Chapter Seventeen
“Mr. Grant, you have a letter.”
Flora snatched the folded parchment and tucked it into her coat pocket with a quick word of thanks to the lad who delivered the post. The handwriting on the front was Juliana’s, and she wondered what message it conveyed.
Once inside the privacy of her room, she unfolded the letter with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. The outer piece of parchment revealed another folded letter in its interior, written in her brother’s hand.
Nibbling her lip, she considered Niall’s letter. She had not written to him since she had left Yorkshire for Amstead Gardens. Juliana passed along messages of her health and well-being in her letters to him, and he never questioned why Flora never wrote him directly. In turn, Juliana kept her abreast of Niall’s business, most of which revolved around his reform work in Parliament. For her sister to forward one of his letters directly meant that it was important.
Sucking a breath between her teeth, she unfolded the letter and read.
Flora grimaced. She missed her nephews terribly and felt ashamed they had inadvertently been pulled into her deception.
She continued reading.
Flora stared at her brother’s name written in his dashing script and her bottom lip began to quiver. Crumpling the parchment to her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed convulsively until the sobs faded away. The harsh truth was she missed him. Since Juliana had married Ashwood, it had been the two of them. When he had stood for Parliament, she had walked the county with her aunt for weeks, speaking to scores of voters—and, more often—their wives. She had attended rallies, dinners, and salons. She had affixed a smile to her face and served as hostess for his dinner parties and strategic luncheons. Every time a bill he drafted or sponsored passed a committee, or a mentee, like her friend Finlay, won an election, she felt joy and satisfaction because her contribution had mattered.
Despite all of that, she had worked hard to assist Niall because he was her brother and she adored him. When he questioned the foolish and sometimes reckless things she said or did, or expressed his disappointment in her refusal of a marriage proposal that would have scored him political points, she had been gutted.
In her earliest memories of him, he starred as a godlike figure. He was always tall and handsome, his long dark hair, flashing gray eyes, and carefree laugh imprinting on her memory as vividly as the Scots heroes whose tales their father used to read to them on cold Highland nights. She could close her eyes and see Niall’s look of pride when he’d sat her on her first pony and she’d instinctively clenched her legs around the beast’s sides. She could feel his arms protectively about her when she sat before him as he urged his mount into a gallop around the loch. She could taste the lemon and honey bannock he had saved for her the night before he departed for England because he knew how much she loved them. When he had left for university, she had cried for a week.
And then, he didn’t return.
For five long years he stayed away, and because her mother had grown ill, it was impossible to travel to London to visit him. Only when the duchess died did he return. She might not have been his mother, Niall being the child of their father’s first marriage, but he loved and revered Flora and Juliana’s mother as his own.
And yet, when he’d returned to Loch Kilmorow, he had been different. He no longer had time for his sisters, especially for the antics of his youngest sister, who was desperate for lightness and laughter. And attention. In the wake of her mother’s long and painful illness, she had wanted someone to see her. To be interested in her.
Flora was not sure Niall ever truly was.
Regaining her composure, she smoothed the parchment flat and read his words again. He missed her. It might be all he was capable of giving her, but she would take it. She would take any nugget of affection and love he was willing to offer. If that made her weak, then so be it.
She thought of Christian and nibbled on her lip as she debated whether to tell him of her plans. Of course, she would not tell him why she was going to London, but he would be hurt if she did not explain her absence in some way. Scarcely a day went by when they did not conduct a training session together, take rambunctious two-year-olds out for rides across the pasture, or meet for clandestine interludes in the barn. His smiles had become her favorite sight and his deep chuckles her favorite sound, and she would miss him terribly in the short time she was away.
But perhaps it would be best not to share the news of her impending leave—Christian would not be satisfied with any excuse she offered.
Running her fingers over her face, she wiped away all traces of her emotions and slipped from her room, determined to find Mr. Mubarak and ask him for the necessary permission.
She found the trainer overseeing Asad’s warm-up session. “I need a day or two of leave next week,” she said, stopping beside him at the rail.
