Chapter Six

Thane stood stock-still in amazement—that reckless little harridan had just defied him. Swearing a blue streak, he stalked into the stable, making several grooms leap to instant attention.

“Get me Goliath. Now,” he ordered.

He scanned the space for the groom who’d been talking to her, but the redheaded man was nowhere in sight. Lucky for him. When Thane had seen her place her fingers on the man’s arm, he’d been unprepared for the surge of violence that had filled him.

Rage? Jealousy? He hadn’t cared to examine the feelings, only acknowledging the fact that he’d wanted to snap the man’s arm in two.

Seeing her had been both bliss and purgatory. It was as if he’d been starved for the sight of her. He’d gone to London to deal with the sale of one of his many properties in the city with Sir Thornton. And the minute he’d arrived there, he’d only wanted to leave. And the second he’d arrived back at Beswick Park, he’d sought her out. Though he knew maintaining distance was wise, given his erratic moods where she was concerned, Thane couldn’t help himself.

Goliath was brought forward, and he mounted the thoroughbred with a wince of pain as his fatigued body pulled tight. He usually enjoyed a brisk ride, but not on days when he’d traveled hours in a cramped coach or forgone the daily swimming routines that kept him pain-free and limber.

Thane grimaced, setting his horse after hers. It didn’t take the powerful Arabian thoroughbred long to catch up to her mount. Brutus. The aptly named brute that had tried to take a bite out of him was as unpredictable and as touchy as his mistress.

Looking over her shoulder, she urged her horse on faster, rising into the stirrups. Thane caught wind of what echoed like her laughter, and the sound energized him. He couldn’t help but admire her expert posture and her graceful handling of the massive horse. Or the fact that the split skirts of those indecent trousers flared wide on either side of her, baring glimpses of trim legs wrapped in worn buckskin.

Thane very rarely pushed Goliath to his limits, but he did so now. That stallion of hers had champion bloodlines; any idiot could see that. But then, so did Goliath. He had to admit the ride was exhilarating as he felt the bunching and elongating muscles of the animal beneath him.

Unlike other horses bred of racing stock, Goliath no longer raced. The loyal steed had gone with him to war. Had borne him from danger when he’d collapsed in a ditch and been left for dead. It’d been a miracle that the horse had led him to a tiny hillside village in the Spanish countryside. The doctor there had taken one look at him and summoned the priest. But he’d survived. They’d both survived.

Shaking his head clear of the past, Thane nearly collided with the lady and her horse, perched atop a hillock, acres of Beswick lands spread out below them. Patches of the lush green landscape were dotted with grazing sheep and tenant cottages, the sun climbing into the sky over the hills to the east making the bucolic scene a picturesque one, even to his jaded senses. But it was a windblown and smiling Astrid who took his breath away.

The apples of her cheeks were rosy, and the elegant column of her throat was flushed with healthy color. The bright sunshine turned the tendrils escaping her tenacious coiffure to sun-burnished chestnut, and Thane wanted to sink his fingers in the silken mass of it. He wanted to loosen the rest of it from its pins and bury his face in it.

“Goodness,” Astrid said. “It’s so beautiful.”

“I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” he said, angry at his constant desire where she was concerned. “Fields soaked with blood.”

Wide crystalline eyes met his as Astrid stared at him for a prolonged minute, but she did not respond. Thane appreciated the fact that she did not feel compelled to fill the air with unnecessary platitudes…about him being alive for a reason or some such.

“War is a terrible thing,” she said eventually.

He nodded, his scars pulling tight on his scalp and along his rib cage. The tug of lust faded away, only to be replaced by ghosts. Phantom pain fired along his nerve endings, the cuts of a thousand bayonets blooming, his lifeblood seeping away, the burn of a blade and the agonizing tug of thread. He acknowledged the pain, felt each one of his scars, but for the first time since he’d returned to England, he did not feel like burying himself six feet deep.

It was…strange.

They stared at the rolling countryside in a quiet, companionable silence.

“Is this all yours?” she asked after a while.

“Yes,” he said. “Beswick Park encompasses thousands of acres and has hundreds of tenants. You are one of many in my employ.”

It was an intended barb.

The small smile of wonder dropped from her face as she turned to him with a stony calm once more, that faithful composure battling every other emotion into line.

He wondered what—or who—had made her that way. A stone queen, constantly on guard. He didn’t know much about her past, but he’d tasked Fletcher with finding out whatever he could…knowing one’s enemy and all that.

Thane only knew from her own lips that she’d spent just the one Season in London. It made him also wonder why she’d remained unmarried even if she’d told him it was by choice. He simply couldn’t fathom some gentleman not snatching her up. She’d admitted that she was an innocent. Though she didn’t look like one at present. Now, on that horse, dressed in partial men’s clothing, she looked like a defiant warrior goddess. One who had blatantly disregarded him.

