“Not at all.”
“That is hardly necessary. If anything actually happened, you could divorce me, then pick a new wife during the next season to replace me. Your reaction would not be rational.”
“My dear Davina, you are irreplaceable, especially by one of those children lined up on the marriage mart. The mere thought of losing you turns my mind black. If it were due to another man, there is no telling what I would do.”
The little speech stunned her, especially coming here and now. It was the first time he had ever said she mattered to him. He found her acceptable, yes. He enjoyed pleasure with her, it appeared. He had indicated that their conversations did not bore him. But as for truly mattering to the point where he feared losing her—Perhaps even his not wanting to risk her to illness not only derived from his sense of obligation and responsibility, but also because he did not want to lose her?
She had nothing to say that would not sound as if she begged for more declarations of her value. Much as she would like that, she just leaned over and kissed his cheek.
* * *
“I think you should stay away when I talk to him,” Davina said while he handed the reins to a groom outside a coaching inn in Harrow Ridge.
“You are forgetting our reason for both making this journey north. We hear and see what is learned together.” He helped her down.
“Then please let me ask the questions. Your presence alone puts them off, and your pointed questions help not at all.”
“You are just vexed that you could not sneak off alone.”
“I thought you would try to stop me. That you would say it didn’t matter anymore.”
He probably would have said that, or something similar. Damned if he would admit it, however. If she was determined to turn over every rock in Scotland looking for her proof, she would manage to do it no matter what he said.
It was already afternoon. They entered the inn and had a light meal in the public room. When they finished, he asked the proprietor where to find Mr. Rutherford’s house.
“He lives down the back lane. A woman there lets out some of her chambers. But you won’t find him there. He’s right out back, working with the horses.”
He returned to Davina and told her that Mr. Rutherford was at most a hundred feet away.
“He works with the horses here? He must be seventy years old. Eighty perhaps.”
“Some men don’t like gardening.” He looked down at her feet, glad to see she had worn her half boots. “Watch where you step if we are going into the stable yard.”
They circled the building and found the stable and the large yard and paddock next to it. Carriages of all sizes and kinds jammed the yard. Boys and men led horses to and fro.
“That may be him,” Davina said. “He looks very old.”
The man she pointed to had a skittish horse in tow, a bay stallion. The old man wore no coat or hat, and his white hair blew around his face. Although barely half as high as the horse’s head, he held the bridle firmly, pulled the horse’s head down and looked to kiss its eye. The horse snorted twice, but stopped stomping at the ground.
Davina marched over to him. “Sir, are you Mr. Rutherford?”
The fellow ignored her while he kept his face close to the horse’s. One could almost see the horse calm in stages, until it appeared docile. Only then did the man turn to Davina.
“I am. Who might you be?”
“My name is Davina MacCallum.”
Mr. Rutherford’s gaze sharpened on hearing the name. He gave her a good, hard look.
“We have come from Teyhill. I was told you worked there many years.”
He nodded. “For the dukes.” He looked at Eric. “Your father, and his father.”
Since Rutherford had surmised his identity, he took the opportunity to introduce himself.
“Well, now, what would the current Brentworth want with me? Not going to complain that I am still working, are you? Nothing in the agreement said I couldn’t be a groom elsewhere.”
“No complaints. We seek information.”
