Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.
Standard disclaimer.
Gwen strode briskly along the dirt path, that snaked between an overgrown hedgerow and an expanse of ancient oak woodland.
And the forest rustled from the approaching storm, as birds and wildlife took cover, while leaves descended in pale currents.
Just then, a bolt of thunder unfurled with ground-shaking force.
Pulling a shawl more tightly around herself, she considered going back to the Lutons' farm. There was no doubt, the family would provide shelter.
But she had already reached the halfway point, between the tenant farm and the estate.
The sky seemed to break open then, and rain lashed the ground, blanketing the path, until it was puddled and streaming.
Finding a gap in the hedgerow, Gwen left the path, to head across a sloped field of old grassland.
Beyond the down-land fields, the chalk soil was mingled with clay, a rich and sticky composite, that would make for an unpleasant slog.
She should have heeded earlier signs, that the weather would turn...it would have been wiser to delay her visit to Mrs. Luton, until tomorrow.
But the clash with Arthur had unsettled her, and her thinking had been muddled.
Now, after the conversation she'd had with Mrs. Luton, the red mist of fury had faded enough, to allow her to see the situation more clearly.
While sitting at Mrs. Luton's bedside, Gwen had asked after her health and that of her newborn daughter, and eventually, the discussion had turned to the farm.
In answer to her questions, Mrs. Luton had admitted, that it had been a long time...longer than anyone could remember...since the Pendragons had made improvements on the estate land.
Moreover, the terms of their leases, had discouraged the tenants from making changes on their own.
Mrs. Luton had heard, that some leaseholders on other estates, had adopted more advanced farming practices, but on the Hampshire Priory land, things remained as they had been, for the past hundred years.
Everything the woman had said, confirmed what Arthur had told her earlier.
Why hadn't Liam explained anything to her, about the estate's financial troubles?
He had told her, that the house had been neglected, because, no one had wanted to change his late mother's decorations.
He had promised, that she would be in charge of ordering silk damask and French paper for the walls, new velvet curtains, fresh plaster-work and paint, new carpets and furniture.
They would make the stables beautiful, he had told her, and install the latest equipment for the horses.
Liam had spun a fairy story, and it had been so appealing, that she had chosen to believe it. But none of it had been true.
He knew, she would eventually find out, that they couldn't begin to afford any of what he'd promised. How then,had he expected her to react?
She would never know the answer.
Liam was gone, and their marriage had ended, before it had even begun.
The only choice, was to forget the past and set her life on a new course.
But first, she had to face the uncomfortable truth, that she had hadn't been fair to Arthur.
He was an arrogant cad, to be certain, but he had every right to decide the fate of Hampshire Priory. It was his now.
She had spoken out of turn and behaved like a shrew, and for that, she would have to apologize, even knowing, that he would throw every word back in her face.
Glumly, Gwen trudged across the spongy turf, water seeping through the seams and welts of her shoes, soaking into her stockings.
Soon, her widow's veil, which she had folded back, to hang behind her, was sodden and heavy.
The smell of aniline, used in the dye for mourning clothes, was especially pungent when wet.
Silently, she admonished herself, for not changing the indoor headpiece to a bonnet, instead of dashing out impulsively.
It seemed, she was no better than the twins...a fine example she had set, running about like a madwoman.
She jumped, as lightning split the angry sky. And her heart began to thump wildly.
She grabbed up handfuls of her skirts, to run faster across the field, but the ground had softened, causing her heels to sink deep, with each step.
Rain came down in violent whooshes, bending the stems of blue scabious and knapweed, until the bright flower heads, were lodged into the grass.
Aghast, she realized, the clay soil beyond the field would turn to mud, by the time she reached it.
Another lightning bolt struck, the sound so explosive, Gwen flinched and covered her ears.
Realizing she had dropped her shawl, she turned to look for it, shielding her eyes with one hand. But the limp mass of wool lay on the ground, several yards away.
