Ursula stood, taking Cameron’s arm and doing exactly as Rye instructed. Cameron gave a ghastly groan and then a sharp cry before falling quiet again.
Gasping with relief, Ursula buried her head in her hands.
All at once, two different doors opened across the courtyard. From one emerged Campbell, who ran to take Charon from Rye’s weary arms. From the other came Lady Balmore; Aunt Arabella few across the cobblestones like a harpy from Hell.
The shriek she gave was most piercing.
“Cameron, my love!” Pushing Ursula out of the way, she fell beside her nephew. “You can’t be dead! I won’t allow it!”
Rye was dumbstruck. His aunt had never given the impression of caring for anyone in particular. Even her love for her daughter, Fiona, seemed lukewarm.
“How could you?” She turned to Rye with eyes blazing. “You know that horse isn’t safe. What were you thinking? It should have been shot after it threw Brodie.” Her shoulders heaved in great sobs.
“Your nephew’s going to be alright.” Ursula ventured toward Lady Balmore. “It could have been much worse.”
“Don’t touch me!” Lady Balmore smacked away Ursula’s hand. “He might have been killed! And it would have been your fault, stupid girl. He would never have attempted getting on that monster if he hadn’t been trying to impress you.”
Ursula staggered back, her face a horrible shade of grey.
“Now just hold on.” There was no way Rye was going to stand by and see Miss Abernathy maligned for something that wasn’t her doing. “You’re actin’ madder'n a steer with a thorn in its side.”
“What did you say?” Lady Balmore fell suddenly still. Her expression had become one of dread.
“You’re not thinkin’ straight, Aunt Arabella. It was an accident, pure and simple.”
By now, a small crowd had gathered. Fiona scuttled over to her mother, placing her arms around her shoulders, while Lady Iona came running to her son.
“Let’s get everyone inside.” The countess made her way through. “If Cameron’s had a fall, he’ll be in shock. Best to keep him warm. You’ll help, Rye? Can you carry him? We’ll make him comfortable in the library.”
Rye nodded.
An accident, he’d said.
He just wasn’t altogether sure he believed it.
Chapter Fifteen
Later that morning, 19th December
A half hour passed before Rye came to find her.
“How is he?” She’d been pacing outside the library, not wishing to intrude. Cameron had enough female relatives to fuss over him.
“Just needs to rest up a week or two, and then take it easy. Everything’ll heal, as long as he avoids climbing trees.”
“Or getting into the saddle of madcap horses.” Ursula couldn’t help the barb. She’d been replaying the scene over and over—of Cameron taking the reins and hoisting himself upward. Charon had stood nice and steady, just as Rye said he would, right up until the moment Cameron lowered himself onto the stallion’s back. Then, all hell had broken loose. Charon had become a different horse entirely.
A muscle ticked in Rye’s jaw. “There’s nothing wrong with Charon. I’m going out to speak with Campbell. See if I can get to the bottom of this.”
“I’ll come with you.” She had to know. She’d been right there when it happened. Rye had invited her to mount the horse before Cameron had interrupted them. It might have been her…
Campbell was rubbing down Charon with straw, speaking to the horse in the same soothing way Rye always did.
Ursula had to admit that Charon was handsome—finely proportioned and well-muscled, not unlike Rye himself. His eyes, dark and soft and full-lashed, followed Rye as he approached. There was devotion in those eyes, even though Rye had only been riding him these short weeks.
“Stay here.” Rye spoke quietly. “I want to get to the bottom of this and Campbell’s likely to be more forthcoming if he’s just confiding in me.”
She accepted with a shrug. It was the same with most things, wasn’t it? Women were another species, most of the time—not rational enough in men’s eyes, or not to be trusted with hearing unpleasant truths. It was one of the reasons she’d always felt that she didn’t want to get married. Men tended to want to put you in a box: housekeeper, mother, wife. They didn’t want someone who had ideas of their own, or aspirations.
Not that Rye seemed that way. He appeared to admire the fact she, as Miss Abernathy, was making her own way in the world.
Ursula still wasn’t sure exactly what her aspirations were—but something worthwhile beyond looking after a man’s home. Her father, clearly, hadn’t taken seriously her hopes of running his half of the business. He hadn’t believed in her, or not in the way she’d wanted him to.
But she could still believe in herself. She just needed to work out where to direct her energies. She was very fond of dogs, and most animals really. Perhaps she could run a home for them instead of for a husband! A home for animals that other people didn’t want, or a home from which they might adopt an animal. She’d give that some thought.
There were only seven more days until she came into the first installment of her inheritance; then, she’d have choices.
Wandering along the stalls, she petted one of the mares. Campbell did a good job with the stable. Every horse looked in good condition—bright eyed and sleek coated.
A few minutes later, Rye joined her, his face drawn. “I’ve told Campbell to saddle Charon again. I’m taking him out—to prove there’s nothing wrong with him.”
Ursula’s heart gave a lurch. “No!” She looked up into Rye’s face, needing him to listen. “It might not be safe…so soon after.”
“When Campbell removed the saddle, there was a dried thistle head under the blanket.” Rye held her gaze.
