by Lara Temple
‘He didn’t “pass away”. He killed himself.’
He had expected to shock her with his bluntness, but though her brows drew together, she just nodded and he found he was still talking.
‘He was barely twenty-one. He drank a whole bottle of laudanum. I don’t even know where he found it. I kept all the medicines in a locked cupboard in my room because he was already taking too much. But he was always in pain and he had nightmares and he was afraid to sleep. They had taken off his left arm because the wounds wouldn’t heal and there were so many broken bones in his other hand they thought of taking it off as well, to stop the pain, but he wouldn’t let them. He said his left hand still hurt him as much even though it wasn’t there, so there was no point. He wouldn’t go outside and he wouldn’t talk to anyone but me and Nurse. My mother couldn’t bear seeing him in pain and he couldn’t bear seeing her suffer, so she stayed away. He had attacks where he would just sit there, white and shaking, and there was nothing I could do, not even hold his hand because it hurt him too much. He couldn’t even escape into sleep. He kept dreaming the man who tortured him had found him again. I wish the English hadn’t shot that vicious bastard so I could have done it myself.’
He dragged himself to a halt. There was no reason to tell her any of this. There were only two people in the world who knew and that was only because he would...he had trusted them with his life. What would this little girl know about anything, with her sheltered life and unformed dreams? He must be a little mad to be telling her any of this. She would probably run for the hills now and would be right to do so. Charles Welbeck would certainly never subject her to such an assault.
He waited for her to turn away. The last thing he expected was for her to take his hand and lead him out of the crowd towards the wooded path to Welbeck, drawing him with her like a child or one of her schoolchildren. He wanted to hold his ground, but his feet followed his hand. She didn’t speak until they had reached the place where the path split off towards the pond by the lower paddocks.
‘I wondered how you knew so well how to help me that day at Tilney Hall. You were so kind without appearing to be. That’s a very rare skill. I’m sorry it was so dearly bought.’
He looked out over the pond, still trying to find the resolve to shake off her hand, feeling more and more like a child being taken on an airing for their own good. Except that it did feel good. Side by side with the usual roiling guilt and pain was the calm of moving through fields and paths that were as removed from devastation and pain as anything could be.
‘It didn’t work with him.’
‘Didn’t it?’
She stopped to look at him and he met her gaze for a moment before looking back out on the dark green water with its edges feathered by surrounding willows. The image of Tim’s pain-racked face stretching into a sweet smile as he came out of an attack and his words, hoarse and unsteady, thanking him for ‘being there’.
‘I don’t think I could bear anyone else, Gabe. Some day, maybe, but not just yet. I’m sorry...’
‘Some day, maybe’ hadn’t come, but Hunter was free now. Except he wasn’t really free. The person he had loved most in the world, who had been his to care for since they were boys, no longer existed. He had lost a limb himself that day and, like Tim’s non-existent arm, it still ached just as fiercely and brutally shattered his nights.
‘You were just three years older than I.’ Nell frowned.
‘What?’
‘I just realised. You weren’t much older than I when you had to care for him.’
‘So?’
‘That’s very young for such a burden.’
‘It has nothing to do with age. It has to do with accountability.’
‘I see. Is that why you founded Hope House?’
‘I don’t believe it. My aunts told you that?’ He was truly shocked. Amelia and Sephy knew they were never to mention his and his friends’ involvement to anyone. It was no one’s business. How had she managed to drag that out of them in one day?
‘No, you did just now.’ Her sudden smile glinted and he didn’t know whether to feel like a fool at being tricked so easily or indulge the need to bask in the admiration he read in her eyes. He pulled his hand away.
‘It’s guilt money. For failing him. As you know I can afford it without even noticing.’
She nodded and took his arm.
‘I know. And sitting with Mr Pratchett’s son means nothing, either. Come, let’s go see Meecham’s grey. I heard it arrived last night.’
He followed, but didn’t answer, his tension lasting all the way to the stables. He should never have told her anything. This was precisely why he had always insisted on keeping his part in Hope House as quiet as possible. He didn’t want people prying and feeling sorry for him. At the stable doors he stopped. He was letting this girl manage him like a blasted nurse.
‘Not all the world’s ills can be salved with horses, you know,’ he said, detaching his hand.
‘Very few, I imagine. Come, I hear Courage is well over sixteen hands and very good-natured for a stallion.’
She opened the stable door and didn’t wait for him to follow but he did anyway, telling himself it would be churlish not to see the horse now he was here; it would be to give too much importance to his discomfort or admit that any discomfort existed at all.
* * *
Nell crouched by the enormous grey, wondering what she was thinking to have dragged Hunter here when it was obvious the last thing he wanted was to look at the horse. At least being here was calming her, if not him. The urge to comfort and encompass which was always part of her existence at the school was out of place here, but she didn’t know what else to do. Hunter certainly wouldn’t appreciate if she did what she really wanted to do, which was wrap her arms around him and hold him until he softened.
