by Jackie Ivie
Like scream.
Neal stopped. Tilted his head. He couldn’t hear Mason, but he needed to wait at least a half hour. The man could still be about. And Neal wasn’t about to be rumored as an eight-second guy. He looked over the hard sofa again. Set his shoulders next. Approached the door. And started a pep-talk. Because this couldn’t continue. He might have to take things into his own hands.
Literally.
Neal. Buddy. It’s a door. A bit of wood. Some varnish. A handle. Lock. Some studs. Brackets. Still and all…just a door. Plain and simple.
He’d reached it. And he was wrong. It wasn’t just any door. Nor was anything about it plain and simple.
It was her door.
He almost backed away. He didn’t have a Scot valet mutely nudging him tonight. There wasn’t a consummation to play-act. There wasn’t even a sign that Ainslee wanted him to visit, unless the thin line of light beneath the portal was a clue. She had her candles lit. But that could mean anything. He hadn’t had a chance to speak with her during, or after, that lengthy sup. No. He’d been stuck at his end, ignoring his aunt while she gave him the same treatment, all the while trying to catch a glimpse of his wife. After that, they’d all had to listen to Lady Margaret’s supposed skill at the pianoforte.
Neal didn’t have much to work with here. Some brief glances his wife sent him from her end of the table.
And two words:
‘I don’t…’
He’d heard it clearly and perfectly. How could he do anything but, when she’d prefaced that little snippet with his name? He loved hearing his name coming from her lips! What was he thinking?
He already loved just about everything about Ainslee.
Holy shit.
Neal reeled as the truth hit.
He loved her?
That had to be what this unbelievable level of emotion signified. He was in love! The man called a cold heartless bastard had a heart, after all. And the little imp, Ainslee owned it.
‘I don’t...’
The words hammered through his skull again. She didn’t what? He’d asked her not to show her abhorrence, and she’d replied with those two words.
She didn’t.
She didn’t…what?
What, Neal?
She didn’t wish to discuss it? She didn’t think now was the time and place. She didn’t have an answer. Or maybe – just maybe – it was what he needed, wanted, and would give his entire fortune to have. Maybe she’d meant that she didn’t abhor him.
Neal pulled in huge breath, then let it out with a force that ruffled the stray hairs at his forehead.
If only that’s what she’d meant! If she didn’t abhor him...then the trembling she’d suffered might mean something else, entirely. Something that sounded like absolute heaven.
He could sure use a big gulp of whiskey about now.
For the false courage.
Maybe he should have drunk something with dinner. He hadn’t touched the champagne offered before and during supper, the different wines that accompanied every course. Nor had he taken more than a sip from his port after dinner. He’d had a goblet that held water. Because somebody had to make certain the supper wouldn’t reflect badly on her.
He needn’t have worried. Just as they’d altered her chair for the tea, the castle staff made certain of things. Everyone below-stairs seemed to be in on it. They wanted the duchess to be absolute perfection. And she was. Neal had no idea what he’d eaten, but it had been delicious. Each dish received applause. None of it had given him a stomach ailment. Or even the hint of one.
He’d ordered the removal of the floral centerpieces, however. He wanted to view his wife, even if she was yards away and deep in conversation with her dinner companions. He knew why now. He was in love with her. The staff appeared to share the sentiment. Neal didn’t know the proper workings of a supper like this. But he was certain the old bag sitting on his right did. That made it extremely gratifying to watch a note slipped to Ainslee along with a little silver dinner bell. He’d watched her read it and then hand it back to the man. And smile at him.
That was one of the times he’d gotten her glance as she caught him watching.
Immediately following the dessert, she’d rung the little silver bell beside her plate, rose, and requested the ladies to follow her, leaving the gentlemen to drink port. Neal stood to watch them leave, while other gents made half-hearted efforts to stand with him. He didn’t want more conversation with men. He didn’t need liquor.
He knew exactly what he needed, wanted, and craved.
It was behind the door he faced right now.
