The Lord Meets His Lady

by Gina Conkle

  Did she wish he wouldn’t race? Too late for that.

  She touched a kiss to her fingers and raised her hand to his. He bent over in the saddle and caught her proffered hand, kissing her fingertips.

  “No matter what happens, stay by Samuel,” he said and let go. His blood thrummed with fear, excitement…the thrill of what was ahead.

  “It’s time, gentlemen,” Atal announced.

  Samuel guided Genevieve a safe distance from the starting line. She kept looking over her shoulder, her red hood falling back and gold hair flying free, but the race was upon him. The black danced sideways, bumping the skittish brown.

  Atal raised a flintlock high, and Marcus crouched over Khan’s withers, squinting ahead.

  A shot cracked, and the world blurred.

  Khan lunged forward. Atal’s black took the lead. Hooves pummeled the grass like cannons in battle. Hot sweat born of desperation jabbed Marcus’s skin. This was no thrill race. The horses, Khan, and Samuel needed victory. But most of all, Genevieve.

  All the pieces were in play.

  His grip on the reins hovered over the pommel. Wind stole his hat. Sunlight blinded him.

  Three horses jostled for position. Atal’s black charged ahead, Khan at her heels.

  Faster!

  His heart banged as if he were running the race. The nervous brown bay bumped his leg. Khan gained ground. The gray’s nose pumped in time with his hooves, but the lanky stableboy rode the black as if born to her.

  “Go!” Marcus bellowed.

  The pennant billowed ahead.

  Wind battered his face. Eyes watering, he squinted. The ground sped past. They inched closer, Khan’s head along the black’s ribs. Atal’s brown strained on the other side of Marcus, the whites of her eyes showing. The older rider bobbled the reins. He tried to get a grip and keep her steady.

  The rock. The footman holding the pennant high. The servant hunched.

  Khan kept up with the black, his nose equal to the filly’s shoulder. The lad was good, bending low over her neck. His eyes stayed the course. His mouth moved, speaking words only he and the filly knew.

  A glossy sheen covered Khan’s withers. Marcus panted, his lungs fair to bursting. Grass clods flew from soft, wet ground. Khan slipped, banging the black. The lad hugged lowered. They rounded the heavy stone, Khan and the black nudging again.

  Wind whipped Marcus, slapping his face and stinging his eyes. Knees bent, heels digging down, he tensed as if by will he could force the win. His heart drubbed. Sunlight shined on the twin posts. He strove with Khan to reach them. The noise of hammering hooves eased. The skittish brown bay must’ve dropped back. He couldn’t afford to check.

  The posts were ahead.

  Cursing, he urged Khan forward. The gray’s nose bobbed alongside the black’s neck. Closer. Closer. Khan’s nose inched up. The two were nearly neck and neck. Acrid tastes coated Marcus’s mouth…salt…copper. He gulped air. The posts… They were several horse lengths ahead. He let go of the reins and grabbed Khan’s mane and let him have his head.

  Khan surged ahead by a nose.

  The finish line. They raced for it, both horses lunging, legs stretching. The ground sped underneath. Marcus’s heart burst from the pounding. Khan fought, tendons straining as though the horse knew. So much at stake. The horses. The partnership. Genevieve.

  Sweat lathered on the black’s neck beside him. Khan’s Godolphin legs flew off the ground. The gray shot past the posts and won by a head. The proud steed arced in a wide circle before slowing to a gentle gallop. Panting as hard as his horse, Marcus stared wide-eyed ahead, seeing nothing.

  They had won.

  Bits and pieces of the world came together.

  The sun glared. The wind blew. A cheering crowd circled. Men slapped each other’s back with whoops and hollers like excited boys. Mrs. Grey was among the clutch of men, the papers peeking from her bodice. The lad on the black touched his forelock to Marcus. The stable master’s chest billowed, but he touched his forelock to Marcus too and dismounted from the lathered bay. He walked the high-strung bay afield to get her away from the crowd.

  Marcus slid off Khan, salt stinging his eyes. His boots hit the ground, and he braced both hands on his knees. He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, but the sting burned deep. He’d witnessed Khan’s birth. His horse of almost five years, a creature of intelligence he trained, weaning the foal from his mother, his friend…was lost.

