“I think I met Toby last night,” Phoebe said, lowering her hand cautiously. The nose thoroughly sniffed her fingers and then she was rewarded with a sloppy lick from Toby’s tongue. She stroked back over the dog’s head. He had a long nose—she got another lick as she felt it—big upright ears, and a thick, short coat, which her fingers sank into. Though he had a medium-size dog’s body, his legs were quite stubby.
“Aye, he was barking at you then,” Agnes said, her hand still in Phoebe’s. “He woke us all up, but Granfer said we weren’t to go down. But I spied through the stair rails and saw you and him come in.”
That emphatic him must be Trevillion. Who was he to the little girl? Had Agnes ever met him before?
“I’m sorry we woke you so late at night.” Phoebe stood and let Agnes lead her.
“Mind the chair here,” Agnes said as they skirted it. “Here’s the washstand.” She placed Phoebe’s hand on a wide china basin. “Shall I pour the water in?”
“Yes, please,” Phoebe said. “Agnes, you said ‘us.’ Who else lives here?”
“Well”—there was a splash and Phoebe felt the water pour over her fingers—“There’s Granfer and me and Mother. Then we have Betty who sleeps by the kitchen—she keeps the house for Granfer. And over the stables there’s Old Owen and Young Tom—they help with the horses.”
“Horses? You have more than one?” Phoebe found a washcloth and scrubbed her neck and face. She really wanted a full bath, but it would have to wait. With so few servants, filling a bath with hot water would be onerous. Perhaps she might ask Agnes to help her wash her hair later.
“We have lots of horses,” Agnes said, earnest pride in her voice. “Trevillion horses are the finest in Cornwall. Granfer says the Londoners would gnaw their hearts out with envy if he ever brought them to be sold in London.”
Phoebe paused, startled. “Really? Then your grandfather breeds the horses?” Whyever hadn’t Trevillion told her this?
“Everyone knows Granfer’s horses,” Agnes said with just a hint of condescension.
“Then I shall have to visit them,” Phoebe said. “After breakfast, of course. Would you mind? I have to use the chamber pot and then maybe you can help me with my hair?”
Agnes and Toby obligingly left the room while Phoebe did just that, and then came in to help with the rest of her toilet.
“You’re very good at dressing hair,” Phoebe remarked.
“I do Mother’s,” Agnes replied, and it occurred to Phoebe that Agnes had mentioned her grandfather and mother, but not her father. Perhaps her mother was widowed or her father was away on business? “There. Done.”
Phoebe stood and turned. “Am I presentable?”
“Oh yes,” Agnes said softly. “You look a princess, my lady.”
Phoebe smiled and held out her hand. “You may call me Phoebe. Would you like to show me where breakfast is served?”
“Yes.”
The slender, strong fingers were once again in hers. Phoebe inhaled discreetly and found that Agnes bore the same scent as the wind the night before—salt and sea—mixed faintly with horses and dogs. Perhaps she spent a great deal of time outdoors?
As they left her bedroom with Toby trotting after, Phoebe could hear male voices raised in anger.
“He shouts just like Granfer,” Agnes said.
“You mean Trevillion?” They walked down a hallway that Phoebe remembered from the night before.
“Yes,” Agnes said. “He said to call him Uncle James this morning when I saw him, but he’s different than I thought he would be.”
“How so?” Phoebe asked.
“I never expected him to be so loud or so frowning. He wrote such nice letters.”
“Letters…” Phoebe’s brows drew together. “Hadn’t you met your uncle prior to this morning?”
“He left before I was born, so says Granfer,” Agnes replied, and before Phoebe could ask the myriad questions that statement brought up, said, “Here’s the room where we take breakfast.”
“Damn you, Jamie, haven’t I told you before that you’re still wanted for—” Mr. Trevillion’s shout was cut off, presumably by their entrance.
Wanted for what? Phoebe thought, bewildered.
A chair scraped back. “Good morning, my lady,” James said, his voice at its most expressionless.
Oh, dear. Phoebe repressed a wince. It seemed a shame to start the day in a rage. She put a cheerful smile on. “Agnes says there’s breakfast.”
“There’s porridge,” came a gruff voice. She hadn’t actually been formally introduced to Mr. Trevillion the night before. “And that dog belongs outside, Agnes. You know that, girl.”
“Yes, sir,” Agnes muttered. Phoebe heard the snap of fingers and the retreating footsteps of the girl and dog.
“Toby.” The voice was a woman’s but somehow thick, as if the speaker couldn’t form the word quite properly.
“Come.” Trevillion was by her side, the comforting scent of sandalwood and bergamot in her nostrils. “Sit here and let me introduce you. My father, Arthur Trevillion, you met last night. He sits at the head of the table to your left. I’m sitting immediately to your right. Across from you is my sister, Dorothy, though we fondly call her Dolly.”