Neal slid a hand over his face and jaw, checking for stubble. He placed the other hand in front of his groin and shoved down at his cock. He’d just have to keep her attention on his face. It shouldn’t be that hard. He was not the novice here. He had enough experience to find out what she’d meant with her two words without giving anything away.
If not, he’d just have to wing it.
The handle turned easily in his hand. He pushed the door open and walked in, portraying a nonchalance he was far from feeling. He’d almost reached the center of the room before noticing the obvious. His preparations had been for naught. Her chamber was empty.
And Garrick hadn’t attended supper.
Neal’s entire body went cold. Instantly. And completely.
He raced back to his chamber, tossed off the robe, tore open drawers until he found a pair of trousers, shoved his legs into them. Donned socks. Grabbed a pair of boots. And took off for the great hall.
And it still took way too long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The stables of Straith Castle had no equal…a least, not in Scotland. They were a behemoth of a building, exceeding the entire size of her childhood home, the MacAffrey stronghold. The original building had been constructed from the same stone as the castle and connected to a barbican wall. The third duke had doubled the space last century, adding a racing stable. He’d used the same rock, but since it was hewn later and from a different section of the Cairn quarry, the delineation between the two halves could be seen if the light was right. The previous duke had made improvements to the design, as well, adding stalls and a plastered ceiling to keep dust from the eyes of his horses. On the side given over to his racing thoroughbreds, the previous duke had even had the plaster fashioned into a design of Scot thistles, as if the horses cared.
All of that was on display, even this late at night. Ainslee didn’t note any of the stable attributes as she approached what sounded like a heaving tornado at the back of the older building. It was still raining; not as hard, but enough to thoroughly saturate the crown of braids her maids had so laboriously worked onto her head. Water had then wet the large mass of hair she’d secured beneath her robe. It couldn’t be helped. They had an emergency at the stables. She didn’t have time to get dressed. She’d barely had time to grab a robe, shove her feet into boots, and toss on a cloak. Her hood had fallen during her rush, and belt on her robe wouldn’t stay fastened. She yanked it again, before lifting the edge of her skirts above the stable muck.
“God’s teeth, Will! What did you go and fetch the duchess for?”
“I did na’ fetch her. I went for Rory. He went and woke the lass named Mira. ’Twas her that fetched Ains—I mean the duchess!”
“Have ye all lost yer minds?”
Ainslee shook her head, sending droplets of water about her. “Oh, cease that, MacCreary. Please? Can’t I go back to being Ainslee? Just for tonight? Wills tells me we’ve got colic from bad feed. Have you separated it out yet? How many horses ate it? Have we lost any yet? And did any of the thoroughbreds partake?”
“Only eleven, thank the Lord. Draft horses. But we’ve got it handled. You should na’ be here, Miss Ainslee. I mean, yer grace. Oh, Will. The duke is gonna want yer arse. And I am na’ gonna interfere!”
A crash interrupted him. It was followed by a cry from the back of the building. And then loud cursing.
“Oh, heavens. That’s Nightfall. Wills told me he’s taking it bad.”
Ainslee lifted her skirts higher in order to jog. MacCreary, the head groom was at her side. Thank goodness he’d decided to cease arguing her presence. Nightfall was their pride. At almost nineteen hands in height and colored a dark charcoal shade, he was the largest, sturdiest, and most impressive Clydesdale the duchy of Straithcairn owned. He’d already sired more than ten progeny that appeared to match him. He was also an unruly and temperamental horse, difficult to control even without a colicky situation.
“He broke Henry’s shoulder already, kicked Zeke so hard in the—uh. Well. He’ll na’ wish to eat anytime soon, and even with three men holding him we’re losing the battle.”
“He hasn’t lain down, though? You ken if he rolls, he could twist his innards, and—”
“And we could lose him. I am the head groom, your grace. I’m na’ fresh-birthed.” MacCreary interrupted her, looking as offended as he sounded.
“Would you just call me Ainslee?”
“Na’ likely. You’re the duchess now. You should na’ be here. Especially na’ – forgive the words – in little more than your night-rail. I’ll have Will reprimanded for fetching you.”