“Do you disobey every command?” he asked.

She stared down the length of her nose at him. “You are not my uncle or my husband, Your Grace. I do not have to obey you.”

“But I am your employer,” he said.

Her mouth flattened with mutiny. “That does not include dictating which of my horses I should or should not ride.”

As if listening, her stallion reared, his feet pawing empty air in a fit of mischief. Raising herself slightly in the saddle, she hauled him under control with a firm click of her tongue and an expert touch on the reins. The skirts of her dress had parted when the horse had risen upward, baring her breeches-clad legs for a moment before she smoothed them into place. It brought Thane’s attention back to her odd if intriguing ensemble.

“That doesn’t look like any women’s riding habit I’ve ever seen.”

Astrid glowered at him. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I needed the extra mobility to manage my horses, and, well, it’s not the acceptable thing for a woman to wear trousers. The combination is of my own design, not unlike the harem pants of women in the east.”

Thane’s mouth opened and closed—an act that was becoming common in her presence, it seemed. The image of her wearing the clothing of such women invaded his brain. The fabric she wore was not transparent, but it well could have been with the illicit direction of his thoughts. Her fitted breeches gave enough fodder for his imagination to sketch out a pair of trim legs, finely molded buttocks, and shapely hips draped in voluminous yards of gossamer, and Thane went instantly hard.

Christ. He set his jaw, furious at his body’s response. “Regardless, when I give an order, I expect it to be followed.”

Her eyes flashed. “While you may control all of this, Your Grace, you do not control me.”

“Would you rather I send you and your sister packing back to your uncle?” Thane asked silkily. “Or to Beaumont?”

He regretted it the minute he said it when her entire body reared back as if she’d been struck, but it was a matter of pride. He could not give in. Astrid stared at him, fists going white-knuckled on the reins and eyes teeming with furious emotion. He could feel the heat of them from where he sat, all fire and brimstone. But then suddenly, the anger drained from her face. It was as though the light—along with all her fight—had been leached out of her.

He’d been the one to take it from her by threatening her sister, and suddenly, guilt daggered him. It was the only reason for his next words.

“You will take a groom with you,” he said through his teeth. “Whenever you ride him on the estate.”

Her eyes met his, and resentment, not gratitude, shone in them for a long moment before her eyelashes lowered with demure, if false, obeisance. As high-spirited as her stallion, she was not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, even though it was her place in life to do so. She would have been raised to be an aristocratic, biddable wife, but clearly, Lady Astrid did not fit that mold by a long shot.

Thane bit back a smile. What he wouldn’t have given to have seen her in her first Season, putting all those society matrons in their place and offering crisp set-downs to the dandies who ventured too close.

“Why didn’t you have more than one Season?” he asked abruptly.

She kept her face trained on the hills in the distance. “My parents died.”

“And after mourning?”

She did not immediately respond, but he could see that she was thinking about the question. Thane waited. “It was clear to me during my first Season that another would not…gain the result I hoped for, and it made more sense to save the money for Isobel.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“What’s the point of this?”

“Humor me.”

“I was ousted from society, Your Grace, because of bad judgment.” She flushed deeply. “Isobel doesn’t deserve to be punished for my mistakes. And I want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy.”

“And you don’t?”

Her throat bobbed. “This isn’t about me.”

“Why not?”

It seemed like she was going to answer, but after a moment, she wheeled the stallion around and galloped back toward the manse. Thane stared at her retreating form with a thoughtful look. He’d seen loyalty in his men on the battlefield but had scarcely encountered it in the real world. The men and women of the aristocracy dealt in secrets and intrigues, and many a gentleman would sell his own brother if it meant some kind of gain.

But not Lady Astrid. She would swallow the mountain of her pride whole if it meant protecting her sister. He admired that more than he cared to admit.

…

Insufferable, persistent beast!

What could she say? That her own naïveté had destroyed any chance for happiness? That she’d trusted the wrong man? That said man was back and out for vengeance? Beswick would probably laugh in her face or tell her to stop caviling over trifles. As if her life were a trifling matter. God, he was unspeakable!

Her chest heaving with exertion, Astrid threw the reins to a waiting groom and slid off the horse once she arrived back at the stables. Normally, she would groom Brutus herself, but she was far too agitated with the duke. How dare he? How dare he question her about her sister and her decisions? He was no one to her, no one to them.

He’s your employer, her inner voice reminded her.

“That doesn’t make him my owner,” she muttered, stomping the caked mud off her boots. “He has no right.”

He’s a duke, one of the most highborn peers in the land, and you’re living on his charity. Arguably, he has some right.

“Shut up,” she half snarled to herself.

“My lady, are ye well?” the young groom asked.