"Bother," she exclaimed, heading back to retrieve it.
She stopped with a low cry, as a massive, dark blur hurtled towards her. It was too fast to evade.
Instinctively, she turned and covered her head with her arms.
Deafened by the sound of thunder, mingled with the roar of the pulse in her ears, she waited, shivering, for whatever would happen.
When it seemed that no immediate disaster had befallen her, she straightened and swiped at her wet face with her sleeve.
A huge shape loomed beside her...a man...mounted on a sturdy black horse.
It was Arthur, she realized in bewilderment. She couldn't say a word to save her life.
He wasn't dressed for riding...he wasn't even wearing gloves. More perplexing still, he was wearing a stableman's low-crowned felt hat, as if he had borrowed it, while departing in haste.
"Lady Cassandra asked me to fetch you," he called out, his face unfathomable. "You can either ride back with me, or we'll stand here and argue in a lightning storm, until we're both flambéed. Personally, I'd prefer the latter...it would be better than reading the rest of those account ledgers."
Gwen stared at him with stunned confusion.
In practical terms, it was possible to ride double with him, back to the estate.
The horse, broad-built and calm-tempered, would be more than equal to the task. But as she tried to imagine it, their bodies touching...his arms around her...
No. She couldn't bear being that close to any man. Her flesh crawled at the thought.
"I...I can't ride with you."
Although she tried to sound decisive, her voice was wavering and plaintive. Rain streamed down her face, rivulets trickling into her mouth.
Arthur's lips parted, as if he was about to deliver a scathing reply. However, as his gaze traveled over her drenched form, his expression softened.
"Then, you take the horse, and I'll walk back."
Dumbstruck by the offer, Gwen could only stare at him.
"No," she eventually managed to say. "But...thank you. Please, you must return to the house."
"We'll both walk," he said impatiently, "Or we'll both ride. But I won't leave you."
"I'll be perfectly ..."
She broke off and flinched, at a bone-rattling peal of thunder.
"Let me take you home," Arthur said. His tone was pragmatic, as if they were standing in a parlor, instead of a violent late-summer storm.
Had he said it in an overbearing manner, Gwen might have been able to refuse him. But somehow, he'd guessed that softening his approach, was the best way to undermine her.
The horse bobbed its head and pawed the ground with one hoof.
She would have to ride back with him, she realized in despair. There was no alternative.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she said anxiously,
"F-first I have something to say to you."
Arthur's brows lifted, his face cold.
"I..." She swallowed hard, and the words came out in a rush. "What I said in the study earlier, was unkind, and untrue, and I'm s-sorry for it. It was very wrong of me. I shall make that very clear to Mr. Tottenham and Mr. Forsythe...and your brother."
His expression changed, one corner of his mouth curling upward in the hint of a smile, that sent her heartbeat into chaos.
"You needn't bother mentioning it to them. All three will be calling me far worse, before all is said and done."
"Nevertheless, it wasn't fair of me..."
"It's forgotten. Come, the storm is worsening."
"I must fetch my shawl."
Arthur followed her glance to the dark heap in the distance.
"Is that it? Good God, leave it there."
"I can't..."
"It's ruined by now. I'll buy you another."
"I couldn't accept something so personal from you. Besides...you can't afford extra expenses, now that you have Hampshire Priory."
She saw the flash of his grin.
"I'll replace it," he said. "From what I gather, people at my level of debt, never concern themselves with economizing."
Sliding back against the cantle of the saddle, Arthur extended a hand down.
His form was large and lean against the rioting sky, the hard lines of his face cast in shadow.
Gwen gave him a doubtful glance. It would require considerable strength for him to lift her, while he was mounted.
"You won't drop me?" she asked uneasily.
"I'm hardly some limp-wristed fop, madam." He sounded insulted.
"My skirts are heavy and wet..."
"Give me your hand."
She approached him, and his hand took hers in a strong clasp, as a nervous shiver went through her.
