To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  “There’ll be no huntin’ party, Maggie.”

  “But I’m a very good—”

  “And certainly not one with a woman along.” Seeing her eyes narrow, he held up a hand. “I’ve already put measures in place. Two men, every night, are keepin’ a watch on things.”

  “Two of our workers?”

  “Aye.”

  She eyed him, and he could see the wheels spinning.

  “They’re armed?”

  Patience thinning, he nodded.

  “And do they know how to shoot?”

  He exhaled, frustration mounting at her line of questioning—and lack of faith in him. He shrugged. “You know, I probably should’ve thought of that before givin’ them rifles.”

  Darkness crept into her eyes and promised to sharpen her tongue as well.

  “Linden Downs has been my home for far longer than it’s been yours, Cullen. I have every right to know what’s happening here.”

  “I agree. But, Margaret . . .” His appetite gone, he pushed his plate away. “It’s August already. For nigh onto a month now you’ve scarcely uttered a civil word to me. Only yes and no, or ‘I’m fine, Cullen,’ or ‘No, thank you, Cullen.’ And now you sit here firin’ questions and tellin’ me how to handle situations as though the only thing I got between my ears is fodder and nonsense. I know what I’m doin’ here, Maggie. You need to trust that. You need to trust me.”

  The silence stretched until he thought it would snap.

  “And you need to trust me too,” she said with unexpected softness.

  Miss Onnie chose that moment to return, water pitcher in hand. Wordlessly she refilled their glasses. From her guarded expression, Cullen guessed she’d overheard their argument. He waited until she’d gone before speaking again.

  “I do trust you, Maggie,” he said quietly.

  “No, you don’t. If you did, you’d . . .” Her slender jaw worked as if she were tasting the words first. “You would allow me to race Bourbon Belle.”

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known what was coming. “Maggie, we’ve been over this.”

  “No, we haven’t. We haven’t been over anything.” Her lovely features hardened. “You simply told me your decision was made, and you wouldn’t allow me to do it. Do you have any idea how that feels? What that does to me on the inside?”

  “Don’t forget who you’re talkin’ to, love.” His smile felt stiff. “I know all about bein’ told what I can and cannot do. And if I ever happen to forget, there’s plenty of shingles hangin’ ’round town to remind me.”

  Her eyes flickered. With pain, perhaps. Or maybe it was regret over having said that to him. Or perhaps . . . she regretted ever having married him.

  Whichever it was, he watched the anger drain from her face even as it drained from him.

  Fighting the weight of resignation, he decided to change the subject, intent on salvaging what remained of the evening. “You’ve been over to Belle Meade more than usual in recent days. Lessons must be goin’ well. Nashville’s young ladies will be the finest riders in all the South.”

  Though sincerely meant, the olive branch felt weak in the offering and drew only the thinnest of smiles.

  “So tell me,” he continued, determined to scale her walls brick by blasted brick. “How many students are you instructin’ now?”

  Her gaze fell to her plate and she cleared her throat. “I’m teaching eight girls from town.”

  Only eight? He’d estimated far more based on the time she spent away from Linden Downs. Then it occurred to him . . . Maybe she was only going to Belle Meade so she wouldn’t have to be here with him. But that didn’t make sense. He was gone most of the day working in the fields.

  He tried again, seeing she wasn’t going to volunteer anything further. “Do any of the girls show promise?”

  A forever second ticked by.

  “One girl does,” she finally whispered, then stood and dropped her crumpled napkin by her plate. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  She strode from the dining room, the soft swoosh of her skirts overloud in the silence. Bucket raised his head briefly to watch her departure from his place of repose in the corner.

  Maggie’s boot steps echoed in the hallway as she raced up the stairs, and Cullen closed his eyes. Already weary from a long day’s work, he suddenly felt even more so. Especially when he knew that the sure way to end this argument was to tell her the truth of what racing Belle could cost them both.

  God, I don’t think I can survive her knowin’ that about me. Seein’ my own shame mirrored in her eyes . . .

