He took her arm and directed her toward the room she shared with Lord Hamdon. In truth, he hoped she’d forget all about this whole discussion, but he doubted he’d have such good luck. Why did talking about his weaknesses feel like being stabbed with red-hot pokers?
She stopped and took in his attire. “You are going out.”
“I thought to take a ride.”
“At this hour?”
“It is later than you think.” He released her arm at her door. “I need a few hours to myself to clear my head. I promise we will speak later.”
Emma searched his face. “Be careful, Alan.”
He stepped back, uncomfortable with the emotion he saw in her features. “I will.”
The crisp morning air did wonders for his mind, each breath clearing away the panic the dream had left in its wake. He was safe. Sancerre and Ratford were dead. Grace slept securely in her bed.
Light spilled out of the crack between the stable’s large double doors. Alan slowed his steps. Who would be up at this hour?
Carefully, he removed his knife and crept up to peek through the doors. A soft humming filtered through, the song distinctly Scottish. While he could not see the person beyond, his fears eased as he recognized the youthful voice of his stable hand.
Owen’s head popped up from one of the stalls as Alan stepped in. “Good mornin’, my lord. I’d not thought to see ye this early. Are ye needin’ a horse?”
He stepped out and wiped his hands on his trousers. How could the lad be this cheerful at such an early hour?
Owen came to a stop, his eyes wide as he glanced between Alan’s face and his hand.
Blast. He’d forgotten to put his knife away. “I didn’t expect to see anyone up this early, either.” He re-sheathed his knife, and Owen visibly relaxed.
“Sorry, I gave ye a fright.” The lad grinned a wide toothy smile that always put Alan at ease.
“Could you saddle Apollo?”
“That I can.” In no time, he had Apollo hooked to a lead and standing at the post, ready for a saddle and pad. The high-spirited stallion danced about, not making it easy for the young man, but Owen was not deterred. When he finally finished with all the animal’s tack in place, he led Apollo out of the stable and held him while Alan mounted.
Apollo had been the right choice. Once they were far enough from the house to not cause a stir, he allowed the stallion to have his head. Apollo leaped into a run, keeping the pace for at least fifteen minutes before he tired.
Alan felt terrible for allowing the horse to lather such a sweat in the cold morning air, but he’d needed the run as much as Apollo had wanted it. He relished the burn on his cheeks as the wind had whipped at his face. It distracted him from the ache in his heart.
“It was just a dream,” he whispered to the wind.
Apollo flicked his ears back to listen.
“Am I going mad?” he asked the dapple grey.
The horse blew out a noisy breath and shook his head.
“Well that would make one of us who doesn’t think so.” After ten minutes at a moderate walk, he turned his mount around to head back.
The sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating the frost on the fields. A few birds chirped in the trees and somewhere in the distance a cow lowed. Alan relaxed. Perhaps he would not be a complete madman today. He had every hope of regaining some semblance of normalcy.
The stable was empty when he returned. Owen must have gone back home for a cup of tea or breakfast. It was no matter; he was not a stranger to caring for his own horse.
After removing the saddle and setting Apollo up with a nice bucket of grain, he set to brushing out his sweaty coat. The rhythmic strokes should have calmed him, but the smell of hay and horses reminded him of the day Sancerre had nearly made off with Emma. He’d caught her alone in this very stable.
His eyes moved to the back door that led out onto the grassy meadow behind the building. Owen had been twelve then. Poor lad had been pistol-whipped before Emma and Mr. Lenning had found him in the hay. It had all been a scheme. A plan to lure him out. What if Sancerre and Ratford had succeeded?
Hair rose on the back of his neck with the memories. He shook his head. They hadn’t succeeded. He and his French associatehad stopped them, but it still haunted him with how close he’d come to losing his sister.
Stepping out of the stall, he set the brush back in the wood crate kept near Apollo’s stall. A beam in the ceiling creaked, and Alan’s gaze shot up to the rafters. There was nothing there, even though he felt like he was being watched. It was the memories, he reminded himself. Dreams and memories were never a good combination for his nerves.
