Ernest tarried. He presumed a weather prediction was imminent – perchance a gusting wind that obliged the stable box walls to be further banked up with straw against draughts. Or a storm that required the horses be brought in from the paddock?
One never rushed Grampy Tom.
“Did thee mention Lydia to Mrs Locke?”
Er…“Well, yes. She gave me the bloody run-around last night. And now her sister needs attention.”
Grampy cackled. “Did thee think to mention Lydia were a dray horse?”
Ernest stared. Reprised their conversation.
Then his lips curved.
Tugging each finger in turn, he removed his leather gloves and pushed a calloused hand through his hair.
Oh, Mrs Locke. Entrancing, beguiling, so cautious, so wary, Mrs Locke…
Just wait till they next met.
9
A CAT IN MITTENS CATCHES NO MICE
Naught to be nervous about.
Keep calm.
Disregard the past.
With those stern words to herself, Beatrice Cassell wafted her lavender handkerchief beneath her nose and then marched down the garden path towards the stables to request a pair of mares be tacked.
Fate, she’d discovered on her travels, oft worked in mysterious ways – wretchedly missing a ship’s departure only for the next to complete the journey before the first; fever preventing an excursion, only to hear of an ambush…
Yet fate also seemed to wield a wicked sense of humour, fond of toying with mere mortals, of inciting their pulses to thump, of allowing long-ago lovers to stumble upon one another, here in the Cotswolds.
Keep calm.
Naught to be nervous about.
“After all,” she muttered to herself, “you’ve faced down theTonfollowing your scandalous conduct, you’ve been married, widowed, and have crossed the desert on a camel.”
So what is meeting one erstwhile lover?
Albeit her first love. Her only true love.
Nevertheless, at her age, to submit to nerves was insupportable and she hastened through the double doors, striding past horses and grooms alike.
Yesterday, she’d merely gained her bearings and courage, wandering the gardens, detouring past the stables but loitering by the water trough and quizzing the housekeeper as to the marital status of the staff.
The unmarried Redmond O’Conner had changed.
Once a shy young man, passionate but shy, he had stridden the courtyard with hands upon hips, issuing commands and sternly directing the grooms in their care of the many horses.
A man in control.
The main stable doors were open wide so she stomped in with her prepared demand. “I would like–”
Alone in the harness room, Redmond was stuffing something inside his shirt with a decidedly shifty mien, jaw tight and with a gaze pitch as Hades directed towards her.