She hadn't touched any man since Liam's death, three months ago.
Lord Gemswick had attended the funeral, and afterwards had offered her an awkward embrace, but she had given him her gloved hand instead.
"I can't," she had whispered to him, and Lord Gemswick had nodded in understanding.
Although he was a kind man, he had seldom been disposed, to the demonstrations of affection.
Lady Gemswick was the same, a benevolent but self-contained woman, who had tried to teach her daughters and Gwen, the value of self-restraint.
"Rule your emotions," she had always advised, "Or they will most certainly rule you."
An icy runnel of rain ran down Gwen's sleeve, contrasting sharply, with the heat of Arthur's grip, and she shivered.
"I want you to spring up," she heard him say, "And I'll lift you, until you can find the stirrup with your left foot. Don't try to swing a leg over. Just mount, as if it were a sidesaddle."
"When should I jump?"
"Now would be convenient," he said dryly.
Gathering her strength, Gwen leaped from the ground, with as much force as her legs could produce. Arthur caught the momentum and lifted her with shocking ease.
She didn't even have to find the stirrup...she landed neatly on the saddle, with her right leg folded.
Gasping, she fought for her balance, but Arthur had already adjusted, his left arm enclosing her in a secure hold.
"I have you. Settle...easy."
She stiffened at the feel of being clasped firmly, his muscles working around her, his breath at her ear.
"This will teach you to bring baskets to ailing neighbors," he said. "I hope you realize, that all the selfish people are safe and dry at home."
"Why did you come after me?" she managed to ask, trying to calm the little shocks, that kept reverberating through her.
"Lady Cassandra was worried."
Once assured of her seat, he reached up with his left hand, tugged at her veil and headpiece, and tossed them to the ground.
"Sorry," he said, before she could protest. "But that dye smells like the floor of an East End tavern. Here, slide your leg to the other side of the saddle."
"I can't, it's caught in my skirts."
The horse's weight shifted beneath them.
Unable to find purchase on the smooth, flat saddle, Gwen fumbled and accidentally gripped Arthur's thigh, the surface, hard as stone.
Gasping, she drew her hand back. It seemed that no matter how much air she took in, it wasn't enough.
Temporarily transferring the reins to his left hand, Arthur removed his felt hat and placed it over her head.
He proceeded to pull at the twisted, bunched layers of her skirts, until she was able to unbend her knee enough, to slide her leg over the horse's withers.
In childhood, Gwen had ridden double with the Gemswicks' daughters, when they had gone on pony rides.
But there was no possible comparison with this, the feeling of a powerfully built man right behind her, his legs bracketing hers.
Aside from the horse's mane, there was nothing to hold on to...no reins to grasp, no stirrups for her feet.
Arthur urged the horse into a canter, a gait that was impeccably fluid and smooth, for an Arabian or Thoroughbred.
And Gwen perceived immediately, that Arthur was an accomplished rider, moving easily with the horse and communicating with explicit signals.
She worked to find the rolling motion of the canter, but it wasn't at all the same as riding alone, and she was mortified, to find herself bouncing in the saddle, like a novice.
Arthur's arm latched more tightly around her.
"Easy. I won't let you fall."
"But there's nothing for me to..."
"Just relax into it."
Feeling how capably, he maintained the center of their combined weight, she tried to soften her clenched muscles.
The slope of her back came to rest exactly against his chest, and then as if by magic, she found the bend and balance of the horse's motion.
As she melted into the cadence, there was a curious satisfaction, in the sensation of their bodies moving in perfect tandem.
Arthur's hand splayed across her midriff, with supportive pressure. And even through the mass of her skirts, she could feel the robust muscles of his thighs, flexing rhythmically.
An unbearable sweet ache began inside her, intensifying, until it seemed as if, something might fracture.
As they began up the hill, Arthur slowed the horse to a walk and leaned, to distribute more weight over the horse's front legs.