“You’ll do no such thing! You ken how important Nightfall is. I’m the lone one who can manage him. You there! Loose those ropes! Afore you choke him!”
Ainslee slid between two stall bars, dodging hooves as Nightfall reared. The horse’s movements sent the three men holding him scudding along the straw-strewn floor. She could already see the line of chafing they’d raised on Nightfall’s shoulders. It felt like everyone held their breath. And then she was at the stallion’s neck, latching her arms about him and going aloft with his next attempt to rear, while speaking calmly and precisely into the closest ear.
“Hush, my breagha one. So verra handsome. And strong. There is nae horse your equal. And we’ll need that curinan to fight this. But you must cease this, my laidir gesur. Calm. That’s a good, strong boy.”
The stallion stopped lunging the longer she spoke, repeating over and over again barely-intoned Celtic words for his handsomeness, his strength, his vitality. Soon, she was back on her feet and easing one of the ropes from his neck, then the next was removed, and finally, the last one was pulled off, gesturing for them to leave as she tossed each line to the man holding it.
“Has he been drenched yet?” she turned her head to ask. The stallion jerked slightly, but otherwise didn’t react.
“He will na’ let us near enough!” Someone shouted.
“How does she do that?”
One of the newer lads added that. MacCreary answered with a gruff order for silence. Their statements upset the stallion, and he tossed his head more than once, lifting her easily each time. Ainslee held tighter and started speaking again, in the same low, calm tone, for the horse’s ear only.
“There, Nightfall. Good gesur. That’s a love. My big handsome gaol.”
The tone and cadence of her words worked more than the content. She could be speaking complete nonsense, and Nightfall would’ve had the same response. There wasn’t a sound to be heard outside her whispering as he calmed again. Her feet reached the ground, and Nightfall just stood there trembling, impressive and immense, and in pain.
Ainslee turned her head slightly, matching her cheek to the stallions, and spoke toward the grooms, using only a slightly louder volume. “MacCreary? You there?”
“Aye.”
She kept her voice calm. Her words modulated, as her hands slid along the stallion’s neck, withers, and chest. “We have a water bag handy?”
“Right here.”
“We’ll need a fresh one.”
“This one has herbs in it already.”
“He does na’ want that one. He needs fresh water. And newly picked herbs. Do na’ you, gesur?”
The horse seemed to understand, for he nodded his head twice at her query. There was more than one gasping sound from behind her.
“You see? He does na’ want the swill from the trough. Save that for the others. Nightfall is special. He needs a new bag, pulled from a rain barrel. With fresh herbs.”
Ainslee continued her soothing tone, speaking sometimes to the men behind her, but mostly to Nightfall, stroking where she could reach without moving her lips from his ear. That was the only way to keep him calm and still; trembling beneath her fingers, but otherwise giving no sign of his distress.
The animal beside her had enough power to toss her right through a plank of his stall if he wanted. Everything on him exhibited it. It was akin to touching a tightly coiled length of rope, only one with a lot of life to it. Nightfall exhibited barely-leashed strength, impossible size, and muscle. Ainslee moved toward his nose, crooning to him the entire time. That way, when she ducked beneath his head, it didn’t startle him too much, although he pulled against his halter and his ears went up. Moments later, he was calm again to the point he nuzzled her shoulder. The grooms watching probably thought her crazed. MacCreary would know why she went for this position, though. She needed to be between the stallion and the wall. That way, he wouldn’t try and lie down; or if he did, he wouldn’t roll, because she’d be in the way.
She wondered if they could even see her. Her like-shaded head didn’t even clear Nightfall’s withers. And yet something indefinable kept him standing beside her, docile as a small foal. It was her gift. But any loud, abrupt, or sudden noise could alter everything.
“Well. Do na’ just stand there gawking, men! You heard her grace. Fetch some clean water.”
“Do everything softly, though,” Ainslee told them from behind the horse. “Do na’ do anything rapid near the stall. Or loud. There, gesur. Good lad.”
