The Colonel and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 4)

by Paullett Golden

  Drake stood and offered him a seat. Mary reached her hand to the window casing, holding herself upright. Her legs trembled.

  “He is relatively uninjured, Your Grace,” the physician said. “There’s bruising and swelling on the right leg, most pronounced along the shin and foot, some bruising along his back, but I could ascertain no breaks or sprains. The worst injury is, what we call in my profession, a concussion. This is when the brain is, shall we say, shaken. Such a commotion in the skull results in lethargy, confusion, memory loss, among other problems.”

  Drake nodded. “Is it serious? Will he recover? Is there anything we can do for him to ease the pain?”

  “No, no, it’s not serious. In my experience, the brain rights itself within a fortnight. Encourage him to sleep as much as possible. The vibrations of the brain from the impact will still in their own time. He needs to sleep is all.”

  Mary gripped the window casing, worried she might collapse. He was well! He would be well! Two weeks, and he would be back on his feet.

  She could not get into Duncan’s bedchamber fast enough. Before she could race from the room, she had to play the polite hostess. She invited the physician to stay for dinner. He declined, to her relief. After idle conversation, they were able to send him on his merry way. For a quarter of an hour, she had worried he would never leave.

  As soon as the butler showed him out, she cast her family a pleading look then mounted the stairs.

  The door closed behind her with a creak. She stared, eyes riveted on the bed. Hesitation lingered, a moment’s indecision. Should she run to him in glee? Should she let him rest?

  Her decision was somewhere in the middle of her two choices—go to him but let him rest. Thinking he may be asleep from exhaustion or from the concussion the physician had mentioned, she crept to the chair next to the bed, careful not to make a sound.

  In the same bed where they shared passion, Duncan lay with an arm slung over his eyes. She recalled the last time she had seen him like this, only at that time he had been unconscious and shirtless, bedbound at Cois Greta Park. Now he wore a shirt, the covers pulled to his waist, and though he did not move to acknowledge her, she knew he was well and not bedbound, not this time.

  Moving the chair closer, she sat. It was not yet noon, but the curtains were drawn, the room lit only by the fire. The whole of the occasion mirrored the first time. Subtle differences marred the reflection. When she first went to him after receiving word from his father, the room had been sweltering hot. His parents had looked on as she took his hand. He had smelled of unwashed body, his cheeks rough with an early beard’s growth. Now, he smelled heavenly, a mixture of cologne and horse. She inhaled and smiled. Her fingers ached to touch his close-shaven cheeks. No one looked on this time to see if she did.

  Mary reached for his hand and began lacing her fingers with his.

  He wrenched his hand away, folding it over his chest. She flinched at the unexpected rejection.

  Without moving his other arm from over his eyes, he said, “Leave me.”

  Shifting in her chair, she tucked her hands under her legs. Despite the fire, the room was chilly. If she had been warmed by his presence and their fortune with his good health when entering the room, she was feeling an icy coolness now.

  “I most certainly will not leave,” she responded. “Did the physician explain everything to you?”

  “Yes.”

  The answer was more of a grunt than a word.

  “Good. Then you know all is well. He recommended rest for the next week or two, which I daresay you need regardless. And that’s that. We couldn’t have asked for happier tidings.”

  He did not respond. He did not look at her. For long minutes, he lay still and silent. The physician had listed the effects of the concussion, so she was in some way prepared for his behavior. That did not make it pleasant or acceptable. Her vision of the moment had been one of elation, one where they could share in celebration that he was well. She had even convinced herself halfway up the stairs that he could join them for dinner a time or two during his rest period, should he be feeling spry.

  “Go home with your brother,” he said.

  Tears stung her eyes at yet another rejection. “Have I done something wrong?” Her voice was naught but a whisper.

  “Go home, Mary. This will never work.”

  “I am home. What are talking about?” She swallowed, a lump in her throat. When he did not answer, she took a deep breath and said, “You’re perfectly well. The physician said so himself. He said your head took a little shake and your leg and back are bruised, but nothing to cause concern.”

  Throwing his arm to his side in exasperation, he said with words of venom, “Don’t you understand? It’s over. I don’t care what that leech says. I can’t feel or move my legs. Just like before. I may never walk again. This time it could be permanent. No miracle surgery. Even if I do return to normal, it’s no use. I can’t even ride a horse without endangering you or Bernard.”

  “You could never harm us. The new horse was merely startled by Bernard.”

  He shook his head then winced. “You said yourself, I made Bernard sick by encouraging him to stay at length in the cold weather, and now I’ve nearly trampled him, you along with him. I can’t trust myself to protect either of you. I can’t even provide for you, not without training those horses. It’s all lost. I can’t train them in time, not now.”

  “They’re trained well enough as it is. With what you’ve taught them already, we’ll have something grand to show in London. They’ll be impressed by all you’ve done.”

  “And who’s to demonstrate if I can’t walk? It’s no use. They’re not far enough along in the training.” He moved his arm back over his eyes.

  “I know you want this, and I do, as well, but not at the risk of our happiness,” she pleaded. “We can write to your contacts and tell them we’re no longer interested. We don’t need this. We always have my dowry.”