Phoebe sank into the chair and felt the table before her with her fingers. A wide-lipped bowl of porridge was there. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Trevillion, Dolly.”
“Dolly,” Mr. Trevillion said gruffly. “Say your how-d’you-do’s to Lady Phoebe.”
“How do you do?” Dolly’s thick voice said slowly.
Phoebe knit her brows, opening her mouth just as footsteps sounded at the door.
“Ah,” said Trevillion, sitting down next to her. “Here’s Agnes back from banishing Toby. She’s with our Betty, who cooks and cleans and keeps the house running for all.”
Phoebe inclined her head. “Betty.”
“Pleased t’ meet ’ee, m’lady.” Betty’s low voice was wonderfully accented. “Now sit ’ee, Agnes, girl. Thy porridge grows cold.”
“What’s become of Reed?” Phoebe asked.
“He had a bed over the stables last night,” Trevillion said. “I’ve no doubt he’ll find work to do with the horses today.”
A harrumph came from Mr. Trevillion’s end of the table.
“Shall I pour you some tea?” Trevillion asked, his voice low and intimate.
“Please.” Phoebe felt heat climbing her neck. She’d missed sleeping beside him last night. Strange, since they’d only lain together two nights, but there it was. She missed the other things they’d done as well. For a moment she remembered his weight on hers, the strange, wonderful motion of his hips, the feeling it had given her. Did he think of it as well? Would he do it again if she asked him?
Phoebe shivered at the thought, hoping she wasn’t blushing for all to see.
The strange thing was, though, that she wanted more from Trevillion than those moments in the bed, wonderful though they’d been. She wanted to talk to him alone, wanted to ask so much of him: why he hadn’t returned to his family home since before Agnes’s birth, if he’d always been called Jamie here, why he fought with his father, and above all, why he’d been so secretive about his family.
She wanted to know all about him, really, inside and out. But her questions would have to wait for a less public time.
Though it nearly stifled her to keep them all inside.
Phoebe turned in the direction of Mr. Trevillion and smiled. “Agnes says you breed horses?”
“Aye.”
Phoebe waited, but apparently that was all the answer she would get. Trevillion had obviously learned his conversational skills from his father.
There was a crash from the end of the table and then Dolly sobbed and said in her thick voice. “Oh! Spilled porridge. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
And all at once Phoebe realized what was different about Dolly’s voice.
Agnes’s mother was weak in the head.
&nbs
p; IT’D BEEN ALMOST twelve years since he’d last stepped into the old Trevillion stables, but oddly they still looked—and smelled—like home.
“Mm, I love the smell of horses,” Phoebe murmured, tilting up her face in bliss. “Why did you never tell me your family bred them?”
“I didn’t know you’d be interested,” he muttered. Horse-breeding was a trade, after all, and weren’t the aristocracy supposed to look down upon dirtying one’s hands with trade?
She turned to him, looking skeptical. “You know I love horses!”
He couldn’t help softening at that. “Then you’ll like our stables.”
The stables were an ancient building, built of gray stone. The cobblestones that lined the main corridor were worn smooth underfoot. Beside them trotted the odd little dog that seemed to belong to his father, but was obviously more loyal to his niece.
The dog had also obviously become enamored with Phoebe. Toby glanced up at her as they walked, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, his ridiculously too large ears flicking away a fly.
“I can hear the horses stamping their hooves,” Phoebe murmured. “Won’t Maximus find out we’re here?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never told His Grace where I came from—and no one in London knows.”
She thought about that a moment, then said, “Why didn’t you tell me about your family—that we were traveling to your childhood home?”
He shrugged uneasily. “Why would you be interested in your guard’s family?”
She was silent as he took her deeper into the cool building. Most of the horses were outside in the pasture, but one stall was occupied farther down.
“I grant that at one time I might not’ve listened if you’d told me of your family,” she said slowly. “When you were first made my guard I was not overjoyed—”
He snorted under his breath.
“But,” she continued a little louder, “I’ve come to know you since and we’ve agreed we are friends, have we not?”
She was much more than a friend to him.
But her face was expectant, so he answered gently, “Aye, we’re friends, my lady.”
She smiled up at him, her entire face lit like the sun.
“Jamie!” Old Owen called from down the stables. “Is that ’ee, lad? Could’ve knocked me down wi’ a feather, ’ee could, when Hisself told me ’ee’d come home.”
“Yes, it’s me, Owen.” Trevillion transferred his cane to his left hand to shake the old man’s hand. “What’s become of my man, Reed?”
An evil smile lit Old Owen’s face. “Sent him out to yonder pasture to see if he could catch Wild Kate. That’ll test his mettle, it will. She’s not called wild for naught.”
