Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by K. J. Jackson

  He patted the horse’s side. “Phalos I kept, though. He was mine from the moment I saw his eyes on that battlefield. Standing his ground against the exploding gunpowder, the gunfire, the death around him. It was remarkable—he was remarkable.”

  Wynne stayed silent, afraid to move, watching Rowen out of the corner of her eye as she stroked the horse’s dark nose. Rowen was telling her something real, something of him, and she didn’t want it to end, didn’t want to risk the slightest movement to interrupt him.

  “We got him out of the battle, and he has not left my side since.” Rowen moved forward, his hand going up to rub the odd white ring around the horse’s left ear, admiration clear on his face. “But you are right about his age. I have tried to leave him to the fields to age in comfort, but he refuses it. He becomes overly jealous of any other horse I use. So much so that he torments them if he gets close. And he gets away with it. He has never not been in charge of his kind.”

  “Did he see you this morning?”

  “No.” A sheepish smile crossed Rowen’s face. “I snuck that steed from the far stable. And then I took a bath when we got back to rid myself of the other horse’s scent.”

  Wynne laughed. “Afraid of your own horse. I would not have thought it of you.”

  Rowen shrugged. “Anything to avoid his jealousy. Every other horse here knows he is in charge. He does not have to prove it, but that would not stop him from going after that poor horse. Phalos is just too proud to not want to be working.”

  Wynne looked up at Phalos’s black eyes, taking in the size of him. “I cannot imagine any horse wanting to be on his bad side.”

  “One would not think it to look at him—his size and stature are intimidating—but he is especially good at putting nervous mares at ease,” Rowen said. “Gentle. He nuzzles them and they are jelly—will follow him anywhere. It was especially helpful when we had to move the horses silently in the cover of night.”

  Wynne looked from Phalos to Rowen. “You two seem to have that in common.”

  “Sneaking along in the cover of night?”

  “Putting women—at least me—at ease. It is one thing about you—I have never been nervous when I am with you. For all that I do not remember. For how you found me in the woods—in the moors. I have never been afraid when you are near me—even though I should have been, a thousand times over.”

  Rowen cleared his throat with a slight nod, stepping away from Phalos. “Come. I would like to show you the other stables.”

  She had meant it as a compliment, Rowen’s innate ability to calm her, to make her feel safe. But his abrupt change of subject threw Wynne, and she thought she misstepped her words with Rowen.

  In the next few steps through the stable, though, his light chatter as they moved past the other stalls reassured her. She may have made him uncomfortable, but it wasn’t so grievous that she got sent back to the castle.

  They stepped out into the daylight just as a man on a tall, spirited, white horse came to a rearing halt at the entrance of the stable.

  “Blast it.” Rowen yanked Wynne to the side of the entrance to avoid the flying hooves.

  Wynne watched as Rowen’s annoyance at almost getting trampled turned into an easy smile once the horse calmed and he could see the rider.

  “Seb, you arse. Learn how to ride a horse,” Rowen scolded good-naturedly.

  The man swung his leg over the mare, dropping down in front of Rowen and Wynne, the reins in his hand. He was tall, taller than Rowen, dark brown hair, solid build with a handsome face that looked like a pinch of the devil sat on the edges of his mouth.

  “It took all of my wiles during the past two days just to get this one here, for all her angst.” The man patted the mare’s sweaty neck, and she turned to nip at his arm. “Is Phalos in here? I want to get her next to him to see if she can be calmed.”

  Rowen nodded. “Yes, but hold for a moment.” Rowen turned to Wynne. “This man, I would like you to meet. Miss Theaton, may I introduce Lord Luhaunt. He is friend from years ago. Sebastian, this is Miss Theaton.”

  Wynne gave Luhaunt a bright smile. “And I thought the afternoon could not get any better, Rowe showing me the stables—and then to meet a friend of his.”

  “I am pleased—” The mare reared, kicking away from Luhaunt.

  She watched Luhaunt scramble to get in front of the horse’s nose, trying to calm the mare.