Mr. Mubarak did not turn his head from observing the stallion cantering around the pen under David’s steady hand. “Will it be one or two days, exactly?”
Flora swallowed, her throat parched. She had never asked for personal time away from the Gardens and irrationally feared that, by her asking for it, her superior would somehow know why.
“Two days would be best, I think. If I can be spared, of course,” she quickly added.
“Next week, you say?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
The older man’s heavy brows disappeared beneath the bill of his hat. “But that is only a week before the race.”
“I know.” She studied the dusty toes of her boots. “If it were not an important family occasion, I would not dream of asking.”
Although she did not look at him, Flora was aware that he was studying her. The weight of it was like a smothering cloud.
After what seemed like hours, Mr. Mubarak finally said, “You have not returned to visit your family since you were hired, have you?”
“I have not.”
It had been the longest she had ever been separated from her sister. A sinking feeling settled in her stomach and seemed to reverberate throughout her body. When she had planned this great subterfuge of hers, she had only considered the benefits. What she had not accounted for was the payment required for those things. Chasing her dream had cost her family and friends.
She would see them, soon, however. If Mr. Mubarak consented.
“Surely two days is not sufficient time to travel to Scotland and back.”
“It’s not.” Flora tugged on her cuff. “I will be traveling to London. Banrigh and I will leave before lunch.”
“I will have one of the grooms travel with you.”
“No.” She said the word much more sharply than she intended, and the older man narrowed his eyes at her with suspicion. “With the Guineas so close, I do not want to pull anyone else away from their duties. I have ridden to London by myself before.”
“Nevertheless, I am not comfortable with you traveling on your own.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
Flora bit the inside of her cheek. She could not afford for someone to see her enter Campbell House. Any groom or rider who accompanied her would surely remark on such a detail. True, she could have him escort her to any number of places that were not Campbell House, but did she want to take that chance?
“I will be fine,” she said, employing her most ingratiating tone accompanied by her most ingratiating smile.
“Poppycock!” The man sliced his hand through the air, leaving it suspended as his eyes grew wide. “I used that correctly, yes?”
Flora sighed. “You did.”
Puffing his chest up, the Egyptian man tugged on his lapels. “Yes, well, I will not let you travel on your own. If you want those two days’ leave, you will have to consent to escorts.”
A litany of curse words stampeded through her thoughts, but she willed her expression not to show her distress. Instead, she managed to say, through her teeth, “I understand. Thank you for considering my safety.”
Mr. Mubarak nodded, returning his attention to Asad. “You’re working Horatio this morning, yes? Take a groom with you. He’s still unpredictable.”
“I believe I’m starting to understand him.” When the older man angled a glare at her, she hastily added, “But of course I’ll take a groom with me.”
“Take two.”
“Why must I take two grooms when one will suffice?”
“Because his lordship will have my head if you are injured in any way.” He huffed. “And I quite like my job, thank you.”
Flora clamped her jaw. “I’m certain Lord Amstead wouldn’t even notice.”
“No.”
The clipped word rattled her teeth. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Now, you will select two grooms to assist you with Horatio’s exercise or you will not exercise him at all.”
Hands clenched, she spun about on her heels without another word. Stalking into the grooms’ quarters, she gestured to the first two grooms she laid eyes on. “You two come with me.” As she stomped toward Horatio’s stall, Flora gritted her teeth so tightly she was surprised one didn’t break. Mr. Mubarak had never insisted that she needed a chaperone to see to her duties. Not until he’d become aware of her relationship with Christian. Apparently his regard now meant she was to be treated like a delicate flower, safe only within the artificial environment of a hothouse.
While she fitted a bridle over the temperamental gelding’s head, she huffed out a breath. She had fled her life in London to escape one gilded cage, and she was not about to let Christian put her in another. If he insisted upon it, Flora would leave. He and Mr. Mubarak had taught her so much, but she refused to let them clip her wings.
