“A word ’fore you go, sir.” Ennis waited to speak again until his boys were set to task. “’Bout them attacks, Mister McGrath.”
Cullen nodded.
“Two more men come up today sayin’ they’s willin’ to help.”
“That makes fourteen altogether then.” Cullen kept his voice quiet. “That’s good. That means two men watchin’ per night. Everybody knows when and where we’re to meet this weekend?”
“Yes, sir. I told ’em. All ’cept one of ’em shot a gun before. But if it comes to it, I ain’t at all sure how close to the mark they can get.”
“That’s all right. Shootin’ can be taught.” He exhaled, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
Aware of Jobah and Micah watching from across the barn, Cullen gave the boys a smart salute. Even before the gesture was complete, a twinge of loss tugged at him.
He wished Gilbert Linden could see the farm, the way the crops they’d planned together were starting to flourish. He also wished he’d prompted Mr. Linden to share in greater detail about the problems he’d had with the land a year or so ago. What were the odds that the same enemy that had plagued Linden then was the enemy behind the butchery now?
As Cullen walked toward the house, he saw Maggie waiting for him on the bottom step, and he sent a thought heavenward, for what it was worth. I’m keepin’ my promises to you, Mr. Linden. Both for your daughter and for your land.
Mindful of the dirt covering his clothes—and himself—he leaned in to brush a soft kiss to her—
“How dare you,” she whispered.
He stilled, a breath away from her lips. Confused, he glanced behind him to see if, by chance, Ennis and his sons were watching them. But the yard was empty.
He turned back to the steel in her eyes and the hard set of her mouth. “What’s wrong, Margaret?”
“What’s wrong?” she repeated. “When were you planning on telling me, Cullen?” Her voice steadily rose in volume. “Or did you simply think you didn’t need to discuss such matters with me?”
Feeling his guard edge up, Cullen tried to read her expression. And couldn’t. Yet, seeing the shadows in her eyes, the suspicion, a sickening dread crept up inside him. Did she know about England? About what had happened? He glanced behind him again to make sure Ennis and his sons were out of earshot. They were still down by the barn.
“Margaret.” He gestured toward the screen door. “Can we please take this inside?”
Tears rose in her eyes—though not the kind he’d dare attempt to wipe away—and she strode up the steps and into the house. He followed after her, catching the screen door before it slammed shut.
She continued into the central parlor then whirled to face him. “How could you do this? It’s beyond—”
“Margaret, I don’t know what you’re—”
She thrust a piece of paper at him. The invitation to the thoroughbred auction at Belle Meade Plantation. Inwardly, he winced. No matter what she said, under no circumstances was he setting foot on General Harding’s estate when scores of thoroughbred owners from this country—and Europe—would be in attendance.
“If you’re tellin’ me you want to attend this, then—”
“Turn it over,” she said, her voice hard.
He did, and his gut twisted. He grimaced, her anger swiftly making sense, and the increase in Harding’s offer also making a substantial impression. “Margaret, this isn’t what you think. I never—”
“You discussed selling Bourbon Belle to General Harding.”
“Nay, I did not. He broached the subject with me, and I—”
“You knew about Belle too.” Her eyes narrowed. “You knew we’d raced her, yet you never said anything about it. To Papa. Or to me.”
The suspicion and hurt in her eyes were a dagger to his conscience. He realized she likely hadn’t considered he could easily turn the tables and point out that she had purposefully hidden from him the fact that they’d raced Belle. But he couldn’t. Not knowing his own reasons for being less than forthcoming.
He also knew that the outcome of this conversation—no matter what she said, no matter how she tried to convince him—would not end in her favor. Because if it did, if she raced Belle and won, drawing attention to Linden Downs and to him, then his past would come to light and they would both lose everything.
Yet, looking into her eyes, seeing seeds of distrust where he’d last seen love, he already felt a great loss.
“You’re right, Margaret. I’ve known for a while now that you and your father raced Belle. But never, for one moment, have I considered sellin’ her to General Harding.”
