“Bloodstock,” she said. “The future of your horses.”
He raised a brow.
“Your sire line is strong,” she went on. “The grey you bought from Harcourt is a fool’s purchase for gentleman riders, but he has the speed for hunting and perhaps racing. Your mares are sound, if somewhat mismanaged. With care, Wexford could produce some of the finest hunters in Hampshire.”
“Hunters,” he said. “And racers.”
A flicker of suspicion pricked again. Purses, betting, the easy temptation of making money by breeding champions.
Is this another angle? Strathmore horses racing under Wexford colors with the profits flowing north under the guise of partnership.
His mind began to sketch the possibilities. Isla watched his face and, with the same unnervingly quick accuracy she showed with horses, read his thought.
“If you are wondering whether I mean to turn this stable into a gambling hall,” she said dryly, “I do not.”
He opened his mouth to deny it. She lifted a hand.
“We could breed racers,” she said. “One or two, with the right matches. But hunters first. Hunters that will carry your tenants and your friends over your own land without breaking a leg. Hunters that will fetch a fair price at sales and give your estate a reputation for quality. It is not a scheme, Edward. It is a plan. For you.”
“Most plans for me,” he said, “end with someone else richer.”
“If you will not trust my motives, trust my sense,” she said. “A breeding program takes years. If I wished to entrap you quickly, this would be the worst way imaginable.”
To his own surprise, a short laugh broke from his chest. “You have a point.”
“I have two,” she said. “At least.”
The laugh, small as it was, loosened something in him. He looked down at the papers she held. They were covered in notes, names of mares, sires, proposed crosses, little arrows linking one to another. No sums. No calculations of profit. Just bloodlines, strengths and faults, possibilities.
He reached for one page, and his fingers brushed hers. “You have given this thought.”
There was a tingle in the contact and he wondered if she felt it too. The slight flush in her cheeks, the sudden attention she gave to the mare which required her to turn away from him, told him she had. His lips twitched in an unconscious smile. He found himself reveling in that brief contact. So brief, so small yet the memory of it would sustain him for days.
This is a dangerous tide, Lieutenant. Take care with it or be swept onto some very nasty shoals.
“I have had nothing but thought to give it,” she said. “And Godwin is clever, but he was not born with a chart of pedigrees in his head. I was. It is the one advantage of having grown up where every man, woman and dog can tell you who sired which grey in the next glen.”
He considered, then jerked his head toward the ladder to the hayloft. “Come up,” he said. “We are in the way here.”
Her brows rose. “The hayloft?”
“Unless you mean to stand in the middle of the aisle while the stable boys trip over your hem,” he said. “We can talk more easily above. Godwin will be less nervous if he is not forced to pretend he hears nothing.”
She hesitated only a heartbeat, then gathered her papers and followed him up the narrow ladder, one hand steady on the rung, the other keeping her skirts from catching. The hayloft was warm and dim, the scent of dried grass thick in the air.
Light striped through the gaps in the planks, picking out motes of dust that floated lazily in the beams. Bales were stacked along one wall. Edward chose one and sat, stretching his legs out, back braced against the timber.
Isla settled on the bale beside him, skirts arranged with practical efficiency, an inch or two of shoe visible before she tucked them modestly away. Her shoulder was a hand’s breadth from his.
“Very well,” he said. “Convince me.”
She smiled, quick and genuine. As she talked, the language of pedigrees and conformation unwound with an energy that had nothing to do with self-interest.
He listened, despite himself, as she described mares who produced colts with brave hearts and foolish heads, stallions whose tempers stamped themselves on every foal. Her hands moved as she spoke, tracing imaginary lines between horses, sketching the shape of a future herd in the air.
“You care for these creatures,” he said quietly, when she paused for breath. “Not as tools. As … people.”
She glanced at him, color touching her cheek. “I care that they are given work suited to their nature,” she said. “A high-strung blood horse will go mad pulling a plough. A plodding cob will break its heart trying to keep up with hounds. If you match them well, everyone suffers less. Horse and human alike.”