  Wynne stole a glance at Rowen and he caught her eye, his amusement plain. “We were in the war together. Luhaunt has a sixth sense when it comes to finding horses of merit, so he was particularly handy for our work on the continent. He still is.”

  The horse semi-calm, Rowen turned his attention to Luhaunt. “I did not expect you for a few weeks.”

  Luhaunt shrugged. “I am just passing through—I thought to take this one up to Lanark. But she got spooked a half day back and has not recovered. I do not think we could make the trip without killing each other, so I veered here to switch her out.”

  Rowen looked to Wynne. “Luhaunt is on his way to pick up several horses in the north. If he approves of them, of course. He has as much of a stake in this breeding farm as I do.”

  “Yes, plus, Rowe needs me to find the good breeds,” Luhaunt said. “He is much too particular with how his horses measure up—this place would be near empty without me.”

  Wynne nodded. “I imagine Phalos has done that to him.”

  Luhaunt chuckled. “Yes, Phalos does set a high bar to match.” He looked to Rowen, his eyebrow arched. “Miss Theaton is a discerning one. I look forward to chatting with her further when I return.”

  Rowen stepped forward, slapping Luhaunt on the shoulder, ushering him into the stable. “I can see you are anxious to be along—drop the mare by Phalos. I will check on her in a few minutes. Stall sixty-eight has a nice mare—fresh—for the rest of your journey. Are you sure you do not wish to stay the night?”

  “No. I had hoped to be to the border by nightfall, so best to stay on the move. I will stay for a spell on my return.”

  Rowen gave him a nod. “God-speed.”

  Luhaunt looked to Wynne. “It has been a pleasure—short—but a pleasure.”

  “The same for me,” Wynne said.

  Luhaunt moved from Rowen and Wynne into the stable. Rowen watched him for just a moment before turning to Wynne, holding his hand forward for them to walk.

  “He is the wind, that one. Loves the travel. Loves the people everywhere he is. Loves not having anything permanent in his life.”

  “But I understand he is a good friend to you?”

  “The best.”

  For the next two hours, Rowen walked Wynne through the other stables, showing her some of the horses from the war, some of their descendants, some that were here for breeding, some that were currently being trained for racing, some that were here to live out their elderly years in peace.

  It was when they were walking up the hill from the edge of the stone-lined pastures that Rowen stopped, turning back to survey the stables and expansive land.

  Wynne turned with him, though her eyes were drawn more to his profile than the vista before them. His jawline looked settled, more peaceful than she had ever seen him.

  “I did want you to see this, Wynne. To know that there is another purpose to my being here, other than to destroy the castle—other than to drive the dowager into utter madness. All of these horses now have a home where they are well cared for and can be bred appropriately.”

  His hand swept around him. “Notlund has the perfect land and the location—England, Ireland, Scotland, the continent—horsemen have started to come from far and wide to buy, sell, and breed horses here. Which is why the castle is so important—I need a place to host the most discerning of those men. Decisions about what lines to breed are not taken lightly.”

  Transfixed, Wynne’s eyes could not leave his face. “It is amazing. And these horses—you pamper them. It almost makes me wish I were one of your mares.”

  H
e smiled, giving her a sideways glance. “I doubt you would let me pamper you, Wynne.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You are far too spirited to be owned by pampering. If you were a horse I would have to take great pains to take care of you, without you knowing I was doing so.”

  She laughed, acknowledging the truth of it. “Blame my grandfather. I am sure if my father had not died, I would have reached adulthood like my mother—gentle, kind, demure—but always needing someone to take care of me. It was the way of my early years, and it was jarring at first, living with my grandfather.”

  Wynne turned, her gaze on a far-off hill with one lone horse atop. “He expected so much more of me—demanded so much more. How to survive off the land with only a knife. How to take care of myself and my mother. And I loved that life.” A smirk lined her lips as her gaze went back to Rowen. “But that does not mean I have not, on occasion, looked longingly at the pampered life.”

