She didn’t wait for another refusal. She stalked to the fire, shoved her bare feet into wet shoes, and trudged to the mouse-hole door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open and stepped into the mist.
Chapter Nine
If she must see the horses, Gabriel thought, she would stand in the rain. If she must leave the glow of the lantern, she would squint into the shadows. What choice did he have? He’d refused her enough. And anyway, she was halfway to the fence, following the sounds of horses. Given the choice, he’d rather negotiate a muddy stable yard than tell her lies inside the house.
Half a dozen mares clustered at the far corner of the paddock, taking shelter beneath the leaning canopy of an oak. She went to them and they whinnied and blew, sniffing to discern the new and unfamiliar human standing in the darkness, peering over the fence.
Clicking softly, Gabriel held out a hand. The mares ambled to him, nodding into his palm with velvet noses, nuzzling his pockets, searching for feed.
“How many?” she asked. Her voice was flat. He’d made her angry.
“Fifteen of my own,” he said. He didn’t mind telling her. He might be a forgotten man who lived in a cave, but he did have responsibilities and motivations. He did have a contribution beyond the forest. “Plus three horses that belong to—”
He stopped. Telling her he had purpose was one thing, but details were reckless. He could talk about the horses as a way tonottalk about his identity, but he would only reveal so much.
“Everything you see and hear in my camp is confidential, Lady Marianne,” he added. It couldn’tnotbe said.
“Confidential,” she repeated. “I understand.”
She was quick to promise—and also quick to do whatever she liked. It bore remembering. He’d picked up the letters and tucked them into his belt. They burned a hole in his side.
“I’ve no wish to interrupt your livelihood, Mr. Rein,” she said, staring at the horses. “Truly. I’m single-minded in what I want, and it has nothing to do with horses.”
“Then why ask about them?”
She turned to him. “Because I want to know. I amcurious. Are you not curious about the lives of other people, Mr. Rein? Not me, obviously, but anyone else?”
“The lives of others are risky, foreign notions to me. It feels like you’re asking if I’m curious about tying a millstone to my neck and stepping into the river.”
“In what way?”
“Well, rivers can be cool and refreshing—and there is always thepossibilitythat I would survive.”
“I don’t understand.”
He sighed. “My isolation is also my safeguard, and isolation does not lend itself to curiosity about outsiders. However, to answer your question, I’ve fifteen horses of my own and three horses that belong to clients—two are here for training and one is healing from a fall.”
“Oh, you’veclients,” she realized. “But how do you manage them—these clients? Are they blindfolded and led to your hidden camp?”
“I’ve an emissary—one of the sons of Samuel Rein—who meets with clients on my behalf. He also transports the horses to the camp.”
“A partner. How enterprising.”
“He is a university student. He manages the clients as a favor to me and out of obligation to his late father. This was his family business, but he and his brother chose scholarship, not horses. In the training, I work alone. There are two old grooms who’ve been with the Reins since before I came to live here. They help with the stables.”
“But what is the nature of the training?” she asked. “Are these racehorses?”
“No, not racing—racing wants a different type of facility. But I train for most other purposes. Anything from making a difficult horse more docile to teaching a particular skill. I also breed, raise, and break horses for sale to private owners.”
“What do you mean by teaching a particular skill?” she asked.
Gabriel exhaled and looked around. The rain, he realized, had mostly stopped. But the leaves hung heavy after the storm, and water fell in uneven drops. A silvery fog had rolled into the stable yard, thickening the space between them. He saw her only in outline. The mist served as a barrier, making her questions easier to answer.
“I’ve Scottish lairds, for example,” he said, “who hunt on horseback in the Highlands. This requires more from the animal than fox hunting on levelground. Scottish clans write to me when their mares foal so their young stallions can have a place on my training schedule.”
“Scottish lairds,” she repeated. He could feel her studying him.
He kept his gaze on the horses. Had this impressed her? When had this become a goal? He meant to bore her, distract her, implore her to leave him alone. It made no difference if she was impressed.