  “Stop. I’ll not hear of it again.” His tone was brusque. “A real man would provide for his family.”

  She stared at her lap, uncertain what to say. There was such despair behind his words, a man who had lost faith in himself. In her eyes, it had been only a tumble.

  Resolved, she said, “Then provide me with your technique, and I’ll complete the training. If this is so important to you, let me do it.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll not have you out there laboring long hours, not in the cold, not with horses. I’ll not have you parading in front of the grooms riding astride. I’ll not have it, Mary. This is not woman’s work.”

  “I’ve trained before. Don’t underestimate me. If you tell me your techniques, I can do it. The training can continue while you rest, and once you recover, we can continue the training together with the help of the grooms.”

  “It’s not only the training. It’s everything. There’s something in me that’s broken, Mary. I’m broken. My body doesn’t want to work. My mind doesn’t want to work. It was selfishness that drove me to marry you. I never should have. You deserve someone who can provide for you and protect you, not some broken man. Go home to your family. Leave me be.”

  Her lower lip trembled, but she raised her head high. “You are my family. And you’re right about being selfish. How dare you give up on us, and our son, all because you overworked yourself to the point of exhaustion. What are you so desperate to prove? You’re the most selfish, most stubborn man I know. Hardheaded and, at the moment, juvenile.”

  She waited for him to answer, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and exhaled a frustrated breath.

  Realizing he was not going to respond, she said, “I don’t know why you’ve lost feeling in your legs again, and I don’t care. Why? Because it doesn’t matter. We’ve been through this before. I’m at your side regardless. We’ll make it work.”

  He
scoffed a laugh. “You’re not listening. I don’t want to make it work. I’m worthless. I’m helpless. I’m useless. I have a pounding migraine and just want you to leave.”

  “You, sir, are a horse’s arse. It’d serve you right if I did leave you.”

  She stood, smoothed her dress with cold palms, and walked out.

  Leaning against the window casing, Mary looked out to the front drive. She stared at the scene of the tumble only hours prior. He had been so excited about the Arabian. Not in a long time had Mary seen such elation, such wonder on Duncan’s face, the enthusiasm with which he rode. How had it all gone so wrong and so quickly?

  There had been a time or two in her youth when she had fallen from a horse, namely when she tried to sneak a ride on her brother’s stallion before he gifted her Athena. Though she had never had a horse roll onto her, she had not found falling off all that troubling. Her bum had been sore, but that had passed in a day. Why Duncan should be so despondent, she could not say. The physician was not concerned with the loss of mobility, as it was all to do with the impact of the fall and nothing more.

  Was it only to do with the training? This was supposed to be a fun partnership with the breeding and training program, not a matter of upset.

  She hugged her arms, the chill more than skin deep.

  “Hiding, I see,” said a haughty voice from behind her.

  Mary closed her eyes. Her mother had found her. She rested her forehead against the window, the cold sending a shiver down her spine. With a sigh, she squeezed her upper arms with chilled fingers and turned to face Catherine.

  “I’m surprised you’re still here,” Mary said. “After meeting Bernard, I was certain you would leave.”

  Catherine arched a brow. “He’s a boy.”

  Mary snorted. “He’s still illegitimate. His being a boy makes a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  All she could do was gape at her mother as though the woman had sprouted two heads. Neither spoke, each glaring down the other.

  Using the cane as a prop, Catherine navigated to a parlor chair. Once seated, she studied her daughter.

  “It is different for a man than it is for a woman,” Catherine said. “An illegitimate man can be accepted by Society should he wish, with the right family. A woman would never be given the opportunity. If the boy is intelligent and courageous, and if he desires acceptance, he shall have it, though some doors will remain closed. Mr. Bernard Starrett has gumption, something I value.”

  “And you accept him? Because he’s a boy? Never mind that he’s illegitimate?”

  “Do we know he’s illegitimate?” Catherine questioned. “From what I understand, he was born on the continent during a time of war. Who is to say his mother and father did not marry in secret? It’s not uncommon.”

  Mary frowned, not following.

  Her mother continued. “For all Society knows, he’s the legitimate son of a soldier and his bride, both deceased. It’s your husband who insists on the narrative of raising some low woman’s bastard. I had thought you cleverer than this. Raise this boy however you wish, but think on the consequences of your choices.”

  Mary mulled over her mother’s words.

  Not being Duncan’s son, he could not inherit the baronetcy, but being legitimate could certainly change his fate. She had never thought to lie about his birth. But who would know the truth? No one would dare question them. She could imagine Duncan’s resistance to a lie, but there was nothing to keep them from it. Bernard need never know. Had Duncan not told her, even she would not have known. Warming to the idea, she made to speak, but her mother spoke first.

  “I’ve not come to speak of the boy,” she said.

  “I suppose you’ve come to rub in my face what a wretched choice I made with my marriage. Here to tell me I’ve made a mistake and should return to Lyonn Manor?”

  Catherine sneered. “You’ve made your choice. You must live with it. I’m here to question your intentions with an injured husband.”