  No sooner had the thought surfaced than he saw it for what it really was, though he could scarcely believe it. Since when had he become a man on speaking terms with the Lord again? He shook his head. He’d been reading too much of Mr. Linden’s Bible lately.

  “Let nothin’ be done through strife or vainglory.” He spoke softly, reciting a verse Mr. Linden had underlined—and that Cullen himself had dwelt on. “But in lowliness of mind let—” Just when he thought he remembered it, the words slipped away.

  But he recalled the thought behind the passage just the same. It was about how a person was supposed to respect others and think better of them than they did of themselves.

  He opened his eyes and looked in the general direction of their bedroom upstairs. He loved the woman. She was all but driving him to drink, but he still loved her. And hence, wanted to make her happy. But how could he?

  “Y’all done, sir?”

  Cullen blinked, then noticed Miss Onnie waiting on him.

  “Aye.” He rose. “We’re done.” He plucked the sprig of mint from his glass, the taste reminding him of summers back home. He reached the hallway before turning back. “Thank you, Miss Onnie. It was a good dinner.”

  She nodded. “You welcome, sir.”

  A few steps more, and Cullen heard his name.

  Miss Onnie stood in the doorway. “She young yet, Mister McGrath.” Her words came softly. “And she can be a mite headstrong, like her mother was, God rest her soul.”

  Miss Onnie briefly bowed her head, and Cullen recalled receiving similar counsel from Mr. Linden.

  “But she got a heart as wide and deep as her papa’s,” the servant continued. “And once she give her word, sir, I ain’t never seen that child go back on it.”

  Hearing the intent of her words, Cullen nodded. “Thank you, Miss Onnie. I just have to win her over. Again.”

  After letting Bucket outside one last time, Cullen extinguished all the lamps save one and carried it upstairs, trying to figure out how to unlock Maggie Linden’s heart.

  For the second time.

  The footsteps paused on the other side of the bedroom door, and Maggie’s heartbeat ratcheted up. Maybe Cullen would stay in his old room tonight, which would be best, considering.

  Slowly, the bedroom door creaked open. With her back to him, she hugged the edge of the bed and closed her eyes, not daring to move. Not even when the breeze ushered through the window and stirred the hair at her temple, causing a tickle on her cheek.

  The intoxicating aroma of milkweed—sweet, yet spicy with an overtone of honey—filled the room, as did the faint grassy scent of tasseling corn almost ready for harvest. How proud Papa would have been had he lived to see it all. With the exception of this strife between her and Cullen. That would have worn on her father.

  The thought undermined her resolve to remain angry, and she squeezed her eyes tighter. She’d already dried her tears and sworn she wasn’t shedding another. Not tonight. Not over Cullen.

  So why did her throat close tight when the warm halo from the lamp he carried fell across the bed?

  He set the lamp on the dresser, then began to disrobe.

  She didn’t sneak a look at him as she’d done last night. But even without looking, she could hear his movements. She knew his body, his lean muscled chest and broad shoulders. His arms strong, yet capable of such tenderness. She’d always considered herself more boyish in figur
e, her own body lean and lacking the full curves she knew men found desirable. So it surprised her, the first time they were one as husband and wife, how soft her own body was compared to his. And how well they melded into each other.

  Memory kicked in, and her breath quickened along with her pulse. She grew warm beneath the covers. Yet still she didn’t move.

  How was it she could feel such longing for someone when he’d disappointed her so completely? And due, at least in part, to his determination that she not be hurt. Ironic . . .

  In his attempt to protect her, he had wounded her more deeply than he knew.

  He turned down the lamp and edged back the sheet. The mattress shifted then shrank by half as he lay down beside her. His thigh brushed against hers, and every nerve in her body threatened to betray her.

  As she wrestled between desire and frustration, another possibility for his decision about Belle shook loose. Maybe Cullen wasn’t really afraid for her. Maybe the real reason he didn’t want her to race was that he believed she wouldn’t win. That she wasn’t capable of training a champion. The notion sank deep, slicing as it went until it found its mark in an old but familiar wound.