  “I will remember that.”

  She turned fully to him just as a waft of smoke drifted by. It stopped her movement and her nose turned up.

  “What?” Rowen asked.

  Wynne tilted her head, unsure as she took a deep inhale. “That smell. It was in that shack by the bog, as well.”

  Rowen lifted his nose to the air, sniffing. He looked at her. “Peat?”

  “Peat? What is peat?”

  “It is cut out of the bog—the moors. Many people burn it instead of wood. It makes for a good fire, but there is an odor to it.” He pointed to the smoke coming from the chimney of the two-story building by the woods. “The workers are burning it in their quarters.”

  “Tanloon…” The word came out of Wynne’s mouth as a whisper and her eyebrows arched.

  Rowen shook his head, forehead collapsed in confusion. “Tanloon? What?”

  Wynne took another sniff of the air. “I do not know. That smell. That word came to my mind last night when the smell from the fire you lit drifted to me, but I lost it before I could say it out loud. Tanloon. What is that?”

  Rowen’s eyes went to the sky, pondering. “There is a town, Tanloon, up in northern Yorkshire.”

  Her eyes widened. “It is a town? Where? How far away?”

  “A half day by fast horse, maybe more. Why? Did the dowager say something about it?”

  “No. I know that name. That place.”

  “What?” Rowen grabbed her shoulders. “Wynne, are you remembering something?”

  “I…” She rubbed her forehead. “It is just the name. The smell and then that name. It is all I can pull out. Nothing else—nothing…”

  “Try, Wynne. Tanloon. Try to dig it out. Tanloon. Did you live there?”

  “I do not know. I—there is nothing. Just that name. I am trying. Tanloon. Tanloon.” She hit her forehead with her palm repeatedly, a low, frustrated scream tearing from her lungs.

  Rowen grabbed her wrist, stilling it before she could continue the onslaught. “We will go there, Wynne. If it will help you remember. We will go there and search. Your mother could be there.”

  Her face whipped up to his, her eyes huge. “My mother…”

  Nodding, he lowered her wrist to her side and released it.

  She seized his forearm, fingernails digging into his bare skin. “Rowe, I have to go. I have to go now. She could be there. She could be there and waiting for me. She would be frantic.”

  “It is too late in the day, Wynne. We will go first thing in the morning.”

  “No, Rowe, I have to go now.”

  “Wynne, you do not know what is there. Much less where the town is. I will bring you there as quickly as possible and we will find answers. But we have to leave tomorrow—before dawn breaks, we will go. I promise.”

  She searched his dark eyes, desperate against his logic, but she knew he was right. Her fingers still digging into his arm, she had to force herself to nod agreement.

  Her mother. She truly could find her mother again.

  And with that, her memories.

  { Chapter 9 • Worth of a Duke }

  The moment they saw the edge of the small village from a far-off hill, Wynne dug her heel into her horse, pushing it as hard as she could toward the town. They had left before dawn and had made it to the area by late morning—much faster than Rowen had expected.

  Rowen hustled Phalos after Wynne, but gave her healthy space. He didn’t want to be between her and her memories if she recognized anything.

  The town was snugged into a narrow valley, mostly made up of tiny houses and buildings, some two or three rows deep into the surrounding hills. The whole of it—small.

  Rowen had only been through this town once, late at night and years ago. He had stopped at a tavern for a quick meal, but then had been on his way, not noting anything of importance about the village.

  In front of him, Wynne slowed, her head swinging back and forth with frantic eyes on every building. Rowen kept Phalos back a few horse’s lengths, vigilantly watching her study the houses. He could tell she had yet to recognize anything.

  Though small, the town still supported at least the three taverns that they had already passed, a church, a bakery, a blacksmith, one boarding house, and a butcher, and Rowen could see a tall water wheel spinning at a mill on the far edge of the town.

  Wynne curbed her honey-colored mare to an almost crawl. A moment later, she yanked on the reins, flying off the horse.