…
Christian ran his hand through his hair and inhaled a wildflower-scented breath as he stared out at the expanse of verdant land that stretched like a green carpet before him. The day was late, with the sun starting its descent over the wheat fields in the west. Amstead Gardens was more than just the stables. It was also home to sprawling wheat and barley fields, a clay quarry with an industrial sized kiln, and even a small colliery. The estate, with its many enterprises, was one of the largest employers in West Suffolk, and he felt that responsibility keenly.
Just that morning, he’d met with several tenant farmers to discuss the sinking cost of wheat because of the increase in foreign imports. A state of nervousness had hung over the meeting, and when Christian had suggested they brainstorm crops or other possible uses for the land, that nervousness had transformed into anger and panic. The men represented families who had worked Amstead land for generations, and they had as much claim to it as he did. But if they wanted to survive, they needed to adapt.
Although he had plastered a smile on his face, he had left the meeting feeling dejected. So much depended on Asad’s showing at the Guineas. With the winning purse, not only could he pay back his investors, but he could also assist the farmers in converting their wheat fields.
He pressed his fingers to his temple, hoping to relieve the ache that was steadily building behind his eyes. His father had made the business of running the estate seem so easy. Christian remembered riding up before him as he visited with tenants, shook hands with mine workers, and grabbed a shovel and helped dig drainage tunnels for the quarry.
But despite all of his father’s many attributes, he had left Amstead Gardens burdened with debts that had caused Christian’s mouth to fall open when the solicitors had disclosed them to him after his father’s funeral. His father had leveraged one enterprise against another, borrowed money at outrageous rates of interest, and worst of all, had never told Christian. He should have prepared him. Perhaps he had meant to…before his intentions had been devoured in flames.
Flames Christian’s foolishness had sparked.
Turning Loki about, he urged the gelding into a trot. Baniti and Flora would still be working Asad on the track, and watching the stallion sprint over the turf was its own kind of medicine. So were Flora’s laughing green eyes.
Flora. Just thinking her name brought forth physical reactions he’d never before experienced. She was a thunderstorm. And like any good thunderstorm that howled and raged, she also brought soothing rains and rainbows and flowers in her wake. How did one anticipate such a person? A person who threatened the foundation of his sanity while simultaneously calming his stresses and easing his mind.
Christian had forgotten that at one time he’d meant to send her away. How foolish that would have been. He relished any moment he was able to spend with her about the stables and grounds. The time would come for her to depart, and he suspected it would come soon, but for now, Christian would bask in her sunny smiles.
The thought of saying goodbye made him remember the letter in his coat pocket. With a sigh, he pulled back on the reins and waited for Loki to stop before he extracted it. In his last letter, he’d asked Cedric to return to England for the Guineas. In succinct words, his brother had refused. He’d added an apology, obviously to appear polite.
Cedric’s dismissal of such a critically important race smarted. Badly.
He crumpled the parchment in his palm and shoved it into his pocket.
A quarter of an hour later, he rode up to the stables. After showing Loki into his stall and giving him a good rubdown, he proceeded directly to the turf track. David was riding Asad back to the starting line, and the stallion appeared alert but distracted, his tail swishing about and his ears facing forward, then flicking back. Baniti and a groom waited for them at the starting line. Christian frowned. Where was Flora?
Stopping by Baniti’s side, he crossed his arms over his chest and considered the stallion as he approached. “How is he today?”
“Excellent. But…” The Egyptian man let his words trail off as David brought the horse to a stop before them. He rubbed Asad’s muzzle and stared into his eyes. “You are out of sorts today, my boy. Whatever is the matter?”
“I think he misses Mr. Grant,” David offered from his perch.
“Indeed?” Christian questioned at the same time Baniti nodded his head. “Why is he not here, then?”
“He was feeling unwell, so I sent him to rest.” Baniti took off his hat and wiped sweat from his brow. “He would have continued with his duties, pale and miserable, but I couldn’t have that. I am sure you agree, yes?”