“Strange…” Ursula frowned. “But I suppose it must happen round here. There are so many thistles; they grow like weeds.”
“They do, but I don’t think it’s so common that they find their way under saddles.” Rye passed his hand over his forehead. “Campbell told me he’d only seen it happen once before. He found the same just after my uncle, the first Lord Balmore, was thrown.”
Ursula’s hand flew to her mouth. What was Rye saying? That someone had meant his uncle harm? That someone meant him harm as well?
“What about the stable boy?” She remembered how scared the lad had looked. “He was the one who made Charon ready for you. What does he say about it?”
“Buckie’s nowhere to be found.” Rye rubbed his chin. “It doesn’t mean anything, of course. The lad’s probably fearful of being dismissed. He’ll turn up later, I expect.”
“He wouldn’t have put the thistle there on purpose, would he?” Ursula worried at her lip. Even as she said it, she knew it was an unlikely theory. What reason would he have to wish harm on anyone in the family. It made no sense.
Rye seemed to agree. None of it made sense. Perhaps the thistle really had gotten under the blanket by accident.
“At least, Lady Balmore can’t make you put the horse down, now, can she?” Ursula touched Rye’s arm. “Not when she hears what caused the stallion to rear up like that?”
“I doubt she’ll think it makes much difference what caused it but, no, I won’t let her hurt the horse. It’s not the animal’s fault. She’s just lookin’ for someone to blame.”
Ursula nodded. She noticed that Rye was wearing a riding coat of tweed today—in shades of grey and moss. It didn’t look new, though it fit him reasonably well. Had it been his uncle Brodie’s, or been worn by the other one—Lachlan wasn’t it? Of course, it made sense for Rye to make use of their serviceable clothing, but something about it made her shiver. It was like stepping into dead men’s shoes.
“If you’re saddling up, I’ll come with you.” The declaration was out almost before she’d finished thinking the words. “Just in case.” A warmth stole through her cheeks. She was acting impulsively again, she knew, but she had a feeling Rye
oughtn’t to be alone right now—on the moor, or anywhere else. For all his strength, he needed someone to look out for him.
The frown lines across his forehead eased a little. He brought his palm to her cheek and his lips curled up, giving her his half-smile.
“Sure thing, little bear. I’d be glad of the company.”
It had been quite a while since Ursula had ridden, not since early in the summer, on the Arrington estate, but the mare was an easy mount, responding to the gentlest of squeezes to her girth.
They set out in the direction Cameron had spoken about. He’d wanted to check on the cattle, so that was what they’d do.
She thought it would give them some good news to report, that the cows were fine. Except that, as they approached, she saw they were anything but fine.
Cameron had been right about the snow melting down here. Wide swathes of grass had been exposed under the sun’s warmth. No wonder the cattle had been feasting. They’d have thought all their birthdays had come at once after having to scrape through the snow with their hooves these past days, revealing one small portion at a time.
There were twenty of the great, shaggy cows in all, and they were all lying prone, like balloons with legs sticking out, their stomachs blown up tight. A couple were kicking at their bellies, but most lay still. It looked uncomfortable in the extreme but the cows were making barely any noise.
“They’ve been gorging alright.” Rye jumped down from Charon and helped Ursula do the same. “See how fast they’re breathing, with their necks stretched back and their tongues protruding. They must have been like this an hour or two. The bloat isn’t just causing their abdomens to swell; it’s putting pressure on their lungs.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Ursula looked from one cow to the next. Their eyes were bulging but their lowing was faint—an occasional anxious sound, as if they knew what was to come and had already accepted it.
“There might be.” Rye leant over the cow nearest them. “I’ve only done this once before, but the results were immediate.” He was feeling between the cow’s ribs. “There’s a certain place. If you puncture correctly, you can free the gas. It’s not ideal, but it’s the quickest solution. I don’t know what else to try. There’s no time to ride for medicine; they’ll be dead before we make it back.”
“You’re going to cut them open?” Ursula felt a wave a nausea rising. “Won’t it hurt them?”
“I’ve no doubt it will, but it’s that or leave them to die.” From the look on Rye’s face, she could see he didn’t like the idea either, but he was doing what had to be done.
“We just need something sharp. I usually carry a knife, back home, but I’ve nothing in these pockets.” He thumped at his head. “Damnation. With all that’s happened today, I wasn’t thinking about what we’d do if we found the cattle in need of help.”
Ursula looked again at all the cows. They had to do something. No animal should die in pain. The moor was their home, but its bounty had caused this. The very place that had provided the cows with fodder had turned against them. It was too cruel.
Turning her face to the mountains, she felt the breeze lifting the loose strands of hair from around her face. The sun was warmer than it had been in days. Truly, the moor was beautiful. She wondered how it would look in spring, and in the summer. Did the hillsides turn mauve with blooming heather, as she’d seen in paintings? How much she’d like to see that, to admire the moorland in all its seasons.
The wind tugged at her felt hat and she raised a hand to secure it, her fingers feeling for the pin that held it in place.
The pin!
Of course. It would be sharp enough, wouldn’t it?
