a baron’s son.”
“That matters?”
“Aye. In Britain, it does. But I’ll admit after spending near two years away from such distinctions, I see little sense in it now.”
“That’s why you don’t use your title in America?”
“That, and I dinna like the reminder.” Ash stared into his drink. “I wasna born to it, and I never aspired to it, nor does it sit well that every man in my family had to die for me to become the Earl of Kirkwell. I’d happily trade the title and all that goes with it to have my brothers back, so I would.”
Rafe nodded in understanding. He knew the Scot felt caught between the life he was building in America and his duties back in Scotland, and he respected the man for trying to earn his way by his own efforts, rather than the circumstances of his birth. Rafe was glad he didn’t suffer the weight of such responsibility. Having learned the hard way that with connections come obligations, he preferred the solitary life instead.
“My lord,” a nasal voice cut in.
Rafe looked up to see Pringle standing stiffly beside Ash’s chair.
Pointedly ignoring the smirking old man who had been foisted on him by Mrs. Throckmorton, the cantankerous guardian of the wife of one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Heartbreak Creek, Ash pulled a silver flask from his pocket, poured into his glass, recapped, and returned the flask to his jacket. “What is it, Pringle?” he finally asked with a deep sigh.
“If I might be so bold to interrupt your evening debauch, your lordship, will you need me to help prepare you for bed?”
Ash glared at him. “Dinna even try, ye fumble-handed deviant. I’ve dressed myself since I was a bairn, and I’ll do so until I die. Go. Return to whatever it is ye do that doesna include me. Dismissed.”
Top lip curled in disapproval, Pringle gave a smirking bow. “Of course, sir. Thank you, your lordship. Should you have need of me, I shall be in my small, cramped cubby belowdecks, scraping manure off your boots.”
Ash rounded on him with a snarl. “I was forced to bring you to Scotland, you simpering sod, but that doesna mean ye’ll arrive safely. Do ye ken?”
Pringle’s nostrils flared. His faded blue eyes narrowed mutinously below his bushy white brows. “I do indeed ken. Your lordship.”
“Then if you must approach me, you will do so with proper respect or I’ll have Thomas give you instruction. Do ye ken that?”
His terror of the Cheyenne evident, Pringle looked around, eyes wide. When he saw the Indian wasn’t present, he returned to his belligerent self. “Yes, your lordship.” Another smirking bow. He started to turn, then hesitated. “Oh,” he added, as if only then remembering. “Lady Kirkwell requests your attendance. Apparently dinner didn’t agree with her.”
Ash’s glass hit the side table so hard liquid spattered on the polished wood. “She’s been ill?”
“Several times, I believe. And on some of your belongings, it seems.” Pringle could barely hide his delight at imparting such news.
“Why dinna you tell me?” Not waiting for an answer, Ash rose.
“Shall I bring your libation, milord?” But the earl was already out the door. Pringle looked longingly at the glass.
“Go ahead,” Rafe said. “No use letting good liquor go to waste.”
“Thank you, sir, but that would be improper.”
“Suit yourself.”
“But since you insist.”
Before Rafe could point out that he hadn’t insisted on anything, the old man grabbed the glass, downed the contents in a single gulp, then erupted in a coughing fit. “Judas,” he choked out once he caught his breath. “What was that?”
“Ginger and raspberry tea,” Rafe guessed. “Laced with Northbridge Scotch Whisky.” Tossing back the last of his own drink, he rose, thinking he ought to go check on Thomas and make sure he wasn’t sending smoke signals off the deck. Then after changing out of his fancy clothes, he might take a stroll along the deck. Perhaps he’d come across Miss Cathcart and they could resume the conversation he hadn’t been able to pursue over dinner.
He liked the way she talked. And that teasing tone when she chided him. Her accent was different from that of the countess. Softer. Yet with an edge to it that let him know she wouldn’t be easy to fool or intimidate. He admired that.
And those beautiful mismatched eyes.
Three
An interesting pair, Josephine thought, watching from the shadows of her wooden chaise as the two men, deep in conversation, strolled slowly along the railing of the promenade deck.
Mr. Jessup was taller than his companion, and blond to his Indian friend’s shoulder-length black hair. Both were stern-faced men with weathered skin and a way of moving that drew the eye. Relaxed. Athletic. Confident. Neither seemed bothered by the constant pitch and yawl of the ship. Everything about them, from the way they walked, to the set of their shoulders, to the intensity with which they viewed their surroundings, proclaimed them men of experience, not all of which had come easily.
They had changed clothes since she’d last seen them at dinner, and seemed more comfortable in the less formal attire.