She breathed in the familiar smells of the stables and disregarded her unladylike position and the straw that caught at her skirts. For a stallion Courage was very well behaved and merely whickered and turned his head to nuzzle her hair as she examined him.
‘He’s sprained his fetlock in the past few months, hasn’t he? What happened?’
The dismay on Meecham’s chubby face was so obvious she wished she had been more diplomatic. Meecham was a serious and conscientious breeder; of course he wasn’t hiding the mild injury on purpose.
‘Three months ago. George, my brother, tried to jump him. I thought he had completely healed. I never...’
She smiled reassuringly. ‘I don’t think there is lasting damage; there is no swelling I can feel. He just reacted a bit differently when I touched him there. He is a beautiful horse, Lord Meecham.’
Meecham’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
‘He is, isn’t he? It’s rather a shame to sell him, but I have Golden Boy and Spangles for breeding already and it is such a shame to geld him. You did say you were looking for a grey, didn’t you, Hunter?’
Hunter, who had stood silently throughout her inspection, nodded and moved towards the stallion with the same calm and fluid movement she remembered from all those years ago, showing none of the tension that had flared in him just moments ago.
* * *
You could tell so much from the way someone approached animals. It wasn’t just that, like the stallion, Hunter was an exquisite specimen of his breed. As she followed Hunter’s progress, the slide of his hands over the silky, slightly dappled coat, the way his long fingers gently eased back the horse’s mane and ran down the revealed neck, the beautiful grey stallion faded into the background. It was hard to look away from Hunter’s hands; they suited him so well, sleek and powerful, and it was easy to see why women would want those hands on them. It was hard not to react to their calm and purposeful exploration, to imagine it was her own skin being skimmed and tested.
She forced herself
to turn away, but the image lingered—of his strong profile outlined against the horse’s shoulder, his mouth uncharacteristically soft as he murmured something soothing to the horse as he tested the injured fetlock. The stable suddenly felt too hot and oppressive and she wished someone would open the doors wider and let in a breeze.
‘You are a beauty, aren’t you?’ Hunter said lightly to the grey before moving back towards them. ‘I’ll take him out for a ride, but as far as I’m concerned you can name your price, Meech.’
The words released Nell and she half-sighed and moved towards a mare stabled by the door as the two men began discussing terms, steadying herself as she stroked her, drawing calm from the familiar motions and sensations.
It made no sense, the way she kept reacting to his presence. How was it possible when it was Charles whom she had loved for years? When it was Charles who had always made her feel flustered and full of hope? Not that that was how Hunter made her feel, which should have reassured her, but it didn’t. It was more inexplicable, uncomfortable. There was nothing magical about it. It was too earthy and low and it worked its way up from the ground like an encroaching vine. She felt restless and turned inside out and needing to act. To do something. Take something. Touch him.
‘Shall we?’
His voice was so close it sounded as though he was speaking inside her, his very voice had become part of her. It ran rough and warm through her, like brandy. She almost asked ‘shall we what?’ until she realised that would be a deliberate provocation.
‘Shall we what?’
He didn’t answer immediately. Then he placed his hands on the stall door behind her, bracketing her body. The anger was gone, but this was worse, because this look was the one that had sent her heart thudding and tightened its merciless coil around her last night. His eyes were molten honey and amber, spilling heat over her. She forgot where they were, that Meecham was a few yards away fussing over Courage, that stable hands and guests might come by at any moment.
Then abruptly he took her hand and drew her out of the stable and down the path leading into the trees. She followed, matching her stride to his long legs, stumbling as they turned off the path and into a tiny clearing hedged by stunted oaks.
There was no pause, no discussion, not even a warning before he turned her and captured her mouth with his.
It was raw, punishing. His hands untied and pushed back her bonnet and dug deep into her hair, locking her to him while his mouth took possession of hers. It wasn’t a seduction; it was a demand. It should have scared her, but it just opened a new door. If he could demand, so could she. She met the thrust of his tongue against hers, wrapped her arms around the hard expanse of his back under his coat and pressed herself against him. It felt so good. Surely this meeting of her body with the hard surfaces of his was her natural state. Almost. There was too much between them, her skin chafed at her dress, at his coat and waistcoat. She wanted to be as bare, as immediate as her mouth under his, to take and be taken as she was.
‘You’re driving me insane, Nell,’ he muttered against her mouth, his hands skimming over her body, shaping curves and dips and reflecting the urgency and impatience that was plaguing her. She wanted something. She needed something. The thought that he felt it too, that she had the power to do this to someone else...to Hunter...
The image that had been tantalising her, of touching his warm skin, became a need as urgent as breathing. She dragged his shirt from his buckskins and with a moan of relief spread her hands as far up his back as his clothes allowed. His skin was heated silk over muscles that bunched and shifted as she caressed him.
She needed to feel him. Soon it would be over, he would leave and she had to remember what it felt like to explore, to remember this freedom and this sense of control. She could even feel his breathing, shallow and unsteady as he started drawing back. The thought that he might stop made her slide one hand around his nape, grasping his silky dark hair in her fist and anchoring him as she pressed her mouth back to his. She wasn’t done yet, not even close.