“Good. Because she’s mine. You have no right to sell her.”
Cullen felt his own eyes narrow, yet reminded himself she was angry and still grieving the loss of her father. “The issue of who owns Belle isn’t what’s most important right now. Because the horse isn’t bein’ sold.”
She met his stare, her brown eyes simmering black. “And what if I told you that I wanted to race Belle again?” Her chin lifted slightly. “Once I find a jockey.”
He worked to keep his tone even. “Then I would tell you that I strongly object to that idea.”
“And what if”—she swallowed—“I insisted on pursuing that path?”
He chose his words with care. “Then I would also have to insist most forcefully, Margaret, that you not act on that pursuit.”
Her cheeks flushed. “But she’s a winner, Cullen. She can win the Peyton Stakes. A race this fall that carries a thirty-five-thousand-dollar purse. Do you realize what that would mean for us? For Linden Downs?”
“We’re doin’ fine, Margaret. We don’t need—”
“She was sired by the champion Vandal at Belle Meade. I spent months convincing Papa to allow me to breed our best mare with Vandal. Then spent another small fortune paying General Harding for the stud fee. Yes, I’d hoped for a colt. But when Belle was born, when I looked at her and saw her strength even when she was yet so young, I knew. Papa and I spent nearly everything we had on getting Belle this far.” Her features softened, as did her tone. “I’ve raised her from a foal, Cullen. I’ve trained her every step of the way. I’m good at it too.” Her eyes glistened. “You love this land, I see it in your face and hear it in your voice when you speak about it. That’s how I feel about Belle. And about racing her. For as long as I can remember, this is what I’ve wanted. Please,” she whispered. “Papa supported me in this. Can you not do that as well?”
The dagger in his conscience twisted a half turn even as self-preservation swiftly clotted the wound.
The fact that she was arguing with him, pleading her case, told him much. Regardless of when Bourbon Belle was sired or that Margaret had trained her, he owned the mare now. And Margaret knew it. It wasn’t fair that his mistake in England would dictate this outcome to her dream—yet it wasn’t fair what had happened to him there either.
But rarely did life deal from the top of the deck.
“My answer is no, Margaret,” he said softly, feeling a severing deep inside him. He reached to take hold of her hand. “I’m sorry, love, but—”
She pulled her hand back, and her jaw went rigid. “Your father’s problem with gambling, while sad and tragic in its consequences to you and your family, Cullen, has no bearing on this situation.” Her breath quickened. “Neither Papa nor I have ever gambled. Not once. Neither does General Harding. And I’d—”
“It’s not an issue of gamblin’, Margaret. Thoroughbred racin’ is not the kingly sport so many claim it is. And it’s no place for a female, I can tell you that for sure. And certainly not a lady such as yourself.”
“But I wouldn’t be in the forefront, Cullen. You would. Just like Papa, you would be the owner on the Thoroughbred Society’s ledgers. No one would need to know I was the trainer. I don’t care about that. I only care about seeing Belle race.”
Cullen looked at her and loved her, and seeing the frail hope in her eyes caused his own to burn with emotio
n. “I’m sorry, Margaret. But I cannot allow it. I—” His throat tightened. How to make her understand without telling her the truth?
He didn’t think he could abide the disappointment in her eyes when she realized the kind of man she’d married. He knew how she felt about the Irish. Or had felt. She’d made that clear from the outset. And learning this about him would only confirm opinions he’d fought hard to change.
“I would never forgive myself,” he continued, “if somethin’ happened to you. And honestly, do you really think the Thoroughbred Society here in Nashville would recognize an Irishman as an owner?”
She hesitated, then her eyes lit. “General Harding would vouch for you! I know he would. And he’s on the board of the society. He’s a very powerful man, and—”
“My decision is made, Margaret.” Cullen steeled himself to the anger sure to come. “Now please, respect it.”
She stared up at him, unblinking, her expression one of disbelief. Then betrayal. Which swiftly gave way to fury. She skirted past him.
Hearing her muted boot steps racing up the stairs, Cullen felt each one driving the wedge deeper between them.