“Of course,” Christian asserted without hesitation. “Will”—he cleared his throat—“he be well, do you think?”
“William has a strong constitution. Plus, he’s more stubborn than Asad, Horatio, and you combined. I would be greatly surprised if he is not back to his regular duties tomorrow.”’
Christian went to the staff quarters as soon as he could get away. He knew which room was Flora’s, although he had never visited her there. All of their time together had been spent either under the trees at the pond or in rushed interludes about the stables. They risked a great deal being seen together, so they were always circumspect in their interactions. But he ached to have her on a real bed, where they could relax and sleep for hours afterwards. Such a thought seemed more like a dream than a possibility.
Stopping in front of her door, he looked to his right and left to ensure no one was about. Knocking softly, he pressed his ear to the wood.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, this time harder. Again, the room was silent. Clicking his tongue on his teeth, he weighed what to do. If she were truly ill, she was probably sleeping. If she had offered an excuse to Baniti to shirk her duties, she could be anywhere. But he did not believe her capable of such subterfuge. She might have lied about her identity, but she had always delivered an honest day’s work.
Decision made, Christian pushed down on the door handle, relieved to find it unlocked. He was also annoyed at her carelessness. Stepping into the room, it took him a moment to adjust his eyes to the dim interior. Squinting, he made out a shape on the small, narrow bed and immediately went to it. She lay curled on her side, her black curls loose over the pillow, and her small fist tucked under her chin. Raising a hand, he pressed it to her forehead, relieved to discover she was not warm.
His touch drew her eyes open and she struggled to focus on him for a second. Black brows drew together. “What are you doing here?”
Her voice was dry and rough, and Christian immediately grabbed the glass of water on her tiny table. He coaxed her to take a sip, helping her to lift her head with a palm cradling the base of her neck.
“I heard you were ill,” he said, brushing the hair back from her face, “so I wanted to see how you were faring.”
She scowled and Christian smoothed away the wrinkles on her brow with his thumb. “This is not the first time I’ve been ill like this, yet Mr. Mubarak never insisted I take the afternoon off before.”
He frowned. “You’ve been ill like this before? Is it a stomach malady? A megrim?”
Staring at him silently for a long moment, her mouth quirked. “I’m suffering from the horrible imposition of my monthly courses.”
“Oh.” Heat crept over his face. “I”—he licked his lips—“I was not aware such a thing could be so debilitating.”
“Of course you weren’t. The functions of a woman’s body are beneath most men’s notice—unless they inconvenience them, that is.”
He tweaked her nose. “I have a great deal of interest in a woman’s body, most especially your body.”
“In that case,” she said, “you should know that I occasionally suffer from painful cramps. They can be tiresome, but I don’t always have the luxury of resting and waiting for them to subside.”
Her words were like a lance to his gut, and he cupped her cheek. “I’m thankful that Baniti insisted you take this afternoon off to rest. Asad missed you on the track, but he scraped together his courage and ran well in your memory.”
Her pale cheeks took on a twinge of pink. “He’s nothing but a big baby.”
“He’s only a big baby with you because you spoil him horribly.”
A small smile curled her lips, but her fingers twisted about in the sheet. “Why did you come here?”
“Perhaps I was worried about you.”
The sight of dimples bracketing her grin made his breath stutter. Coughing into his hand, he squeezed her fingers. “How can I help you? Would you like some tea?”
She shook her head. “I am sure you don’t want to risk anyone seeing you requesting a tea tray for the grooms’ quarters.”
Probably not. He was considering how he could help make her more comfortable when his eyes fell on an object lying next to her. “What is that?” he asked, gesturing to it.
“This?” She held up the small clay jug stopped with a cork. “It is a hot-water bottle. Well, it was hot at one time. I find that holding it to my abdomen, and sometimes my back, helps lessen the aches.”
Taking it from her hands, he rose immediately. “I’ll return directly.”