  “There.” She was pointing, on the run before Rowen caught up to her. He dismounted, grabbing the reins of both horses before following Wynne up a path between two houses. There were two small, square shacks stacked up the hill behind the bigger house on the main street.

  “This.” Wynne looked back over her shoulder at him. “This. I know this house, Rowe. I know it.” The sheer excitement on her face made her cheeks glow. Rowen just hoped it was warranted.

  “Eh. Ye. Where ye be goin’, sir?”

  A gruff voice from behind made Rowen turn around, looking around Phalos’s head to see a girthy woman wiping her hands on a stained apron. She stood in the doorway of the bigger house they had just passed.

  “Hello. I apologize for the intrusion. Do you know who lives here?” Rowen half-turned, pointing at the two houses. Wynne was already jiggling the door latch on the far house.

  He moved to block Wynne from the woman’s view.

  “Boon send ye from the tavern? Ye be needin’ a room ta rent?”

  “Is that what these are? Both of them?”

  “Just the back one, sir. Front one be rented. Back one be open now.”

  “Who rents the front one?”

  The woman’s hands went on her wide hips, thrusting her left hip higher as her eyes narrowed at him. “Why ye be needin’ to know that?”

  “I am just curious if it is a loud neighbor,” Rowen said.

  “It be ole Jack that lives there. He ain’t too loud.” She leaned further out from her doorway, stretching to see past Rowen. “What yer lady be doin’?”

  Rowen re-angled himself in front of the woman. “She is tired. We have been traveling a distance, and she is anxious to rest.”

  “Oh. Well, ye cin take a look inside and see if it be to yer likin’. Ye be stayin’ a stretch? There be a post out back for the horses.”

  “Thank you. We will take a look around.”

  She gave him a nod, spinning back in through her doorway.

  By the time Rowen walked up the short hill, Wynne had already disappeared into the confines of the small shack.

  She left the door open, and Rowen looked in to see Wynne in the middle of the main living space, her back to him. She looked rooted to the spot, not moving.

  He gave her a moment, going around to the back of the shack to tie the horses to the post. Foot creaking the wooden floorboards, he stepped into the house tentatively, not wanting to disturb her, but intensely curious as to what was going through her mind.

  The place was dark, only one small window in the back where he could see Phalos’s tail swish
ing. It was sparse—a fireplace, a wooden table with two chairs, a black iron pot on the floor by the hearth, a fire poker, and beyond that, a doorway into another room with a grey curtain hanging for privacy. Dusty wood shavings littered the floor. Not large, but comfortable enough for two people to live there.

  Wynne had yet to move.

  Rowen stayed by the doorway, wanting to block the landlady if she came up to check on them. “Have you remembered anything?”

  Wynne nodded, without a word, and then her head dropped forward. Rowen closed the door behind him and went over to her.

  Tears streaming down her face, dropping, she didn’t look up as he rounded her.

  “You were here?”

  Wet droplets splattered onto the floor, darkening the dusty boards. “We lived here. I remember living here...Painting over in that corner.” She inclined her head to the spot between the table and the fireplace. “My paintings…” Her arm swung around her. “They lined the walls—filled them.”

  “Why were you here?”

  Wynne shook her head, her fingers going to her temples, rubbing as she closed her eyes. “She wanted to...mother…after grandfather died...she thought she could find my father’s family. His cousins. She did not think we could survive on the mountain without grandfather. I tried to convince her to stay. I knew we could. I tried. She would not listen—would not see. And this...this is where she thought they lived.”

  “The cousins? In Tanloon?”

  “Yes...but my mother—she is not here. I do not remember…”

  Her head dropped again.

  “Do not give up, Wynne.” Rowen’s hand went to her upper arm, rubbing against the dark wool cloak draped over her. “Look around. You have only been in here for a few minutes. If you have started to remember, the rest will come.”

  It took a few seconds, but she nodded numbly at his words, her movements wooden as she walked around the small room, her hand trailing across the table, stopping to look out the window, bending over at the hearth to look into the fireplace.