The horse trembled, and calmed again. And then he started to lie down.
Ainslee was instantly in front of his chest, both hands at his halter, holding his head aloft, despite how much it weighed. Her arms strained. The horse whinnied. Stomped. Snorted.
“Nae, gesur. Na’ yet! Na’ yet. Oh, Nightfall, I ken. ’Tis painful. So painful. But ’twill pass. And I’m here. That’s a love. Calm, my handsome one. Calm.”
Her voice carried a hint of tears. The horse lowered his head and nuzzled her forehead, nearly knocking her over.
“Do we have the drench yet?” she asked quietly, as if for Nightfall’s ears only.
“Na’ yet. But anytime now,” MacCreary answered.
“’Twill be a long night, gesur. But, do na’ fret. I will be here for you.” Ainslee turned her head toward the row of grooms watching from the other side of the stall.
“MacCreary?”
“Aye?”
“Ye’d best send someone with a message to my...husband.”
Husband.
Oh, my. She said it. Her ears had heard it. Her heart was throbbing through her chest at actually voicing it.
“Ah, Jay-zus, Will! Ye did na’ even leave a note tellin’ him where she was?”
“I did na’ go into the castle! I keep tellin’ ye. I’m from the stables! Covered with manure. Wet through to my birthday suit. Ye think they’re gonna let me just waltz into Straith Castle?”
“Hie yer arse back oop there and tell him, then!”
“Will?”
Ainslee still hadn’t altered her voice. Everything she said was in the same soothing tone. As though she spoke to Nightfall still. She was inaudible unless a listener strained. The stable went silent every time she spoke.
“Aye?”
“Tell him I may na’ be back tonight.”
“What? Now that I will na’ allow!”
MacCreary answered with a harsh tone that clearly upset the horse again. Nightfall tossed his head and then stomped. Time and time again. Ainslee hung onto his neck throughout. The horse finally settled back down. The sound of a unanimous sigh of relief was loud.
“Well. There you have it,” she finally spoke.
“What do we have? A duchess in the stables. Lordy
. The Lady Blair will enjoy this.”
“She already thinks me a hoyden with little manners. Does na’ she, Nightfall?”
Ainslee soothed a hand along his cheek. Rubbed his ear. Turned her head to address where MacCreary stood. The amount of groomsmen outside the stall appeared to have tripled. Everyone had the same slack-jawed expression. Ainslee looked away and endured a flush that sent heat through her entire body.
“What will one more incident matter? Besides, we do na’ have much choice here.”
“But, yer grace—”
“Do we have anyone else who can drench Nightfall?”
MacCreary was silent. Someone else answered.
“We do na’ have anyone else that can get near him right now.”
“Exactly. Well then. I shall do it.”
“Ah! Thank the Lord! They’re bringing the bag. Finally.”
MacCreary’s relief was obvious. The stall door opened. Nightfall’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared, but he didn’t move beyond that. Ainslee continued stroking him as someone brought in a bladder full of the herb/water mixture. It was attached to a long membranous hose. Their rush to leave the stall kicked up straw from the floor. Ainslee turned back to the horse.
“This will na’ be pleasant, my gesur. But I’ll be gentle. You ken?”
The horse whickered, and then nodded. There was another rumble of reaction from her audience as they watched what looked like a horse responding.
“Can I get some help holding the bag?” Ainslee asked.
“I need a volunteer. Where’s that Will? He’s responsible fer this.”
“Ye sent him to the castle with a message. Remember?”
“Oh. Bugger. Oh, no. We’re in deep now, gents. Yer grace.”
MacCreary’s voice changed. The stall opened. And then Niall walked toward her. Ainslee’s eyes widened and she gasped. Nightfall had almost the same reaction, although he also started trembling again. The duke was in long trousers that clung to his legs, and shirtless above that. He was wet. Hanks of hair fell to his shoulders. He approached slowly. Picked up the bag with a move that sent all kinds of definition along his back and arms. Came closer.