Mr. Jessup wore a shirt with no collar, dark trousers, and a long unbuttoned canvas coat similar to those worn by coachmen, but which in America was called a duster. Mr. Redstone was dressed in like fashion except in place of the coat, he wore a vest, and the long, fringed leather footwear favored by the few Indians she had seen during her brief trip from Boston to New York. She could easily imagine either man transported into one of the Western paintings she frequently saw in the London art gallery windows.
The two men stopped, spoke for a moment, then Mr. Redstone went back inside. Mr. Jessup stayed. Resting his elbows on the railing, he looked out over the rolling sea, his profile highlighted by a lantern affixed to a nearby support post.
She studied him, taking in the long length of his legs, the strength and slope of his back, the thrust of his jaw as he tipped back his head to study the night sky.
There was something intimate about watching a man who didn’t know you were there . . . especially a man as guarded as Rayford Jessup. What was he thinking to put such a pensive, almost sad, expression on his chiseled face?
He had surprised her at dinner when he’d stuck out his hand and introduced himself. At first, she’d been confused, then had realized he was referring back to her own words. That had surprised her even more. A man who actually listened. She hadn’t known such a thing existed. But just as she began to warm up to him, he had suddenly gone silent and had scarcely spoken for the rest of the meal.
Odd, that. Most men of her acquaintance were only too happy to talk about themselves, revealing far more than she cared to know about their hunting or riding prowess, their luck—or lack of it—at the gaming tables, their drinking escapades. Mr. Calhoun certainly had.
But she had learned little from Mr. Jessup.
That had infuriated Father. Which was why he had sent her to search him out after dinner in an
attempt to gather more information about the earl’s true purpose in coming to Penrith.
Instead, she had come here, to the darkest, most sheltered part of the deck, to enjoy the windy silence, broken only by the rhythmic rumble of the giant steam engine several decks below and the occasional snap of the auxiliary sails overhead.
It was a solitude she rarely experienced at home.
Sensing someone’s approach, she turned just as a familiar voice from dinner said, “Lucky me. My quarry sitting alone in the dark.”
Mr. Calhoun stopped at the end of her chaise and smiled down at her. In the faint light of the lanterns bolted along the promenade, his large square teeth gleamed like polished piano keys. “Were you waiting for me, Miss Cathcart?”
She repressed a shiver, not sure why the man put her vaguely on edge. He had been polite and attentive over dinner—quite the opposite of the American seated on her right—and was certainly pleasant to look at.
“Actually, I was waiting for a falling star.” She nodded toward the endless star-studded vista reaching down to the gently rolling horizon line. “The last stragglers of the Leonid meteor shower.”
“I fear you’ve missed it.”
“I fear you’re right.”
“Could I interest you in a stroll, instead?” He held out his hand.
She hesitated then, remembering Father’s admonitions to put on a smile, accepted his offer. As she rose and took his arm, she was aware that Mr. Jessup had turned to watch them, and was relieved when Mr. Calhoun suggested walking in the opposite direction of the tall man standing at the rail.
As they strolled—lurched was more like it—the swells having risen as the wind strengthened—they spoke of nonsensical things, trying not to bump into each other as they made their way around the promenade. There were few other passengers out this late, and she began to worry about being in such a dark, secluded place with a man she scarcely knew.
“I spoke to your father earlier,” he said, breaking a long silence. “He says you’re quite unattached, which I find both puzzling and encouraging.”
She looked levelly at him, as they were both nearly the same height. “Oh?” No telling what Father had said. He was far too blunt sometimes.
Mr. Calhoun’s teeth showed in a wide smile. “You’re much too beautiful to be alone. A woman as alluring as you should always have a man at her side.”
Unsure how to respond to that, she said nothing.
As they came around the corner after a full circuit, she saw that Mr. Jessup was still there, elbows resting on the rail, staring out over the water.
“Are you looking for someone, Josephine?” Mr. Calhoun murmured.
Startled, she drew back when he leaned closer to whisper into her ear, “Someone to chase away the loneliness? Bring a smile to your lovely face? Return passion to your life?”
She froze, too astounded to respond.
Which he seemed to take as encouragement. “I can be that man, my dear. I’m rich. I can shower you with gifts, show you the world, give you the companionship you seek.”
She jerked her hand from his arm. “What exactly did my father tell you?”
He blinked in surprise. “That you were open to an offer.”
“Of marriage?”
He laughed. “Lord, no. The last thing I need is a wife.”
A ringing began in her ears. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. A whore. He thought her a whore. And her father had planted that impression.
His smile faded. He stepped back. “I can see I have offended you. But really, Miss Cathcart. It’s no secret that . . . well, your situation is well known. I’m an important man. I have a reputation to consider. I can offer you protection and companionship, but not my name. I’m sure you understand.”
A searing pain knifed through her chest. Years of being snubbed, whispered about, treated with disdain and contempt, hardened into a single burning point of fury. Without thought, she lashed out. The sound of her palm striking his cheek was unnaturally loud in the stillness. “How dare you!”