Later that night when he finally came upstairs, Cullen discovered Margaret’s bedroom door closed. Or . . . their bedroom door.
Though they hadn’t discussed the situation formally, he’d been staying in this room with her since that night on the bluff, and he wasn’t eager to give up the privilege. Unless, of course, she demanded it.
But even then, considering how far they’d come together, he would fight to win her over again. He knocked.
No answer.
“Margaret?” he said softly, then reached for the knob, half expecting it to be locked.
The knob turned in his hand. He opened the door. The bedroom was dark.
In the half light of midnight he saw her silhouette in the bed, unmoving, covers drawn up around her chin, her body as far to the edge of her side as she could be.
He stripped to his drawers and climbed into bed beside her, the mattress feeling even smaller than usual. He touched her unintentionally but she didn’t move. She didn’t make a sound, yet he knew she was awake. He could feel her awareness of him as well as he could feel the warmth from her body.
No matter how he looked at this—and he’d spent the evening doing just that—there was no other way. It was too risky. And even though Margaret was confident Belle could win that race, he’d heard the same conviction a thousand times before from those who were as certain as the sun would rise that their horse would win.
And even if Belle were that good—which General Harding’s increased offer led him to believe—it didn’t change the fact that, if discovered, he could be sentenced to prison. All for what he’d done, and for what he didn’t do.
“Please, my love,” he whispered, the darkness all but swallowing his voice. “Know that I’m doin’ this for the good of us both. Even if you don’t understand.”
He waited, wanting to touch her. To comfort her.
She didn’t respond. Not even the steady, rhythmic breaths of sleep. Only deafening silence. And the memory of the steel in her eyes persuaded him to keep his hands to himself.
His body exhausted, his mind raced.
He turned onto his side away from her to face the wall, and at least an hour passed before sleep finally claimed him. But sometime later, when darkness had robbed even the faintest light from the room, he awakened to feel a gentle shudder beside him. Her silent sobs.
He lay awake for the rest of the night.
Chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN
She had to change Cullen’s mind. That’s all there was to it. But how?
Maggie hurriedly saddled Belle in the barn, intent on leaving for Belle Meade before Cullen came outside and before any of the workers arrived, same as she’d done for the past two weeks.
Living with the man in recent days had proven even more difficult than after they’d first wed, and she still wasn’t certain which rankled her more: the fact that he’d been so unyielding in his decision not to race Bourbon Belle, refusing to even discuss the matter, or that she missed him despite still being so angry with him.
Please, my love, he’d whispered that first night. Know that I’m doin’ this for the good of us both. Even if you don’t understand. Although the sincerity in his deep voice had warred with her willpower, she hadn’t responded. She still didn’t understand his reasoning—which he refused to expound on. And yet . . .
When she’d awakened earlier, she’d lain in bed and watched him sleeping beside her, the memory of skin against skin intoxicating—and growing more distant each day. Everything about him exuded masculinity. And drew her. Half of her wished he would open his eyes and take her in his arms. The other half wanted to give him a good shove off the side of the bed.
Maggie led Belle from the barn, the thick of summer laying its stifling hand over the land. The air heavy and still, late July spared not even a whisper of wind. Already, beads of perspiration dampened her forehead, and her chemise clung to her beneath her riding habit.
Remembering she’d left her reticule hanging on a hook in the barn, she looped Belle’s reins on a post and hurried back in to retrieve it. She’d promised Kizzy riding lessons two weeks ago, and Kizzy had made it her mission to remind Maggie. Every day. But Maggie wasn’t about to proceed without speaking to either the child’s mother or father.
She’d finally spoken with Odessia and, true to the girl’s word, Kizzy had asked permission and Odessia had eagerly granted it. “Yes, ma’am, Missus McGrath.” A sparkle had lit Odessia’s eyes. “You could say our daughter broached the subject. ’Bout beat it to death would be a mite truer, though.”