  “Sorry, old friend,” he said, his breath billowing painfully.

  Nostrils flared, Khan snorted. His head tipped with pride at winning the race, the gleam of victory in his eyes. A knot formed behind Marcus’s breastbone. Stroking Khan’s muzzle, he had to let go. Genevieve ran to his side and smothered his face with kisses.

  “You won!” she cried and squeezed his shoulders.

  Samuel slapped his back. “Well done, Marcus. Well done. Khan will get extra oats and a fine rubdown tonight.”

  “He’ll have the finest care.” Marcus gathered Khan’s reins and stood upright.

  Atal approached in high spirits. “Good show, Bowles. Finest race I’ve seen in a long time.” He smiled at Samuel and Genevieve, his pomade curls defying the wind. “I can’t complain about the outcome.”

  “Both your horses did well, Baron,” Genevieve said.

  “Both? All three of the horses are mine.” He smiled and snapped his fingers for a footman. “Didn’t your husband tell you? He sold Khan to me.”

  “What?” Genevieve and Samuel cried out in unison.

  Marcus hissed through clenched teeth. Sweat trickled down his face. “A moment, if you please.”

  Samuel grabbed Marcus’s arm, his astonishment morphing to brilliant respect. “A defining moment, Marcus. You are a man of honor.”

  “You sold Khan?” Both hands covered Genevieve’s cheeks, but her eyes glossed with pain.

  Her mouth an O, her face crumpled as the footman led Khan away to his new life in a plush stall in Baron Atal’s barn. Head high, the gray’s tail arced with pride. At the road, Khan’s neck arched for one look back. Big brown eyes, knowing eyes, took in the cluster of Samuel, Marcus, and Genevieve. The gray snorted, cresting the knoll to the castle. Khan knew what was afoot. The last snort was his approval at being sacrificed for love and friendship.

  “I did,” Marcus said wistfully, taking in Samuel and Genevieve. “For us.”

  The Prussian’s boots slammed the earth on his march from the trees. He squabbled with Barnard and Thade, the hulking footmen trailing by three paces. Barnard grabbed Herr Wolf’s arm and jabbed a finger at his waiting carriage.

  “Nein!” the soldier bellowed, shaking Barnard off.

  The baron glared at the disturbance. “What in the devil is going on?”

  The Prussian charged the finish line, reaching behind his back and pulling a pistol from his breeches’ waistband. Thade and the two rufflers followed suit.

  “Samuel, get Genevieve and Mrs. Grey out of here.” Marcus reached inside his boot for his pocket pistol, but Herr Wolf cocked his pistol, aiming at Marcus.

  “Hands up, Englisch.”

  Marcus stilled and slowly began to raise both hands. Cries rose from the revelers. Stoneleigh and the others scattered up the knoll. Halliburton showed some mettle and pulled a pocket pistol from inside his coat.

  “Herr Wolf,” Atal blustered. “You are a guest in my home. I demand—”

  “Shut up.”

  Atal faltered. Ravens cawed, and Avo advanced on Wolf, holding his pistol by the barrel.

  Sunlight gleamed sharp off the Prussian’s pistol. Marcus winced and raised his hands higher. The next few seconds flew past, yet each motion, each word was a picture frame in time, dragging in a blur.

  Wolf barked “The papers!” at Mrs. Grey as feral-eyed Avo Thade slammed his pistol butt on the Prussian’s skull
.

  The giant fell forward as onlookers yelled from the knoll. Mrs. Grey screamed. Thunder sounded, but no storms brewed.

  “Marcus!” Genevieve yelled.

  The rufflers advanced, their faces grim. The thunder grew. People yelled. Fingers pointed frantically behind Marcus. He glimpsed the skittish brown charging him. Clods of dirt flew. Teeth bared, the brown kicked up her heels. Marcus dove to avoid her but too late.

  She slammed him. He flew through the air and landed hard, his head hitting the grassy ground. The world became hazy. Gray light stole around him, shrinking the world. The rufflers dragged an unconscious Wolf to the carriage, his boot toes plowing grass. Thade tucked his pistol away and gave Marcus a slight nod. Their plan had worked.