  He shifted his weight beside her, and somehow she knew he hadn’t presented his back to her as he usually did. He was watching her, his gaze moving over her back, her waist, then downward before making a leisurely journey back up again.

  Clenching her jaw, Maggie reminded herself of every reason she shouldn’t want him in her bed. He had said no to racing Belle. Then refused to discuss it. He’d shut her out. Completely.

  “Maggie,” he whispered.

  He’d taken what she’d worked for all these years. What she and her father had sacrificed for.

  “I miss you, my love.”

  He’d cast it aside without the least thought for her. He was selfish, prideful, and—

  “Please . . . look at me.”

  Maggie shook her head, the flurry of accusations falling prey to the tension between them. It filled every corner of the bedroom, and she waited with senses heightened for him to touch her, part of her hoping he wouldn’t, while the greater part of her prayed he would.

  But how would she respond if he did? Would she be able to resist? And if she didn’t, would he think her acquiescence meant he was right, and that all was forgiven? Because it certainly wasn’t.

  The string of moments lengthened, and a single question welled up inside her. She slowly turned onto her back.

  “Cullen,” she whispered, wondering if he could feel the pounding of her heart.

  “Aye?” he said softly.

  “I know the real reason you don’t want me to race Belle. And it doesn’t have anything to do with gambling or what happened with your father . . . does it?”

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, that she could tell. Surprising her, he turned onto his back, and only their shoulders touched.

  Finally he gave a sharp exhale. “No . . . it doesn’t, Maggie.”

  “It’s because”—she swallowed against the lump in her throat, the cost of saying the words aloud greater than she imagined—“you don’t believe I can win. That I can train a horse and rider to do that. Which is exactly what my mother thought. And told me. Countless times.”

  She looked over at him, read the set of his profile, the absolute stillness about him, and knew she’d guessed correctly. Turning back, she watched the moonlight chase shadows on the walls and ceiling as the grandfather clock downstairs chimed eleven times, the sound lonely in the silence.

  “My mother never thought a proper young girl should ride like I did,” she whispered. “Not only did she disapprove of me riding astraddle, she never approved of my training horses to race either. She said it was a man’s occupation.” She smiled in the dark, not from humor but rather from only now seeing the paradox. “It’s comical, really . . . Mother thought I was too boyish, too much like my brothers. And you see me as weak, and fear I might get hurt.”

  He reached for her hand on the covers, and the emotion in her throat deepened to an ache.

  “Margaret Laurel Linden McGrath . . .” His deep voice sounded even huskier in the dark. “You are not weak. You’re an extraordinary woman. And it isn’t that I think you’re incapable of winnin’. It’s not that at all. It’s more that I—” His grip on her hand tightened.

  Hearing the struggle in his tone, feeling it in him, she waited for his next words as if they held life itself.

  “I fear what could happen if you do.”

  She closed her eyes as a wave of gratitude poured through her. He believed she could do it!

  But then what was keeping him from agreeing to it? A fear of her being hurt didn’t seem rational. And yet, considering his past—what happened to his first wife and their daughter—it did make sense. But what mattered most . . .

  He believed she could win!

  Her thoughts racing, Maggie rose on one elbow to look down at him. “Thank you,” she whispered, moving her hand over his chest, touching his face, his mouth, desire for him spreading through her. “Thank you for believing in me.”

  “Maggie,” he whispered, taking hold of her hand. “There are things you don’t know. Things I need to say to you, love.”

  Tasting the memory of his kiss, she moved closer. “No, you don’t. At least . . . not right now.” She pressed her lips to his, but she sensed a hesitancy in him and drew back, suddenly shy and unsure.

