They strode across the courtyard, ducking their heads against the blur of rain and sleet driven by the wind. Melody trotted at his side, her shoulders hunched. People watched her curiously as she went by. Everybody knew, of course, that she was the strange English girl who was betrothed to Callum, but her appearance still occasioned stares.
What had she said before, about horse riding? Sidesaddle, that was it. How strange, only to have learned sidesaddle. Thatwasn’t a proper way to ride. How could one properly learn to control a horse? No wonder she was terrified of falling.
The hulking stable building loomed out of the gray veil of rain, a lantern left burning by the doorway. The stables were older than the keep itself, built before the first Laird MacDean built himself and his household a good castle to wrestle inside.
Ducking his head, Callum stepped into the dark, animal-warmth of the building. Countless animals shifted and huffed, moving in their stalls, munching hay, stretching and scratching, and eyeing him curiously.
Behind him, Melody stumbled in out of the rain. She seemed to have shrunk, somehow, on their walk here.
“Ye should stand up straight,” he heard himself say. “Ye hunch over like ye are ashamed of yer height. Ye ought nae to do that.”
She blinked up at him. “I’m too tall for a woman.”
“Too tall? There is nay such thing. A person’s height is nae a thing they can control. Why should ye be too tall?”
She uttered a short laugh. “Oh, really? Well, can you imagine me, draped in silks and lace, doused in perfume, with my hair curled, at some fine London party? Can’t you imagine me towering above all the other girls? Tall beauties are in fashion, as long as they aren’t taller than the men. And willowy figures are preferred. I always looked like a fool, and I was laughed at for it.I am too…” she trailed off, gesturing helplessly at her own curved shape. “I do not fit,” she finished at last.
Callum let his gaze drift down her shape. What fools they were to laugh atherfigure. Personally, Callum preferred a tall woman. He was a tall man,after all, and short women always made him feel sickeningly as if he were walking side by side with a child. And as for petite figures, they’d never been to his taste either. A woman ought to look like awoman. And Melody did, with her full breasts—he could almost imagine their weight and warmth in his hands—and her soft waist, her rounded hips curving out beneath. She was theperfectshape.
His mouth had gone dry, and Callum turned away, hastily sucking on his tongue to bring back some moisture.
“There is nothin’ wrong with yer shape, or yer height,” he said brusquely. “Although sometimes other folks can be cruel about such things. I’m sorry about that, at least.”
He strode down the row of stalls, and some of the horses poked their noses out over the doors as he passed by.
“Nay apple slices for ye all today, I’m afraid,” he murmured, patting each nose in turn.
He reached the final stall and took a step back, grinning with pride.
“This is me horse,” he said aloud. “This is Thunder.”
Melody came padding over to him, her skirt making ashush-shushsound over the thick layer of straw on the ground. When she saw Thunder, standing straight and proud in his stall, she sucked in a sharp breath.
“He’s huge,” she whispered.
“Aye. Eighteen hands if he’s an inch. It’s rare to find a horse of such coloring. All black, all over. Nay white splotches, or any other color.”
Callum stepped forward, smoothing Thunder’s pitch-black, velvety nose. The horse looked straight at him, eyes dark and liquid and sharp with intelligence.
“He’s the cleverest horse I ever had,” Callum admitted.
“Do you take him on rides outside the keep?”
He should have expected that question. As it was, Callum flinched.
The answer, of course, was no. It had been years since Callum had set foot beyond the keep's walls. Thunder was four, a young horse. Perhaps it was just as well he’d never had the experience of riding with Callum across the rippling Highland slopes. A flash of guilt ran through his head at this thought.
Poor Thunder.
“The grooms take him,” Callum responded bluntly. “He gets plenty of exercise, daenae fret.”
“But not from you.”
“I ride him through the courtyard,” he answered defensively. “There are fields by the trainin’ grounds.”
Thunder huffed, tossing his head. His jet-black mane shivered, rippling and glossy. He’d been recently groomed, Callum could tell.
Beside him, Melody sucked in a breath, stepping back with wide eyes.
