Just One Touch

by Debra Mullins

  His knees weakened at the memory, at the horror of discovering Randall’s perfidy only weeks ago in the deathbed confession of one of the villain’s former colleagues. Gripping the windowsill with shaking fingers, he somehow managed to remain on his feet, even as the face of his son flashed through his mind.

  Stephen, drowned eight years ago in the estate pond in what had seemed to be a tragic turn of youthful folly.

  But now he knew the truth, knew that Randall, a distant cousin who had stood second in the line of succession, had taken drastic measures to assure that he would move into position as Belvingham’s only heir.

  He shouldn’t have confronted him. The duke’s mouth twisted in a grimace at his own stupidity. Only sheer shock had driven him to visit Randall and challenge him with the truth. He’d seen the change in Randall’s demeanor, how the amiable light had faded from his eyes, to be replaced by a sinister gleam. The agreeable boy he had always known had disappeared, to be replaced by a sneering, cocky weasel of a man who not only admitted to Stephen’s murder but bragged about it as well. Because there was no evidence. There was nothing the duke could do to punish him. Heartsick, Belvingham had left in disgust.

  Not long afterward, he’d slowly started to sicken.

  He was being poisoned. He didn’t know how Randall accomplished this; the duke took food and drink only from the hands of his cook, who’d been employed by him for some twenty years. Still he grew weaker and weaker, and the only thing keeping him alive was the determination to not let Randall win.

  He gazed outside and shuddered to think what Randall would do to the estate if he inherited, to the tenants, to his stables.

  To Caroline.

  Beautiful, fragile Caroline. His daughter had been through enough horror in her young life. What would happen to her should Randall succeed in killing him?

  Someone knocked on the door. He frowned, turned to face the portal. “Come in.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Kerns, the butler, stepped into the darkened study, still properly dressed despite the lateness of the hour. “The magistrate is here. He wishes to speak with you on a matter of great urgency.”

  “Dear God. Caroline.” The duke swayed, but managed to right himself by gripping the windowsill. “Show him in, Kerns. Immediately.”

  Kenton Docket entered the study with his usual briskness. He sketched a bow, his balding head gleaming in the candlelight. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  Belvingham shuffled toward his chair. “Mr. Docket, what’s happened? Is it Caroline?”

  Docket gave a deep sigh. “You’ve heard then.”

  “I’ve heard nothing.” The duke slowly lowered himself into the chair. “But my daughter has not yet returned from her errand of mercy, and the magistrate stands before me. Just tell me she’s unharmed,” he beseeched.

  “She’s unharmed,” Docket reassured him. “But there was an incident.”

  Belvingham took in a shaky breath. “Tell me all.”

  “Lady Caroline’s carriage was overtaken by highwaymen. Your coachman was shot, but he lives. He’s with Dr. Raines.”

  “And my daughter?”

  “She was rescued by a passing rider. He heard her cries for help and incapacitated the villains before they could harm her.”

  “Thank God.” The duke rubbed trembling hands over his face. “To whom do I owe my gratitude?”

  “To Mr. Rogan Hunt. He killed one of the highwaymen, captured the other, and brought both Lady Caroline and her driver to safety at the home of Dr. Raines.”

  “And where is my daughter now?”

  “The coach is but minutes behind me, Your Grace. I felt I should ride ahead and advise you of the situation.”

  “You were right to do so.” He signaled to a footman, who helped him to rise. “Come, we will meet them at the door.”

  Candles blazed in the windows of Belvingham Manor as the carriage made its way up the long winding drive. And the closer they got to the house, the more Rogan felt as if a noose tightened around his neck.

  He was a man more comfortable with animals than people. He hated social situations and tried to avoid them as much as possible. He didn’t like to attract attention. Yet here he was, riding beside Caroline’s coach like some knight errant, about to face the gratitude of the Duke of Belvingham after having saved his daughter’s life.

  Clearly attention-attracting behavior.

