Running a hand over the back of the leg, Kieran found a hot, swollen area that he feared might be a severe tear. The animal flinched away with a whinny.
“Poor boy, you didn’t deserve that, did you.” He sighed as he led the limping horse back the way they had come. “Come on, then. It’s a long walk home.”
Archie assisted Diantha down from the saddle. “I’ve seen worse. Be back here in the morn, ten sharp.” He tugged his forelock and winked. “Wi’ some work, ye’ll make a grand horsewoman.”
As he led Dancer away, Diantha chuckled. She lingered in the stable yard, hoping Kieran would return as he had said. He might enjoy the ghillie’s assessment of her skills. She inhaled air redolent of horse, and found she rather liked it. Her mother would be horrified if she ever found out, of course.
Imagining her maternal parent’s disapproval, Diantha smiled broadly and inhaled again. She decided to ride as often as she could.
However, she could not loiter about the stables all morning. Conscious of a disconcerting pangthat her husband had not returned, she slipped back into the house to change.
After a virtuous, if dull, hour in her boudoir reviewing the linen count, Diantha discovered that Kieran had not shown up for luncheon. Knowing he planned to meet with the steward, she finally remarked on his absence over the fruit course.
“A husband need not account for his whereabouts to his wife.” Iona helped herself to a few sections of orange with a pair of tiny tongs.
Barclay’s eyebrows drew together as he peeled a peach. “That’s odd, he seldom misses an appointment. I expect he’s quite safe, Cousin, but I might send out a few men on his route if he doesn’t return in the next hour or two.”
Diantha told herself to be satisfied with that. She distracted herself after the meal by hunting for the plans to Duncarie House in the library. However, even the discovery of a portfolio of original drawings and notes failed to hold her attention for long. Tucking it under her arm, she returned to her room.
As she placed the sheets on her writing desk, the soft sound of footsteps on carpet came from Kieran’s bedchamber. With a sense of relief, she approached the door leading to it.
She took a breath before turning the handle, for she had never before set foot in what she considered his domain. Nonsense, she told herself. She was Kieran’s wife, for heaven’s sake! To her disappointment, she found only his valet.
Davison bowed, then placed a pile of perfectly folded shirts into a wardrobe. “Good day, my lady. I fear his lordship has not returned yet.”
“I thought I heard him, forgive my mistake.”
“I’m sure he will be back shortly.” With another bow, he departed, shutting the door behind him.
Diantha circled the room. The predominant color was deep green, relieved from becoming oppressive by warm wood paneling and plenty of light. Simple damask panels, not ornate fringed swags, hung in front of the floor to ceiling windows.
She paused before Kieran’s dressing table. A shaving mug and brush stand occupied a tray on one corner, with a razor half-open beside it. She guessed a wooden box held the few pieces of jewelry he habitually wore.
A silver-framed daguerreotype caught her attention. It showed Kieran’s mother sitting next to a handsome man whose arm stretched behind her shoulders. She recognized Kieran’s father from a portrait in the gallery. Diantha raised her eyebrows. Her parents had never taken so casual a pose, even for private family portraits.
A small child with dark curls and his father’s eyes sat between them, gazing solemnly at the camera. She couldn’t help but smile. Even at that age, Kieran possessed a piercing stare. The heads tilted toward one another and the hands joined as the parents held their son told of a loving family.
The Rossburns must have always demonstrated a great deal of physical affection. Diantha traced the protective circle their arms made around Kieran. Only Granny had hugged her with any regularity.
Her taffeta skirts rustled softly as she picked up the frame and moved toward the windows to examine it more closely.
She paused before the foot of the bed, an enormous four-poster covered with a small ocean of deepgreen damask, and tilted the picture into the light. She guessed Kieran must have been around five or six. Even then, the dimple in his chin showed clearly. He had not developed his father’s patrician profile yet, and black curls surrounded his young face.
The image of cuddling a baby with those same dark curls arose and her heart squeezed. One of the few aspects of marriage she had looked forward to was a child of her own to cherish. Distressingly, her courses continued to appear each month without fail.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
She started and gripped a bedpost for support. Her full-grown, very bedraggled husband stood on the threshold, one hand on the door handle. And he did not look pleased to see her.
Kieran’s arms ached from being hauled up the old bridge by his horse. Various body parts twinged and throbbed. He still grappled with the fact that he had damn near died earlier. And he had missed luncheon. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to the privacy of his chamber with food, a hot bath, and a change of clothing.
At the sight of his wife framed by the bedposts, looking rather delectable in a gown of rich blue, it did occur to him that the food might wait. Then his gaze fell on the object in her hand.
“Kieran, what happened to you?”
He swung the door closed behind him and advanced. She cringed away, ending up nearly draped across his coverlet.
He ignored the tempting sight to snatch theframe out of her hand. “How dare you sneak among my belongings? I’m not your brothers to steal volumes of Shakespeare from!”