Obliged to lean forward as well, Gwen grasped its rough black mane, just as she heard Arthur's voice, muffled by a peal of thunder.
Turning her head to hear him better, she felt the electrifying texture of shaven bristle, as his jaw brushed her cheek.
It sent a ticklish feeling into her throat, as if she'd just bitten into a honeycomb.
"We're almost there," he repeated, his breath searing against her wet skin.
They ascended the hill and cantered towards the stable block, a two-story building, constructed of plum-colored brick, with arched entrances and molded stone surrounds.
A dozen saddle horses were housed on one side of the structure, and ten harness horses and a mule on the other side.
The stable also housed a saddle room, harness room, tack room, a forage loft, a coach house, and grooms' chambers.
Compared to the manor house at Hampshire Priory, the stables were in far superior condition.
Without a doubt, that was because of the influence of the stable master, Mr. Bloom, a stout Yorkshire gentleman, with white mutton-chop whiskers and twinkling blue eyes.
What Bloom lacked in height, he made up for in brawn, his hands so meaty and strong, that he could crush walnuts with his fingers.
No stable had ever been run with more exacting standards.
The floors were always scrupulously clean, with every piece of tack and leather highly polished. And the horses in Bloom's care, lived better than most people.
Gwen had met him a fortnight before her husband's accident and had liked him immediately.
In the aftermath of Liam's accident, Mr. Bloom had supported her decision, to keep Ahmad from being put down, in spite of the demands made by her husband's friends and peers.
Bloom had understood, that Liam's recklessness had contributed to the tragedy.
"A horseman should never approach his mount with anger," he had told Gwen privately, as she wept in the aftermath of Liam's death.
But she hadn't been able to make herself return to the stables, since.
She didn't blame the horse in the least for what had happened, but she was afraid of what she might feel, when she saw it.
She had failed her horse, just as she had failed Liam, and she didn't know when...or how...she could ever come to terms with any of it.
Realizing that they were riding through the stable's main arch, Gwen closed her eyes briefly and felt her stomach turn to ice.
She clamped her lips together and managed to keep silent.
With every breath, she took in the familiar scents of horses, bedding and feed...the comforting smells of her childhood.
Arthur stopped the horse and dismounted first, while a pair of stable hands approached, with Mr. Bloom in tow.
"Spend extra time caring for his feet, lads," came Mr. Bloom's genial voice. "This kind of weather brings thrush."
He looked up Gwen, his manner changing.
"Milady. 'Tis good to see thee here again."
Their gazes met and Gwen expected a hint of accusation in his eyes, after the way she had avoided the stables and abandoned Ahmad.
But there was only friendliness and concern. She smiled tremulously.
"It's good to see you too, Mr. Bloom."
As she dismounted, she was surprised to find Arthur assisting her, his hands at her waist, to ease her descent.
She turned to face him, and he removed the hat carefully from her head.
Handing the dripping felt object to the stable master, he said,
"Thank you for the loan of your hat, Mr. Bloom."
"I'm glad you managed to find Lady Pendragon in all that rain and wuthering."
Noticing, that Gwen's gaze had flickered to the row of stalls, Bloom commented,
"Ahmad is in fine fettle, milady. These past weeks, he's been the best-behaved lad in the stable. Reckon he'd be pleased wi' a word or two from thee."
Gwen's heart thumped erratically.
The stable floor seemed to move beneath her feet, as she nodded jerkily.
"I...I suppose I could see him for a moment."
To her astonishment, she felt Arthur's fingers slide beneath her jaw, gently urging her to look up at him.
His face was wet, his lashes spiked, and the dripping locks of his hair, as shiny as ribbons.
"Perhaps later," he said to Mr. Bloom, his intense gaze remaining on Gwen. "We don't want the countess of Winchester to catch a chill."
"Aye, reckon not," the stable master said hastily.