  He clenched his jaw as he noticed the group of people spilling out of the palatial home’s doorway. The duke. Docket, the magistrate. Footmen and maids and the butler. Bloody hell, why hadn’t he escaped when he’d had the chance? Why had he come?

  Because she’d asked him to.

  Like a splinter beneath the skin, Lady Caroline had slipped past his formidable defenses and taken his unworthy heart in her hand. He could no more refuse her than he could stop breathing. Cursing his own weakness, he dismounted as the carriage stopped before the manor. At least this would be the end of it. Then he could go back to his farm and his horses. Away from people.

  Away from Caroline.

  A footman scrambled forward to open the carriage door and drop the steps. Then he backed away as Caroline appeared in the doorway.

  Rogan frowned. Did no one have the courtesy to assist her in descending?

  The hem of Caroline’s dress, borrowed from the taller Mrs. Raines, dragged along behind her as she took her first step out of the carriage. She glanced at Rogan, her dark eyes huge in her delicate face, her lips curving with a hint of intimacy, a secret that only they shared. Before he realized what he was doing, he stepped over and extended a hand.

  With a whispered “Thank you,” she wrapped her slender fingers around his and allowed him to help her down from the carriage. Her touch lingered for half an instant longer than necessary, just enough to make his heart stumble, and then Rogan turned to afford the chaperoning Mrs. Raines the same courtesy he had shown Caroline.

  Watching the interplay from the doorway, Belvingham could barely believe his eyes. For the first time in five years, Caroline hadn’t flinched away from a man. His throat clogged with emotion.

  He noted the manner in which she smiled at Hunt before she turned away, at the protective way he leaned toward her, his expression for one instant betraying a longing that Belvingham was certain he didn’t want anyone to see.

  And just like that, the solution to his problem came to him, and the duke smiled at the newcomers in genuine welcome.

  Chapter 3

  When the sun rose the next morn, Rogan was up to his ankles in manure. Dressed in a shirt and his oldest trousers, he worked in the stables beside the two ex-soldiers, Grafton and Tallow, as they mucked out the stalls and mixed the feed.

  The day had begun just like every other day, as if the events of last night had not happened.

  But last night had happened. He could still smell the scent of Caroline’s perfume, still feel the touch of her hand on his. Her father had been effusive in his gratitude, and Mrs. Raines had taken the role of chaperone most seriously, sweeping Caroline away into the care of her devoted servants, as if afraid Rogan might devour her charge.

  She wasn’t far off the mark.

  He knew his reputation. His years as a hell-raising scoundrel still followed him, even after all this time. People still whispered about what had happened right before he’d been given his commission. And they talked about what had happened since. About Isabel. About his imprisonment on the Continent. The stories had made their way to England, adding chapters to his roguish history.

  He hadn’t taken it amiss when Mrs. Raines had insisted on chaperoning Caroline. Even he knew he was not the sort of man to be left alone with an innocent lady, and the more distance between them, the better. Once Caroline had retired to the bowels of the house, he had accepted Belvingham’s thanks and then taken his leave, uncomfortable with the social niceties.

  He had no business shaking a duke’s hand or dreaming of a nobleman’s pretty daughter. He looked arou
nd the stables, the way the sun shone through the chinks in the walls. He could smell manure and horses and the sweet scent of fresh straw.

  This was where he belonged, sweating amid the sounds of shuffling horses.

  A black stallion whinnied and stuck his head out over the door to nudge at Rogan’s shoulder. “Easy, Hephaestus,” he said with a chuckle, scratching the velvety black nose stretched toward him. “Your turn is coming, though I’m certain you just want to get out in the sunshine to see those pretty ladies.”

  The horse nudged his arm again, and Rogan stroked a hand down the satiny neck. Hephaestus was the only horse in the stable that truly belonged to him, a randy stud of sixteen hands that had cost him a good chunk of his modest inheritance. The rest of the animals were temporary residents, sent to him for training. The fees he charged helped run his small farm, as well as pay a small wage to the two placeless soldiers who had come to him seeking employment.