He stumbled back. “What was that for?”
Unable to curb the rage consuming her, she drew her arm back to strike him again.
He caught her wrist in a bruising grip. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Let her go,” a deep voice ordered.
Through a blur of tears, Josephine saw a tall, imposing figure move up to Mr. Calhoun’s shoulder.
“I said let her go. Now.”
Calhoun released her arm. Muttering under his breath, he stomped away.
The rush of fury dissipated, leaving her so shaky that when the ship pitched, she almost lost her balance.
A hand gripped her elbow, steadying her. “Are you all right, Miss Cathcart?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out.
“Come sit down.” He led her to a nearby chaise. She sank onto the cold wooden slats, her nerves in such disarray she feared she might faint. Leaning back, she draped an arm over her burning eyes and struggled to get herself in hand. She rarely cried. And certainly not over some snide remark. But for some reason, this time . . .
How could Father have exposed her to that?
She heard the creak of wood as Mr. Jessup sat on the chaise beside hers. Taking her arm away, she saw that instead of settling back as she had, he sat facing her, leaning forward, his arms folded atop his bent knees. “Feeling better?”
She wasn’t sure. Here she sat in the dark with another man she scarcely knew. Yet in Mr. Jessup she sensed no threat. “Yes. Thank you for coming to my aid. It was foolish of me to be out here alone.”
“Why were you?”
She took a deep breath and let it go. Fear and tension went with it. But anger at her father remained. “Actually, I was sent to find you.”
That seemed to startle him. “Why?”
“My father”—the word tasted bitter on her tongue—“wants me to convince you that our horses are worth the outrageous price he intends to ask for them.”
He studied her for a moment, a fall of sun-bleached hair shadowing his eyes so she couldn’t read his expression. “Are they?”
“They are to me. But then, I’ve known most of them since birth. I’ve walked them when they were colicky, wrapped their sore legs, brushed and bathed them. I’ve mixed warm mash for them when they were sick, and consoled them when they were weaned. They’re like . . . family, I suppose.”
“And now you have to sell them.”
New tears rose. But rather than let him see them, she looked out to the distant horizon. “Yes.”
It was a moment before he spoke again. “The earl will pay a fair price. No more, no less. But if he does buy your horses, Miss Cathcart, no harm will come to them.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “You’re certain of that?”
“I am. He’s a good man. And he appreciates horses. In fact, rather than have a deaf gelding destroyed, he brought him all the way from Ireland to America out of loyalty to an animal that had been injured in his service. If you must part with your horses, they could be in no better care than with Kirkwell.”
Emotion clogged her throat. It was a moment before she trusted her voice enough to speak. “Thank you for telling me that.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
She heard the smile in his voice. It made her smile, too. “All I’ve seen of your country is a few big cities on the Northeastern coast, and the artwork of George Winter, and the fascinating illustrations Karl Bodmer made during his travels into the interior. Are the Western mountains as grand as they say?”
“Grander. Tell me about the horses.”
She laughed aloud. Another first: a man who didn’t enjoy the sound of his own voice. But because he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, and because—other than Jamie
—horses were her passion, she did as he requested.
“We have six proven brood mares, descended from the finest thoroughbred lines in England, and three fillies that will be ready over the next few years. This spring we welcomed six new foals, two of them sturdy colts, all sired by a young stallion we have never used before.”
“Why didn’t you use Pembroke’s Pride?”
How had he learned about Pems? She considered ignoring the question, then realized if he was coming to Penrith, he would find out soon enough. “He was injured last year and is still recovering.”
“Injured how?”
“In a fall.” She quickly added, “But Mercury’s bloodlines are every bit as strong. And he’s younger, so we may not use Pembroke’s Pride again.”
To deter further questions on that subject, she rambled on about this year’s foals, the health of their dams, the strengths of their sire.
He listened without interruption. In fact, he scarcely even moved, but continued to sit facing her, his big hands loosely clasped between his bent knees. His stillness was a noticeable thing. And slightly unsettling. How long had it been since a man was as attentive to her words as he was to her face or her father’s supposed wealth?
Yet his calm quietness reassured her, and despite the unaccustomed novelty of having a man’s entire focus on her as if every word she spoke was of utmost importance, she began to lose some of the wariness she normally felt in the company of strangers. Mr. Jessup knew little about her and nothing about Jamie, so she had no fear of another tawdry proposal. Nor did she question his motives since he showed little interest in Father’s reputed fortune—or lack of it now. He simply wanted to know about her beloved horses.
So she told him, relishing the chance to sit in the shadows away from prying eyes and enjoy the company of a handsome man she scarcely knew and would probably never speak to alone after this night. It was a gift he was giving her . . . the freedom to just be. No games. No hidden purposes. No intent other than to share a common love of horses.
Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02 Page 4