  Not only had Barnard tipped the Wolf’s hand by revealing when he’d leave; Barnard had also revealed a possible ally in Avo Thade.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  His head throbbed with the ancient proverb. Gray light spread across his vision. A crowd shadowed him, their shoes black leather in the grass. Genevieve knelt beside him, her red cloak the last thing he saw before the world went black.

  Thirty-seven

  The ground was pillow soft. Marcus rubbed the flatness. Cool cloth, not grass, grazed his palm. He pushed up on one elbow, head throbbing.

  “Samuel, he’s awake.” Adam Beckworth’s voice.

  Marcus opened his eyes and pinched them shut at pain slicing his temple. He sat up, his stomach roiling with the need to retch. Marcus touched his head. A bandage. Sticky moisture. He examined his hand.

  Blood spotted his fingers. “Where am I?”

  “You’re on my bed,” Samuel announced, a lit taper in hand.

  “Not a place I want to be.” Marcus swung both legs over the edge. His boots hit the floor, and he bit back the need to vomit. “Sorry, Samuel. I like you, but not that much.”

  “The sentiment is mutual. I’d rather a softly curved woman was in your place.”

  Bracing himself, Marcus stood and took a step. The floor spun. He wavered, catching the bedpost. Samuel rushed to his side.

  “You need rest. Physician’s orders.”

  “Thank you, but I can rest at home.”

  “Better that you stay here. When you fell, your head hit a small stone in the grass. You lost a lot of blood but suffered no serious damage that the physician could see. We’ve all taken turns watching over you.”

  “Thanks, but I prefer my nurses softly curved. If you could help me get to Pallinsburn…”

  “That’s no good.”

  “Why not? Genevieve will take care of me.”

  Samuel raised the candlelight to eye level. “Marcus, she’s gone.”

  Air squeezed from his lungs, and he hunched over. He gripped the bedpost, bile at the back of his throat again.

  “That’s not possible… The Prussian was knocked cold.” He pushed off Samuel’s bed.

  “The Prussian didn’t take her. She left of her own accord.”

  “What?” Marcus wavered, waiting for the world to stop its spin.

  Samuel strode forward. “You need to rest, Marcus. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

  “Morning? What time is it?”

  “Twilight I think. Alexander went on an errand in the village, and then he was going to feed the horses.”

  The race had been in the morning. He’d been out all day. Concentrating on the plank floor, he forced himself to stand and put one foot in front of the other. He pushed past Samuel, his steps surer as he maneuvered the hall and stairs.

  Samuel was at his elbow. “I can’t convince you to lie down?”

  “I’m not tired,” Marcus groused. “What happened?”

  “You tell me. One minute, I was afraid I’d have to shoot the foreigner. The next, I see his own man club him with the butt of a pistol and two ruffians drag him off to Barnard’s carriage.”

  Marcus slumped on the entry hall’s wooden bench. His redingote and hat hung from hooks on the wall. He rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands to clear the fog. He needed to get Genevieve.

  “Want some whiskey?” Samuel offered.

  “No. Watered-down ale or cider if you have any.”

  “Adam, get a bowl of broth and some bread for Lord Bowles and see if we have any cider.”

  Samuel lit the sconces, brightening the hall. “Care to explain what happened?”

  “Genevieve—”

  “Is safe. Now tell me. The Prussian.”

  “I met Avo Thade at the Red Swan yesterday. I gleaned from conversations with Genevieve and Barnard that the man viewed Genevieve as a distraction from their cause.” Marcus scrubbed his face and accepted the cool cider Adam offered. “I gambled on him not wanting her in tow. I was right.”

  He emptied the mug, his throat parched. But this was no siren call for whiskey. His body thirsted to be quenched, as did his heart.

  He set the mug on the seat beside him. “Thade said he’d bind Wolf in the carriage and keep him that way until their ship set sail.”

  “What was that bit with the papers? Why risk the Prussian’s ire if you knew Thade agreed to work in concert with you?”