Swiftly, she removed it, holding it out to Rye, showing him the very thing that might help them.
He took it from her with a grin.
“Looks like you just saved them, little bear.”
By the time Rye was done, they’d gotten every cow back on its feet. Mostly, the cattle looked disoriented, staggering slightly, clustering together, giving their neighbours friendly licks.
Had they known how close they’d come to death? Such animals were thought to be stupid, but Ursula wasn’t so sure. Several of them nudged Rye with their noses, as if giving thanks for the relief he’d brought them.
Finally, the two of them drove the cattle away from where the clover had been exposed, kicking snow back over where they could.
“You did it!” Ursula beamed at him. It had been a marvellous thing to watch—Rye at work, doing something she’d never dreamed possible. Dunrannoch had struck lucky the day Rye Dalreagh came back to claim his title.
“We did it.” Rye wrapped his arm about her shoulders. “You were braver than many a man I’ve seen, helping get these ladies upright. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She knew it wasn’t true. He’d done all the work. She’d pushed alongside him, but it had been his strength that had helped the cows gain their legs again.
The sun was already dipping but she didn’t want to go back to all the bustle and commotion that had nothing to do with her—to the family life from which she was excluded.
She wanted to stay with Rye. Just he and her. They were a good team. She’d been forcing him to learn a whole lot of nonsense these past days—things he mostly would never need to know, things she’d dredged up from her time at Monsieur Ventissori’s Academy. Rye had never once complained. He’d knuckled down because he thought it was the right thing to do.
She might have been teaching him, but there was a whole lot she was learning—and not just about cows.
“What now?” She willed him to look into her eyes and see what she was really thinking.
He pulled her into his chest and touched his lips to her forehead, then down the plane of her nose. She tipped her head back to invite his mouth upon hers. As his kiss truly found her, she let go, opening to every tug and sip, and the gentle intrusion of his tongue.
His arms came gradually tighter, until he was lifting her, resting her behind in the crook of his arms, so that it was she, now, who looked down at him. The advantage of height let her take control of the kiss, and she delighted in it, weaving her fingers through his hair, pulling back his head so that she might look him full in the face. She tasted him everywhere, brushing her lips to his eyebrows and eyelids—to his lashes even. To the course stubble regrowing on his jaw, and his mouth. She was falling into him, wanting to be held like this forever.
A kiss like that should never end, but she knew there was more. The way he was holding her—his arms so strong, lifting her up—was making her heart beat fast, heating her up inside, and she had the strangest feeling; a desire to wrap her legs around his waist and push herself against him.
She’d never read of such a thing. Had never thought of it before. But her body was telling her what it wanted.
Rye.
Chapter Sixteen
Late afternoon, 19th December
There had been a chapter in that book of Miss Abernathy’s, about seizing opportunities and not wasting the life you had. If there was something she wanted, she had to take it, or risk never knowing what might have been.
As she led Rye towards the bothy, she knew what she was doing—as much as it was possible to know. She’d never been with a man before; of course, she hadn’t. But she knew she wanted more than Rye’s kiss.
She wanted to feel his skin again. She wanted to drag off his shirt and run her hands over his back. She wanted to kiss not just his mouth but his neck and shoulders, and his chest. She wanted to feel the hardness and softness of him all at once, and she wanted his hands on her that way too.
She’d run away to where no-one would find her, and where no-one knew who she was. She’d told herself it was an adventure, in which she got to play at being someone else, and didn’t need anyone’s approval, except that she wasn’t being someone else now. She was being herself.
And she wanted to know what it would feel like to be utterly herself with
Rye.
She wasn’t hurting anyone. He wasn’t engaged yet. He hadn’t chosen, although he was going to. Whatever happened here, it had nothing to do with the choices he’d make later.
She wasn’t asking him for love. Wasn’t asking him for anything but this moment between them. This would be hers. Her decision. Because she could.
Inside, the bothy was just as they’d left it.
He worked quickly to get the woodburner lit, throwing on all the kindling in one go and then heaping up the peat.
She’d already removed her jacket and her skirt, and her fingers trembled over the buttons of her shirtwaist.
Still kneeling by the stove, he looked up, watching her. “You don’t have to…”
But she carried on, drawing down the sleeves of the blouse and casting it off, until she was standing in her combination and corset.
“I want you to kiss me again, Rye, and then everything else a man does with a woman.”
“Everything?” He looked taken aback.
“I’m not a strumpet—or not until now. I’ve never done this before.” Somehow, it seemed important to say it; for the sake of honesty—although he probably knew already. How could he not?
“I could never think badly of you.” He stood up.
“In that case, help me.” She turned, showing him the laces. They weren’t tight—only pulled as far as she’d been able to manage on her own that morning.
He tugged, loosening them far enough that she could step out.
With her back to him, she paused. His hand was resting on her hip, warm fingers on soft cotton.
“You’re sure,” he said again.
“I don’t want half. I want all of it. I trust you, and I want you to show me.”
She was very much aware of him standing behind her—of his breath on the bare skin of her shoulder, where the yoke of her chemise had slipped to one side.
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