Darragh kept up his pace, ignoring him. By the time Mr. Turnbull caught up to him, he was stroking his gelding, which neighed beneath his touch.
The brown creature was well kept, with a coat that glistened like lacquered mahogany under the morning sun. A long mane the color of polished terracotta cascaded down its neck, and its tail was long and feathery. It swung the whip about itself as if to shoo him away, but he knew from experience that if a horse did not want to be touched, it would not let anyone touch it.
Mr. Turnbull sidled up to him, wearing a proud expression. He did not supply the beast’s name, breed, or gender, which was customary when one caught someone else admiring their pet.
Darragh had to assume that the man could not supply those details. Or, his silence was in contempt of the discourtesy he had shown him thus far. He let his hand drop from the horse.
He noticed how the man’s scar changed shape when he flipped through emotions. The crescent moon had now become a straight line. His face smoothed into indifference as he petted the hide of his horse. Darragh understood their meeting was not yet over.
“I heard ye’re trying to find Miss Collins a husband.” Mr. Turnbull feigned nonchalance, but he could not hide the strong emotions in his eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“How did ye find out?”
“Miss Collins informed me.”
Darragh wondered how much she had told the man about their relationship, from the moment he had thrown her over his shoulder to the moment that he had kissed her a day ago.
He had also just realized that he had missed parts of their conversation. It must have happened when he was studying her lips, deciding if he had caused the swelling.
“Has she found a husband yet?”
“Nay, she hasnae.”
“Ah.”
For some reason, Mr. Turnbull averted his gaze. A calm seemed to wash over him.
“I remember Talia as a girl.” The use of her first name was purposeful, but Darragh could not tell what purpose it was intended for yet. “She used to be such a clumsy thing. Bright but clumsy. Yer cousin and I were best friends. I practically watched Talia grow up. Ye could say nay livin’ person understands her more than me—her grief, her life, even her career. And for that, I would like to marry her.”
“Nay.” The word was out of his mouth before he thought of saying it. Mr. Turnbull was stunned. “Miss Collins must see ye as a faither figure. I understand yer intent to save her from hermisery, since she’s like a daughter to ye, but I assure ye, it isnae necessary.”
He could not rationalize it any more than that.
To say he was appalled was an understatement. He considered walking away, filling his lungs with air that was not thick with fur stench and feminine perfume before returning. It was the only way he could stop the headache crawling up the back of his skull.
“Ye misunderstand, I daenae see her as a daughter. As a man, I expect ye to understand where I am coming from.” Sympathy, that was what Mr. Turnbull intended to evoke by using her name. “I promise to treat her well and respect her. Ye daenae have to worry about that.”
Darragh blanched, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown at his face. Hell, a bucket of ice-cold water would have been less chilling than the dread slithering through his veins.
From what he had learned, Mr.—he hated the respect the title offered—Turnbull had tutored Talia since she was sixteen. He had known her since she was a child and watched her blossom into a young woman.
No self-respecting man saw a child he had raised through romantic lenses. Mr. Turnbull was proving to be the opposite of that, with his perverse strut and odor.
Then a thought came to Darragh. Maybe the man had already broached the subject with Talia.
Possessiveness surged through him, from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine.
Talia had rejected suitors on bases one would consider superficial: age, height, weight, and attractiveness. And Mr. Turnbull, in his entirety, lacked in every aspect. Would their shared past give him an appeal, or would his physiognomy be a deterrent?
Darragh regretted turning out most of their conversation, but he could not have missed a proposal.
The white streak in Mr. Turnbull’s hair caught the light, and sweat trickled down his temples. Of course, he hadn’t had the spine to ask her. He was certainly the old school sort that asked a woman’s father for her hand. If not that, then he must be aware of her aversion to marriage since adolescence.
A predator always took the coward’s way to catch its prey. Darragh understood the man was nothing but an expedient to his vice.
But then he was angry. Angry at himself because he had preyed on Talia too, forcing himself into her home, then forcing her to bend to his will. Angry at the horse that jerked and neighed furiously beside him. Angry at Mr. Turnbull, most especially.
He wanted to grab the man by his lapels. Instead, he said, “I will never let ye marry her.” He silenced any protest when he lifted his hand, flashing his signet ring. “It would be best if ye leave and never bring this up again.”