Gwen swallowed hard and tore her gaze from Arthur's. She was shaking deep inside, dull panic rising.
"I want to see him," she whispered.
Wordlessly, Arthur followed, as she went to the row of stalls.
She heard Mr. Bloom giving directions to the stable hands, about seeing to the horse.
"No faffin' about, lads! Gi' the horse a good rubdown an' warm mash."
Ahmad waited in one of the end stalls, watching alertly, as Gwen approached.
His head lifted, and his ears perked forward in recognition.
He was a compact gelding, with powerful hindquarters...an elegant conformation, that afforded both speed and endurance.
His coloring was a shade of chestnut, so light, it appeared golden. But his mane and tail were flaxen.
"There's my boy!" Gwen exclaimed gently, reaching out to him with her palm upward. Ahmad sniffed at her hand and gave her a welcoming nicker.
Lowering his finely modeled head, he moved to the front of the stall, where she stroked his nose and forehead, and he reacted with pure gladness, blowing softly and nudging closer.
"I shouldn't have waited so long to see you," she said, overcome with remorse.
Clumsily, she leaned to kiss the space between the horse's eyes and felt him nibble delicately, at the shoulder of her dress, trying to groom her.
A crooked grin twisted her lips.
Pushing his head away, she scratched his satiny neck, in the way she knew he liked and said,
"I shouldn't have left you alone, my poor boy."
Her fingers tangled in his white-blonde mane.
She felt the weight of his head come to rest on her shoulder and the trusting gesture, caused her throat to tighten around a quick breath.
"It wasn't your fault," she whispered. "It was mine. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
Gwen's throat had cinched painfully tight.
No matter how hard she swallowed, the sharp constriction wouldn't dissolve.
It was cutting off her breath.
Her arms loosened from Ahmad's neck, and she turned away.
Wheezing and staggering, she crashed into the hard wall of Arthur's chest.
He gripped her elbows, steadying her.
"What is it?" he asked, but she could scarcely hear his voice over her frantic heartbeat.
She shook her head, struggling not to feel, not to give in.
"Tell me." He gave her a soft, urgent shake.
But no words would came, only a raw breath, that fractured into coughing sobs.
Then, the pressure in her throat released with startling suddenness, and her eyes filled with liquid fire.
She shoved at Arthur, in blind desperation.
'God, no, please...'
She was losing control in the most humiliating circumstances imaginable, with the last person in the world, she would ever want to witness it.
And she was powerless to stop it.
Arthur's arm clamped around Gwen's shoulders. Ignoring her efforts to twist away, he guided her passed the stalls.
"Milor'?" Mr. Bloom asked in mild alarm. "Wha' does the lass need?"
"Privacy," Arthur said curtly. "Where can I take her?"
"The saddle room," the stable master said, pointing to the arched opening beyond the stalls.
Arthur half pushed, half carried Gwen, into the windowless room, lined with match-boarded walls.
She grappled with him, flailing like a drowning woman, and he said her name repeatedly and patiently, his arms tightening to contain her.
The more she struggled, the more firmly he held her, until she was gathered against his chest in a nerveless bundle.
Trying to swallow back the shuddering sounds, that came from her throat, only made them worse, Gwen realized.
"You're safe," she heard Arthur say. "Easy...you're safe. I won't let go."
Dimly, she realized, that she was no longer trying to escape, but fighting to press closer and hide against him.
Her arms clutched around his neck, her face against his chest, as she sobbed too hard, to think or breathe.
Emotions came in a deluge, and they were highly impossible to separate into parts. To feel so much all at once, seemed a kind of madness.
Her corset was suddenly too tight, like a living thing intent on crushing her in its jaws.
She went weak, her knees giving way and her body folded in a slow collapse.
But she didn't fall, she felt herself being caught up and lifted in strong arms.
There was no way to find her bearings, no way to control anything.
She could only surrender, dissolving into the devouring shadows.
Stay safe!