Astrid nodded with a scowl. Of course she wasn’t well; she was talking to herself like a bedlamite.

All because of one thoroughly aggravating man. She wasn’t by any means a society darling who expected men to fall at her feet, but most of the men she’d met had been gentlemen. They did not ask impolite questions or say whatever came to mind. They did not look at her as if they wanted to incinerate her very bones or demolish the defenses that had served her well for nearly a decade.

She blew out a breath, stalking from the stable toward the house. Gentlemen didn’t pry. Not when the answers led to ugly places. Astoundingly, Beswick did not seem to know of her past, but Astrid knew he would find out. Eventually. And if he was anything like the rest of the aristocracy who’d equated the fallen Everleighs to scum on their bootheels, then she and Isobel would be out on their laurels.

Astrid wanted to put that off for as long as possible.

Agitation and worry coursed through her. She was much too frazzled to go into the house and speak with anyone, so she headed for the gardens. A good walk would help to calm her down. The pathways were wild and covered in rosebushes, but something about their ungoverned nature appealed to her. In truth, it reminded her of Beswick himself.

Wild, unruly, savage.

Gracious, why was she still thinking about him? With a hiss of frustration, Astrid wrenched her thoughts away from the vexing man and focused on the problem at hand. Namely, Beaumont. A part of her wished she’d never set eyes on the cad. He’d ruined everything. Her parents had been in raptures when the charismatic and handsome war hero and the nephew of an earl had offered for Astrid. Giddy with delight, she had fancied herself in love, until she’d tumbled from grace and realized that love was a lie for starry-eyed fools.

God, she’d been so naive and gullible. She hadn’t known she was in trouble until it was too late. Until her drunken, overly amorous fiancé had ushered her to a deserted music room, expecting his husbandly due, barely a month after their engagement. The memory was still razor-sharp, her thoughts flicking back to the darkened room where he had escorted her.

Fending off his roving hands, Astrid had backed away behind the pianoforte. “Please stop, Edmund,” she’d begged, “you’ve been drinking.”

“You want this,” he’d said. “Don’t tease. You belong to me.”

“I’m not your property.”

His smile had been predatory. “But you are, sweet. Mine to do with as I wish, when I wish, however I wish. We are to be married, after all.”

“We are not married yet.” Astrid had shaken her head, stunned at the side of him she’d never seen. The truth was his kisses repulsed her, and she’d endured them, but the thought of him touching her in any intimate way made her feel ill.

“Now, in a few months, what does it matter?”

He’d lunged for her, his wet lips slavering over hers, and Astrid had ripped herself away, wiping her mouth with the back of her glove.

“It does matter, Edmund. Oh God, I don’t want any of this. I simply don’t feel the same as you do. I thought I could, but I cannot do this.”

“Who are you to refuse me?” he’d said to her, eyes blazing. “You’re nothing but a silly country girl who’s lucky to have an offer from me. I’m the heir to an earldom.”

Trembling at his hostility, she’d held her ground. “That may be, but I am a woman of sound mind. I don’t wish to marry you, Edmund. More than ever, now I see how ill-suited we are. Surely you know it as well.”

He’d glared at her for so long, her legs had cramped, but after what seemed like forever, he’d nodded, his face unreadable. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s for the best.”

It was only the next day that Astrid had learned what he’d done.

Edmund Cain had taken it upon himself to ruin her good name…saying he had broken the engagement on account of her not being a virgin. Astrid had laughed it off, certain that the truth would prevail—she’d never been intimate with a man. But in the end, she had never stood a chance against the poisonous gossip that had raced like wildfire…to her parents, to the entire ton.

Despite Astrid’s claims, she’d been judged as guilty. After all, how could one prove one’s innocence, especially when impugned by a male peer? Such was the power of a man’s word versus a woman’s. And like that, without any defense whatsoever, she’d fallen from grace, her life over. Finished.

Never again, Astrid had sworn.

Never again would any man have that kind of power over her.

And yet, here she was, nine years later and considerably wiser, and beholden to one. Though from the little she knew of him, the Duke of Beswick was a man who answered to no one…yielded to no one.

Astrid plucked a nearby rose from its bush and held the delicate blossom between her fingers. The blushing pink petals felt like velvet. If fate had been different—and she’d met a different gentleman—Isobel would have been safe.

If she, Astrid, hadn’t been naive…

If Edmund hadn’t been such a bastard…

If anyone had believed her over a scorned, small-minded man…

If…if…if…

Her life could be a constellation of ifs.

She discarded the flower and kept walking. None of that mattered anymore. It was all in the past. To take care of Isobel, Astrid needed to look forward, not backward. But a part of her couldn’t help worrying that when the duke found out the truth—and it was only a matter of time before he would—he might turn out to be just like everyone else in the ton.