  “I had to get the indenture. For Genevieve.” He rubbed his breastbone, a twinge sharpening there. Genevieve had left. Why? He’d never told her he loved her. He’d meant to. As soon as he returned triumphant with her indenture papers.

  What happened when a good man made heroic choices and still lost?

  “Why did she leave me?” He stood, his legs a tad unsteady.

  Posture military straight, Samuel’s arms folded across his chest. “What you did—selling Khan—affected us both. It was a good thing, heroic. To her it was devastating. She blames herself, said you were cornered into making the sacrifice because of her.”

  “It’s no reason for her to leave. I have to find her.” He reached for his redingote. “I did it because I love her.”

  “She was quite firm in believing you’d be better off without her.” Samuel paused. “She saw the letter about Miss Rutherford.”

  Marcus swore under his breath.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t tell her you loved her.” Samuel handed Marcus his hat.

  “My gravest sin.” He took the hat and set it carefully on his bandaged head. “I’ve never told a woman I love her.”

  “I’d say you’re about to.”

  He opened the front door, an eye to the barn. “I need to go after her. May I use one of your horses?”

  Samuel followed him with papers in hand, swinging on his frock coat. “You know you’re in no condition to ride.”

  Marcus ignored that. “I assume she took one of the stagecoaches. Are you going to tell me which one?”

  “The twilight coach to London.”

  He frowned. “Alexander’s errand to the village? You should’ve told me right away.”

  “Chivalry first, my friend.”

  “I have a good idea where to catch the coach.” Marcus grinned, inklings of his old self returning. “Convincing her to stay is my bigger concern.”

  “Then give her this. Might help.” Samuel handed over a yellowed, thrice-folded foolscap. The Prussian’s indenture contract. Folded beneath it was their marriage license. “One of Atal’s footmen delivered it right after she left.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said, tucking the papers inside his redingote. He slid them into the pocket over his heart.

  “No, thank you, my friend.” Samuel’s smile slashed a bold white line.

  Wordless understanding passed between them. What had been done today was done in the name of friendship and love. Marcus wasn’t going to fight what he wanted anymore. Sacrifice in the name of friendship and love had shown him the need to seek his own path. He’d been fighting what he wanted and who he was for too long. A simpl
er path with horses and a plain cottage and a woman who gave him unconditional acceptance.

  He loved Genevieve, and he’d shout to the world she was his wife…if she’d have him.

  But he knew what she needed first. It comforted him to be the one to give it to her.

  Marcus nodded at Samuel. “I’m off to ask my wife to marry me again.”

  Samuel opened the barn door for him. “Take my gelding. And don’t break your neck.”

  Thirty-eight

  The coach jerked to a halt.

  “Ladies, prepare yourself.” Mrs. Trumbull swiped fingerless gloves across fogged glass. “We’re about to be breached by a highwayman.”

  The coach lurched sideways from four women pressing the windows for a better look.

  Mrs. Featherton’s throaty laugh filled the tight confines. “He can breach my defenses anytime.”

  She’d claimed to be a widow, traveling to London for a position as lady’s companion, but a heart-shaped patch on her cheek sent the wrong message. The flame-haired Mrs. Featherton fussed with travel-mashed curls, smiling archly at Mrs. Trumbull.

  “Don’t they commit their crimes in packs? This one’s alone.”

  “Really, Mrs. Featherton. Some decorum, please.”

  “He looks…dangerous with his collar up, but he’s not waving a pistol at Mr. McGreevy. They’re talking. That’s a good sign.” So said Miss Patience Underwood, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “And he has a bandage around his head.”

  “Could be from a robbery gone awry,” Mrs. Underwood offered. “Sit back, Patience. No need to put yourself on display.”

  Squashed in the far corner, Genevieve breathed easier. She had no interest in the goings-on outside. The sooner the coach moved on, the better. Hugging her cloak about her, she closed her eyes, feigning sleep.

  The door clicked open. “Miss Turner, there’s a man out here says he’s your husband.”

  A gasp followed skirts rustling and shoes scraping the floor. Behind her eyelids, pitch-black privacy lightened to dark umber. Someone thrust a lamp at her face.