Shutting the door on her protests, Christian made his way to the manor kitchen, where he asked Cook to fill the jar with more hot water. While she scrambled to oblige, he also asked to have hot tea and sandwiches tucked into a basket. Although the staff wouldn’t dare inquire, he shared that he intended to dine with Bonnie and her filly. With a chuckle, Cook tucked several apples into the pack as a treat for the foal.
After stopping to deliver the apples to the spirited filly, Christian stood outside Flora’s door, a large basket filled with goods in his hand. He slipped into the room quietly, and sank onto the bed near Flora’s legs while she leaned over to see what he had.
Extracting the travel container of tea, he set about pouring her a cup. She took it from him with nary a word, her brows dipped together in confusion.
“Christian, you did not have to do this.”
“You are feeling unwell, and I figured this was one small way I could bring you comfort.” He placed a napkin-wrapped ham sandwich on her lap. “An empty stomach and parched throat never felt healthy to me.”
“Me, neither.” Flora took a sip of tea, her eyes sliding shut as she savored the heat sliding down her throat. “This tastes delicious.”
“I am happy to hear it. Try some of the sandwich. I’m certain you need your strength.”
They ate in companionable silence for a time. When their teacups were empty and they had consumed every last sandwich crumb, Christian collected the cups and napkins and stored them in the basket to return to the kitchen. Lastly, he pulled out the hot-water bottle, kept warm next to the tea service.
“Thank you,” she whispered, staring at the clay jar. “It has been a long time since someone took care of me.”
“Well, I’m honored to be in a position to do so.” She probably wanted to rest, but he was loath to leave her. “May I lay with you for a time?”
With a small curve of her lips, she nodded. “I would love if you did, although this bed does not provide much room.”
Indeed it did not, but Christian was determined to try. “Turn on your side and put that bottle where it hurts. I’ll squeeze in behind you.”
She followed his directive, positioning the water bottle low to her abdomen. Somehow Christian was able to maneuver himself around her, his arms coming to rest over hers.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Even if I wasn’t, I would not ask you to move.”
He pressed a kiss to her neck. She smelled of crisp linens and fresh hay. She smelled like Flora. He tightened his hold before immediately releasing it. “I hope I did not hurt you.”
“Actually, it felt good.” Flora turned to meet his gaze. “The pressure of your hands and arms across my midsection was a relief.”
Without delay, Christian hugged her close again, mindful to keep his arms low and snug against her.
“Did you ever think you would be lying in a narrow bed with your assistant trainer, who disguises herself as a man, and caring for her while she suffers from the unforgivable weakness of being a woman?”
He knew her words were said in jest, and yet they annoyed him. “Why should it be considered a weakness that your body is doing what it has been designed to do?”
Flora lifted a shoulder. “In truth, I have always wondered why women are considered the weaker sex. We may not be as physically strong as men, but our bodies are still capable of amazing things. We endure the trials of pregnancy and the pain of childbirth. We create life! And whether or not we decide to bear children, our bodies are prepared for the possibility.” She paused. “Although not always, I suppose.”
Some unknown note in her words made him ask, “Do you want children?”
“How do you know I am not a mother already?”
Surprise made his breath hitch, and he coughed into his hands. Her giggles registered over the din.
“I jest.” Turning her face forward again, she said on a whisper, “I have never wanted children.”
“Never?” The thought surprised him. Didn’t all women want children?
“Never.” Again she shrugged, although there was a note of defensiveness in the action. “Children are a blessing, and I adore my nephews utterly and completely. But I have never wanted children of my own. Loving and caring for my horses has always brought me joy and satisfaction.”
Christian had never given much thought to children. As the Marquess of Amstead, he simply assumed they were a part of his future, as he was in need of heirs, especially now that he was estranged from his brother. But if he were not Amstead, would he desire children?
He was not sure.
“Have I scandalized you?” She leaned back to press a kiss to his jaw. “I know my stance is not popular. My family would be distraught if they heard it.”
“More distraught than learning that you disguised yourself as a man to work in my stables?” he asked, nuzzling her ear.
Flora angled her neck to meet his gaze. “Quite possibly.”