  His mouth tightened. During the war, he had made an open offer of employment to any soldier in his company who might find himself unemployed when he returned home to England. At the time he had expected to be able to provide decent jobs to these good men at the lucrative Hunt stables. He had never imagined that he would be scraping a living out of his late aunt’s estate, trying to recreate a dream that might well be lost to him.

  For generations, the Hunt family had been known across England as the best horse breeders in the country. The Hunt line had been legendary, up until Rogan had returned from the Peninsula to find every last steed gone, sold by his father and brother to fund their drinking and gaming.

  But he would rebuild the line. All Rogan’s hopes for restoring his family’s legacy lay with the stallion and this tiny patch of land. All he needed was a mare worthy of Hephaestus.

  “And I know just where to find her,” he murmured, resting his forehead against the horse’s neck. “Now all I have to do is convince her owner to sell her to me for a pittance…”

  “This one’s full.”

  Rogan glanced up as Tallow dropped a few more pieces of soiled straw onto the pile that filled the wheelbarrow. “I’ll dump this,” Rogan said, stepping forward to grasp the handles. “Then I’ll be back to move Hephaestus outside so you can do his stall.”

  “Better you than me.” Tallow cast a nervous glance at the stallion.

  “He won’t eat you, Tallow.”

  “But does he know that? Captain, that black devil loves two things—you and his oats. And I’m not getting in his way of either.” Pitchfork in hand, Tallow turned back to picking soiled straw out of the empty stall. Chuckling, Rogan hefted the wheelbarrow and easily steered his heavy load toward the stable doors.

  The sun shone warmly on his face as he wheeled his burden away. The clear blue sky and mild morning air made him feel almost cheerful, despite how far away his goal appeared. Then the sound of hoofbeats on the drive carried to him, and he paused halfway to the manure pile, setting down his load and shading his eyes to see who approached.

  Pray God it was not yet another recently returned soldier looking for work. Then again, a jobless soldier would hardly be able to afford the fine mount that approached. Squinting, Rogan made out the black and gold livery of the Duke of Belvingham.

  Well, well.

  He waited as the rider stopped before him.

  “You there.” The servant cast a disdainful glance over Rogan, then at the load of manure, his lips twisting with distaste. “Where is Mr. Hunt?”

  Rogan folded his arms and glowered at the impertinent messenger. “I am he.”

  The man’s eyes bugged with surprise. “Apologies, sir. I have a message for you from the Duke of Belvingham.” He slid off his horse and handed over a crisp, folded piece of heavy paper.

  Rogan took the missive and broke open the seal, scanning the contents. A triumphant smile tugged at his lips, but he wiped it away before he looked at the messenger.

  “Tell the duke I’ll be there.”

  The stables were Caroline’s world. Comfortably clad in an old riding habit, she worked alongside the grooms and trainers and personally saw to certain horses herself. The horses had been her salvation five years ago after her terrible ordeal; it had been these gentle creatures that had given Caroline a reason to live again.

  Humming softly, she carried a bucket of hot mash to Destiny, her favorite, and dumped it into her trough. As the mare eagerly slurped up the food, Caroline stroked her pretty bay-colored neck and whispered compliments. The horse’s ears flickered as if she understood.

  Caroline often suspected that she did.

  Suddenly Destiny gave a whinny of welcome and jerked forward, nearly knocking the empty bucket out of her hands. Closing her eyes, Caroline took a deep breath and turned around, already knowing whom she would see.

  Rogan Hunt leaned in the doorway of the stables. The sun shone behind his tall frame, creating a nimbus of light around his head and casting his rough, masculine features into shadow.

  “Good morning, Lady Caroline.” He stepped out of the sunlight into the building, arching a brow as he noted her shabby attire.

  She stiffened. Last night Rogan Hunt had appeared the dark and daring savior, and she had gravitated toward him because he made her feel safe in a time of terror. In the bright light of day, however, and with that intolerable glint of amusement in his storm-gray eyes, he didn’t seem quite so romantic.

  Or quite so safe.

  She gave him a polite nod. “Mr. Hunt.”