* * *
There were limits. No one could expect him to be in control when her body was all but glued to his, one hand like a burning brand on his bare back and her lips drinking him in, coaxing his soul out with sweetness and fire.
He never should have marched her out of the stables like a troglodyte dragging his woman off to a cave. But right now that was precisely what he felt like, reduced to a pulsing mass of need without brain or common sense.
Oh, how he wanted her. She was becoming a compulsion. How he was going to stop himself from stripping her, touching her, tasting her everywhere... It was beyond him.
He cradled her face in his hands and gave all his attention to that lush, delicious lower lip, mapping it, caressing it with lips and tongue, following it inward, outlining its corners where her smile bloomed. She stilled under his exploration. He could feel her arms shaking slightly but otherwise she remained motionless as he took possession of her mouth. He would make it utterly his; no one had ever known it as he did, made it tremble like this, made her shake with need like a racehorse at the gate, ready to surge when the restraints were dropped. He wanted to feel that leap against him, but he held her there, tense and needy and waiting for him, as if holding her at bay would keep him safe, keep them both safe.
She would make the most incandescent of mistresses if only she wasn’t a damn innocent. It felt as though it would kill him at the moment to stop kissing her, to put away her long elegant body when all he wanted to do was drag her down onto the grass between the trees and leave her as bare as nature and pay the same attention to every inch of skin, visible and hidden, as he was to her mouth.
He had never entered an embrace wondering if he would be able to stop, knowing there was a point he was fast approaching that would challenge his control. He had told her she was testing his sanity, but it was worse than that. She kept encroaching on boundaries he had erected before he had even understood what the word meant. He had loved his family, but he had never needed them. It had been his job to be needed and that was fine with him. It was power, being the centre of the universe. He didn’t need anyone; that was anathema to who he was. He had had more women than he felt was quite fair to remember and he had enjoyed them mightily, but he had never once mistook lust for need. He gave, he took, he didn’t need.
This wasn’t need either, he told himself. This was just lust, glorious and painful though it was and unfulfilled as it was likely to remain. On her part as well. She didn’t need him any more than he needed her. This was sheer want, take.
His mind insisted and his body categorically ignored the lecture.
‘Nell. Kiss me back, now. Please.’
Was he reduced to begging? But he got what he wanted. His words released her from her passive acceptance of his exploration. Her hand twisted back in his hair, her other hand just skimming his cheek, and her lips parted against his in an assault that rocked him backwards and made his arms tighten around her as if she could keep him from falling. She wasn’t gentle. She tugged his lower lip between hers, tasting it with her tongue, catching it with her teeth and letting it go only to sink into him, her tongue searching for and finding his, her breath filling him with her whimpers of pleasure and impatience.
This was the girl who galloped as though she owned the universe, who would ride him into heaven if she was his.
He couldn’t help meeting her assault, leading and following as she grew bolder. Her hands slid under his shirt again, but this time they skimmed the line above his buckskins, and the heat became unbearable. He could feel the surface of his skin, prickling with perspiration and raw nerve ends, adding to the clamour of every part of his body that wanted to be touched by her, kissed by her, with precisely that total abandon.
‘Hunter, tell me what to do to make this stop,’ she moaned against his mouth, her hands biting into his waist a
s she pulled herself against him.
‘I don’t want it to stop,’ he all but growled at her. Ever. Not until I’m lost in it, erased. Not until I surrender.
That thought, clear and sharp as splintering ice, finally woke him. If he had needed an answer to the question would he be willing to throw himself off a cliff to bed her, he had it. It was—pretty damn close, but not quite.
‘I don’t want to, but we have to stop. Now.’ He managed to quiet his voice even if his body was screaming at him. She froze, too. Her fingers trembled against his back, sending darts straight into his groin, and he closed his eyes tightly, praying she not take the surge in his already painful erection as an invitation to continue. But when she pulled away he gritted his teeth even at the brush of her arm against his side.
They stood silently for a moment, both staring off into the woods, as if waiting for someone else to arrive.
‘You should return to the house. Meecham will be waiting for me with Courage.’ He couldn’t help how curt he sounded, but when she turned to leave he reached out to tuck a wisp of hair as light and airy as a down feather behind her ear and cursed himself for his pathetic inconsistency. He took another step back, putting her out of easy reach.
‘You should go rest before the fête this evening.’
She nodded and headed towards the house.
‘Will you save a dance for me?’ The question was out before he could censor it and she turned and he thought he could read both surprise and relief in her eyes before she nodded with something approaching her usual smile.
‘From what I remember, what takes place on the village green is nothing quite as orderly as dancing. More like a cross between wrestling and a mad game of croquet.’
‘We’ll wrestle, then.’ He firmly resisted the now-reflexive rise of his hands towards her. Finally she was gone and he returned to the stable where Hidgins was standing with Meecham and inspecting Courage. He had told her horses couldn’t solve all ills, but he hoped they would help him reclaim his equilibrium because he needed to think about what he was going to do about her and right now that question only had one answer.