Maggie tucked her reticule into the saddlebag and glanced toward the ridge beyond the barn. Kizzy said she would be waiting there in order to ride with her to Belle Meade. Maggie was determined to teach the girl the basics of riding. Though, considering Kizzy’s only experience to date was riding a mule . . .
The familiar creak of the front door issued warning, and Maggie spotted Cullen descending the porch steps by twos, his stride determined, his expression the same.
Silently scolding herself for having taken so long, she quickly climbed into the saddle. Looking down on him would help her to feel more in control. But deep down she knew better.
“Margaret?”
Belle sidestepped and pawed the ground, feisty and ready to run. Commiserating, Maggie held the reins taut. You’re not the only one, girl.
“Mornin’.” Cullen came alongside them.
“Good morning.” Maggie looked down, wishing his eyes weren’t so true a green.
To her frustration, Belle sidled toward him, and he reached up and scratched the mare’s forehead. Belle snorted in satisfaction.
“I’m sorry, Cullen, but I’m late for my lessons, so I’d best be—”
“Margaret.” He took hold of Belle’s harness. “This needs to stop. This . . . silence between us. I’m your husband. You’re my wife. And—” He blew out a breath. The gesture might have smacked of impatience, if not for the sincerity in his features and the yearning in his voice. “I’m tellin’ you the truth when I say I’m sorry my decision disappoints you. But thoroughbred racin’—and trainin’ the horse, to boot—is simply no place, or occupation, for a woman. I know because I’ve seen the truth of the business up close, with my own eyes. It can be ruthless.”
“But I’ve told you, Cullen, I’ll stay in the background. I don’t care about being the one who gets the—”
He held up a hand. “Belle may have won a few heats, and aye, she’s fast. But this race you’re wantin’ to enter . . . It’s a whole different world of competition. And competitors. These men and their investors, they’re serious about winnin’. And they’ll do anythin’ within their power to make that happen.”
“Don’t you think I realize that? I’ve already faced their lack of acceptance. Their arrogance. And I’m telling you I can manage whatever t
hey dole out. And Bourbon Belle can beat every one of the horses on that track.”
“Perhaps,” he said, a depth of questioning in the word. “But what kind of husband would I be if I allowed you to take such a risk? I’m workin’ hard to save Linden Downs, to save your home. Our home. And we’re doin’ that, Margaret. Together.” His gaze grew tender. “Aren’t we?”
Feeling ashamed, though not fully comprehending why, she nodded reluctantly. “Of course we are. But—” Something he’d said to her one night after they’d made love returned. She felt a stab of betrayal in bringing it up now. But what other choice did she have? “Cullen, you told me that buying Linden Downs, that seeing the land come back to life, and being part of that renewal, was a dream come true for you.”
The tenderness in his eyes swiftly faded, and wariness took its place.
“Well, racing horses is my dream, and has been for as long as I can remember, despite being told countless times growing up that I couldn’t do it. Or shouldn’t. If not for Papa’s support, my mother would never have even begun to tolerate it.”
Maggie stopped short, her mother’s disapproval gaining fresh clarity through the lens of the moment. It rose up inside her accusingly, as if coming to Cullen’s defense.
But Cullen knew none of that part of her life. Best it stay that way.
“Cullen . . .” She took a needed breath. “I’ve worked hard to get to this point. To buy Belle, to train her. Do you have any idea what it feels like to give your heart so completely to something, only to have that treasure ripped right from you?”
He stared at her for a moment, the silence lengthening. “Aye,” he said finally, the wariness in his expression giving way to regret. “I know precisely what that feels like, Margaret.”
Realizing what she’d said and how he’d misconstrued her meaning, Maggie bowed her head, her body going warm. “Cullen, that’s not what I meant.” She lifted her eyes. “I meant no disrespect to you, or to the memory of your late wife and daughter.”
“I love you, Maggie.” The muscles tensed in his jaw as if part of him regretted the truth of the words. “But I cannot—and will not—allow this.” He briefly looked away. “I hope that with time you’ll be able to accept that. And that you’ll be able to forgive me for causin’ you such disappointment.”
To Win Her Favor Page 24