  Maybe she should have waited for him to take the lead. This was still new to her, after all. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear. She leaned back. “I thought it would be all right to—”

  With something akin to a groan, he took her in his arms, pressed her deep into the bed, and kissed her the way she’d wanted him to. His mouth tasted of mint and his skin was warm. The solid feel of his chest against hers was heady. His mouth left hers and ventured downward and, pulse racing, she pressed her head back into the pillow, weaving her fingers through his hair.

  After a moment he sought her mouth again and, breathless, she met his. She began unbuttoning her gown and he assisted, adept at the skill even in the dark. Lying skin to skin, his hands gentle and wonderfully possessive, Maggie wrapped her arms around him.

  “Closer,” she whispered, and gave a soft moan when he complied, and more.

  Closing her eyes to the shadows dancing across the ceiling, she moved beneath his touch and gave herself to her husband.

  Chapter

  THIRTY

  I know what we’re doing is questionable, Maggie. Some people might even say it’s wrong.”

  Maggie looked over at Savannah astride the mare beside her and found her friend’s lovely expression riddled with guilt. “Do you still want to do it?”

  Savannah reined in her mount, and Maggie followed suit. Bourbon Belle obeyed, while making it clear by a toss of her head that she didn’t want to.

  Savannah winced, her focus on the road that led to the farm that had once been her family’s. “Finding that box is all I’ve thought about since reading the letter. I need to know if it’s still there, and what my father left for us.”

  Maggie smiled. “I think I’d feel the same. So . . . onward.”

  Savannah grinned. “Want to race? Like we used to?”

  Enjoying this side of Savannah, which she hadn’t seen in a very long time, Maggie leaned forward and patted Belle’s neck. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be much of a fair fight, as they say.”

  Savannah glanced down at Duchess, the pretty little sorrel Cullen had saddled for her that morning. “Of course it’ll be fair.” Her grin widened. “Especially if I start first!”

  Savannah slapped the reins, and Duchess took off in a plume of dust.

  Maggie laughed, holding Belle in check while knowing as well as Savannah did that Duchess was no match for the thoroughbred. Maggie waited a full minute before finally giving Belle the signal the blood horse lived for.

  And they flew.

  Be
lle rounded the bend, and Maggie spotted Savannah and Duchess up ahead. Evidently so did Belle. Because even without Maggie’s urging, the thoroughbred thundered forward, hooves pounding, the mare’s natural instinct to race taking charge. Maggie gave the mare her head.

  Belle overtook Duchess and passed her in a blink.

  Maggie’s skirts whipped behind her in the wind and, as the former Darby home came into view, she thought of the Peyton Stakes in October, two months away, and about how every day for the past two weeks she’d waited for the right moment to tell Cullen what she was doing. Or hoped to do, if Kizzy’s parents agreed. Kizzy didn’t even know about the race yet. And wouldn’t—unless her parents were in favor.

  All the girl knew was that she was being taught how to ride. Which was the truth. Because if Cullen—the legal owner of Bourbon Belle—held fast to his decision, and Maggie failed to find a way to persuade him otherwise, that would be all Kizzy would be doing. Learning how to ride.

  Reaching the home, Maggie reined Belle in and heard the rhythmic beat of Duchess’s hooves coming up the drive.

  The house looked much the same as Maggie remembered. Only lonelier, with the grass gone to seed and the weeds leggy and wild.

  She’d always admired the stately look of the place. The double porches—first story and second—that wrapped around the house like a warm hug. Those porches had hosted so many dinners, conversations, and evenings spent reading and rocking, often long after the sun had started its nightly journey.

  But it was the scent that transported her back in time . . .

  Maggie breathed deeply of honeysuckle on the vine and remembered all the summer afternoons she and Savannah had sat right there on the front porch, clumps of those fragrant flowers in their laps. And amidst giggles and secret telling, they’d gently tugged the style from the center of the petals to catch the sweet nectar on their tongues.

  She could still see Jake and Adam, Savannah’s older brothers, and their long, lanky legs taking the porch steps in twos. Their laughter was etched in her memory, just like that of her own brothers.