  He took another step closer, and she swept out of the way, the bucket making a noisy clank that ruined any chance for subtlety. Flashing her a knowing look, he reached past her to stroke Destiny’s nose. Her heart pounded. It was still there, then, his curious ability to cloud her thoughts with his nearness. She’d felt it last night and had dismissed it as a symptom of her adventure. Yet it remained, disturbing in the light of day.

  “I assume you’ve come here to offer to buy my horse again?” Irritated at her confusing emotions, she gathered her resolve and edged over to pet the opposite side of Destiny’s neck.

  “She was mine first, Lady Caroline.” He leaned an elbow on the stall door and regarded her from his greater height. A lock of ink-black hair curled stubbornly at his temple. “And with luck, she will be again.”

  She forced herself not to back away from the determination in his voice. “Are you a lucky man then, Mr. Hunt?”

  “Perhaps.” He held her gaze for a moment, and she felt it again, the tension, the heat that seemed to rise whenever they were together. Her body quivered in reaction, and it was everything she could do not to run from the stables. Those sharp, smoky eyes missed nothing, and his glance fell on the frantic pulse pounding in her throat, lingered there.

  She jerked back, her heartbeat skipping crazily. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t…look at me like that.”

  He gave her a gentle smile, but amusement flickered in his eyes. “Do I make you nervous, Lady Caroline?”

  “No. It’s just…” She laid a hand over her thundering heart and sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

  He studied her for a moment, then turned away to stroke his hand down Destiny’s neck again. “How is Denton today?”

  She blinked, thrown by the change in topic. “Better. You saved his life.”

  He flashed her a smile. “No, you did by keeping the bleeding under control.”

  She flushed and dropped her gaze, undone by the admiration in his voice. “I did what needed to be done.”

  “You kept your wits together, Lady Caroline, and walked away from your enemies, victorious.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Torn between pleasure and apprehension, she couldn’t look at him.

  Suddenly Destiny leaned out of her stall and playfully shoved Rogan’s shoulder with her nose, bumping him into Caroline. Caroline squeaked with alarm, stumbling back a step. Rogan grabbed her arm and steadied her, his fingers firm and strong near her elbow.


  His flesh was warm where it touched hers. A fluttering sensation rippled across her skin, and she couldn’t move. She glanced up into his face, torn between running away or leaning closer.

  “It goes away, you know,” he said quietly.

  “What does?”

  “The fear. It does fade after a while.”

  She jerked as if he’d shot her, yanking her arm from his grasp. “Who are you?” she whispered. “How could you know—”

  “I’ve been to war, Lady Caroline. I’ve witnessed what happens to a man—or a woman—who’s been through hell. And as for who I am…” He pulled a worn watch from his waistcoat and flicked it open. “I’m the fellow who has an appointment with your father to discuss purchasing this beautiful mare.”

  “An appointment!”

  “He summoned me. Sent me a message early this morning. Bodes well, don’t you think?” With a roguish wink, he strolled out of the stables.

  Her father had summoned him? Did that mean…“One moment!” She raced after him, silently cursing his long-legged stride. “Mr. Hunt, I pray you—wait!”

  Rogan slowed, but not because of her plea. He seemed fascinated by something happening in the paddock. Just as she caught up with him, a piercing scream sliced through the peaceful morning, jerking her attention to the yard.

  Mercury Mist, her father’s new stallion, reared and pawed at the air. Stable hands swarmed around him, trying to catch the lead rope trailing from the horse’s bridle. The huge gray shrieked again, sending the stable hands scrambling backward. The crumpled figure of a stableboy lay still in the mud, entirely too close to the beast’s stomping hooves.

  Rogan sprinted toward the scene, Caroline at his heels.

  “Get back!” he snapped as he reached the paddock fence. “All of you, back away from him!”

  “We’ve got to get Will!” one of the hands protested.

  “You’re just making it worse.” The stable hands responded to the authority in his voice and melted away from the animal. Rogan shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the fence post. Mercury snorted and pranced in place, tossing his head as he scented the new arrivals.