“Yes, Shetlands aren’t made for riding by adults. They are rather adorable, however. Hector, the dowager duchess’s horse, is sometimes taken out into the village for the children to ride on.”
Her eyes brightened immediately. “Ambrose would love that. He adores children. He adores anything small—smaller than him, anyway. Fowl, kittens, puppies, little children. As long as it is small, he is very fond of it.”
She saw Eammon smile at the corner of his lips, and she realized it was a genuine smile, as though he truly appreciated her words. Did he like children? It hadn’t occurred to her to ask. Then again, the question was a troublesome one, for it brought forth other matters she’d rather avoid thinking about.
“It is a cherished tradition, started by the first Duke of Leith,” the stable master explained.
“Your father?” She looked at Eammon, who nodded.
“Yes, indeed. He bought a Shetland pony for my mother when they were but a few years wed and he started the tradition of taking it into town once per week on a market day. Now, once a month, I take Hector into the village along with one of the grooms,” he said. “It helps me connect with the tenant farmers and the people in the village who rely on us. If you wish, you can accompany me. I am going this coming Sunday.”
She was utterly taken aback by this. She had assumed he cared little about his tenant farmers or the village’s needs. And yet, once again, she had to wonder if perhaps she had been wrong about him. Their terrible first introduction had overshadowed everything, and perhaps she ought to allow a little light to pass between them.
“I shall let you go, Your Grace. You must be anxious to see your horse,” the stable master said, bowing again before slipping away.
“It is this way,” Eammon said, placing a hand on the small of her back.
She stiffened at his touch. It had been so unexpected. She hadn’t been prepared at all. Yet when his hand rested on her, and she felt his touch through the cloth of her gown, she couldn’t deny that it felt good—just as it had felt good to feel his hands around her when he had helped her into and out of the carriage.
I must not make a cake of myself, she told herself.Just because he brought my horse and likes to entertain the village children and cares about his tenant farmers, does not mean he is a good man.
She walked a few steps further to put a fair distance between them as he followed. Once inside the stable, the scent of horses was overwhelming yet comforting. As she walked, a mixture of gravel, hay, and sand crunched beneath her shoes. The stable was much larger than she had anticipated, and inside the structure, there were several rows with boxes, all containing an assortment of horses.
“Goodness,” she said. “I did not know you had this many horses.”
He nodded. “I do. But not all of these are mine. Some of them belong to farmers or noblemen in the area who do not have enough room for theirs. So we rent out some of the empty stalls. One must never turn one’s nose up at a business opportunity. The days of the nobility looking down on business and trade are far behind us, my dear.”
She was about to reply to let him know, for once, they were of one mind, when she heard a soft nicker from up ahead and knew at once. “Ambrose!” she said and sped up, rushing down the aisle with haste.
“Take heed, do not run,” Eammon called behind her in a sharp tone, as though she were a child. She glanced over her shoulder to tell him that she did not need him to command her pace when suddenly she felt her right foot slip forward, and she was flung backward.
“Oh no!” she called as she fell backward, her arms flailing like leaves in the wind.
“Charity!” She heard his voice, and then she felt his arms as he caught her before she could land on the ground. She gasped as he held her, realizing she was mere inches from the ground—and from him. With a light grunt, he lifted her upwards, and she felt his chest press into her back. It was an overwhelming sensation, as she could feel the muscles of his chest and stomach contract with the motion of lifting her up.
And the scent…His powerful sandalwood scent overpowered that of the stable. She felt her heart thunder in a staccato rhythm, and when she was back on her feet, her whole world seemed to swirl.
“I do not ask you to moderate your pace because I enjoy ordering you around,” Eammon said, his tone betraying that he was very cross with her. “I do it because I want to protect you. There was water on the walkway. I saw you were going to slip, so I asked you to slow down. You must not always assume the worst.”
As he spoke, his tone changed, and she realized he was genuinely upset.
“I did not mean to assume the worst,” she said. “I beg your pardon.”
They stood across from one another for a moment, and then he nodded and motioned forward. “Now, if you wish, we shall see your horse.”
She nodded and, this time, walked slowly toward the box where Ambrose now lived, though she wanted nothing more than to race.
“Oh, my sweet Ambrose,” she said when she stopped in front of the box. There he was—her beloved Shettie. He let out a delighted nicker, letting her know he was happy to see her, too. His brown eyes seemed to light up as he pressed himself against the box as far as he could, and she ran her hand through his coarse mane.
Ambrose was a beautiful horse. His front and hindquarters were a deep chestnut brown, while his middle was white. His large, brown eyes were kind, and when he rubbed his head against her hand, she knew that he had missed her just as much as she had missed him. Behind her, she heard footsteps receding, but she did not bother to look around. She was too delighted to be reunited with her horse.
Beside Ambrose, a whinny emitted, and she turned to see another Shetland pony coming her way. This one looked almost exactly like Ambrose, except where Ambrose was brown, this horse was white, and where Ambrose’s mane was a soft beige, this horse’s mane was black, as were its eyes.
“You must be Hector,” she said and allowed the horse to sniff her. Before long, she had one hand stroking Ambrose’s neck and the other on Hector’s. The two horses stood before her, pressed up against one another as they basked in her affection.
“An apple, perhaps?” Eammon’s voice came, and she flinched, having forgotten his presence. This time, she looked back and saw that he was standing there with an apple in one hand and the green tops of carrots poking out of his trouser pocket.
“Hector loves apples. I assume Ambrose does too.”