  “Not that it’s any of your concern, Mother, but I shall stand by my husband through his recovery. Once he’s improved, we’ll resume the training and breeding program. Are you here to discourage my supporting him? Or are you planning to discourage our plans with the horses? If you say my husband is weak, I will cast you out of this house. It is my house, you recall.”

  “You have always been a willful girl, but I’ve never thought you ignorant,” Catherine said, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you always paint me a villain? I am not. You have accused me of not knowing you. It is you who misunderstand me. All I have ever wanted is what is best for you, but you remain obstinate. Do you not think it would have been better to accept one of my proposed suitors? While your lover played soldier, you could have found prestige and wealth. You could have forged your place in society. By the time he returned, you would have been a widow with all the right connections. Neither of you would have needed to labor with horses like common servants. You could have accomplished your plans without needing to prove mettle to some officer in London. If you had only married a duke first, as I had intended.”

  “Yes, Mother, well, I didn’t. And we want to labor with the horses. It’s what we enjoy.”

  Catherine smirked. “And yet you are doing no such thing. What you must learn is that if you want something, you must to do it yourself. You can depend on no one. Would it shock you to learn I proposed to your father, the Duke of Annick? I was not yet sixteen. I proposed, and I became his first and only duchess. What I want, I get. Your choices, however, are haphazard at best, always made in defiance of me. Stop villainizing me. I’m merely wiser, not a force with which to be reckoned. My advice is to decide what you want, then do it.”

  The next morning, well before visiting hours and with tired eyes after a sleepless night alone in the lady’s chamber, Mary sat in the Swanson’s drawing room, waiting. She had been waiting for nearly ten minutes. This was quite preposterous.

  Staring at her hands folded in her lap, she questioned if she should leave. This was a foolish idea. She had no business being here. All evening and through the tossing and turning of the night, her mother’s words had circled above her head, taunting her. There was no way to know her mother’s intentions with such words, but Mary interpreted them how she wanted to hear them—permission to be a disobedient wife.

  The drawing room door opened, sending Mary to her feet. She felt anxious and hoped it did not show.

  Mr. Robert Preston, wearing a rumpled ensemble topped with hair flattened on one side, entered, a quizzical expression aimed her direction. Had he been sleeping? This late into the morning? He stepped into the room, his eyes glassy, his eyelids drooped. Ah. Not sleeping. Well, perhaps that, as well, but he had all too clearly spent the morning hugging a laudanum bottle. Mary was tempted again to leave. What had she been thinking to come here?

  “Lady Starrett,” he said, his speech ever so slightly slurred. “Never expected you to call on me.”

  “Neither did I,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist. “You aren’t training the horses today. Why not?”

  He rubbed the side of his nose. “The colonel said he needn’t me help ‘til the family were gone. Were he expectin’ me after all?”

  “No. I hadn’t realized you would be absent is all.” She cleared her throat, clenching her hands. “My husband has had a tumble.”

  Mr. Preston’s expression tightened. He looked away towards one of the windows, as though studying the landscape, before turning back to her.

  “By tumble, do you mean—”

  “He has fallen and injured himself. Mr. Preston, I’d rather not stand about exchanging dialogue. My family is awaiting my return. I’m here because you’re a cavalry officer and know my husband’s training technique. I will be taking over training from this point until my husband is recovered. I do not, however, know his technique. I need your h
elp. Would you consider resuming the training, starting tomorrow morning?”

  His brows rose high on his forehead, almost disappearing into his hairline. “You wan’me to train the horses?”

  “Yes. On a full-time basis until either my husband recovers, or the horses are ready for London, whichever occurs first.”

  Scratching his chin, his brows still raised, he grinned. “I can go wi’ you now if you’d like.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Tomorrow will suffice. I must make one thing clear, though. If you dare arrive to my stables under the influence of anything aside from strong coffee and a good night’s sleep, I will turn you away and never allow you onto my property again. I would appreciate your cooperation.”

  The grin stretched wider. “Yes, milady. Clear as crystal.”

  Chapter 26

  Tristan cantered towards the bar, steady and surefooted. In swift steps, he vaulted into the air and over the bar with ease and grace.

  Mary held on to her wits, for there were no reins. Laughing, she trotted over to Robin, who was working Pegasus.

  “How did we look?” she asked, all smiles and good spirits.

  “Like cavalry. How’d he respond?”

  “No hesitation except after the jump. He was none too keen to slow.”

  Robin nodded. “Relax into the seat. Sit back rather than squeeze with the calves.”

  Tutting, Mary said, “I’ll not have you talking of my calves, sirrah. Such talk will lead to beheading.”

  “Too right, milady.” Robin grinned before nudging Pegasus to follow the path to the jump bar.

  A light lean, and she and Tristan were off at a walk to follow behind Robin. For nearly a week, she and the Bristolian had been training together. For three to four hours in the early morning, Robin guided her through Duncan’s techniques, much of which was done without the aid of reins or bridle. Commands were more to do with body and posture than legs or hands. Never had riding been so freeing for her.