Trevillion couldn’t help but laugh.
Old Owen had been in his father’s employ since Trevillion was a young boy. The man was bent now with lumbago and ancient injuries received from his work. Few good horsemen made it to old age without a broken bone or two from a horse’s kick. But his blue eyes under his wispy gray hair were as shrewd as ever.
“An’ who be this fair maid?” Owen asked.
“My lady, may I present Owen Pawley, the finest horseman in Cornwall and the man who first put me in a saddle. Owen, this is Lady Phoebe Batten, the woman I’ve been hired to guard.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Pawley,” Phoebe said.
“Call me Owen, do, m’lady,” Owen said. “Everyone hereabouts does. Why, I hear me own last name so little I scarcely recognize it.”
“Owen it is, then,” Phoebe replied, smiling.
“An’ this here is Young Tom Pawley,” Owen said, pointing to the other man. “Me great-nephew he is an’ a fine horseman he’ll be… in ten more years or so.” Owen guffawed, but not in an overly mean way.
The younger man blushed. He was as wiry as his great-uncle, but a good deal straighter. He pulled a forelock and said loudly, “M’lady.”
“Now, Young Tom, th’ lady’s blind, not deaf, lad,” Owen chided.
Tom scuffed his feet and muttered an apology.
“Have ’ee come to see our new queen, then?” Owen nodded to the occupied stall behind him. In it was a white mare, heavily pregnant, her head over the stall door and looking at them curiously. “This ’ere’s Guinevere. Himself bought her last autumn and she’s a dainty piece, she is. She’s due to drop any day, or so I figure.”
Guinevere nickered as if she knew she was being discussed.
“She sounds lovely,” Phoebe said, her face wistful.
Trevillion glanced quickly at Old Owen, meeting his gaze.
The old man’s eyes flashed with sadness. “Why, would ’ee like to pet her, m’lady? She’s gentle as a lamb, I promise.”
“Please.”
“She’s just here,” Trevillion said, taking her hand from his sleeve. He guided her small fingers to the horse’s head, then let go.
Phoebe ran her fingers over the delicate head and down to the soft nose. Guinevere snuffled at her palm inquisitively.
She laughed, turning in his direction. “She’s a beauty, I can tell.”
“Oh, that she is, m’lady,” Old Owen said, grinning proudly.
“Bit o’ carrot,” Tom said shyly, giving Phoebe a carrot. “She’s right fond o’ them.”
Trevillion stepped back, watching as Phoebe petted and talked to the mare.
“She’s a rare one,” Owen whispered conspiratorially. “Sweet an’ lovely.”
Trevillion stiffened. “She’s a duke’s sister. I’m not of her league.”
“Ah.” Owen rocked back on his heels. “Might want to ask the lady about that, I’m thinking.”
Phoebe turned her head toward them and Trevillion silently cursed Owen’s carrying voice.
But she didn’t remark on that. “Will you show me the other horses, Captain Trevillion?”
“Certainly.” He limped forward to offer her his arm.
She placed her soft fingers on his sleeve, then turned to the two horsemen. “Thank you for showing me your queen, Owen. And thank you for the carrot, Tom.”
“Anytime, m’lady,” Owen called cheerfully.
Tom just blushed beet red.
Trevillion led her to the opposite end of the stables. It let out into a small paddock. Beyond that was one of his father’s fields. The paddock itself was empty, but at the far side four horses had gathered at the pasture’s fence. Toby had trotted on ahead, and was busy barking at the unimpressed horses.
“We’re in luck,” Trevillion told Phoebe. “There are four horses waiting for us at the pasture fence. They look a little like village wives gathered for a gossip.”
She laughed. “Has your family always bred horses?” she asked as they strolled toward the fence.
“As far back as anyone can remember in these parts,” he answered easily. “And that’s a fair ways back.”
She turned her face toward him, her cheeks pinkened by the light wind, and he had an urge to kiss her, to taste again that joy of life. “But you decided to become an army officer instead. Why?”
He looked away. “At the time I had little choice in the matter.”
“I don’t understand—?”
“Here’s Bess,” he said, holding out his hand to the older mare. “She must be nearly fifteen years old now. And I think she remembers me.”
Indeed the mare was lipping his coat sleeve affectionately. He’d used to bring her apples and carrots when Bess was young—when he was young. For a moment he was nearly overcome by the memories. He’d lost so much when he’d made that one devastating mistake.
When he’d failed everyone so utterly.
“Which one is she?” Phoebe asked, bringing him out of his dark thoughts.
He took her hand in his and drew it forward slowly, letting the mare see their approach. “This is Bess. She’s mostly white with dark stockings.” He waited as Phoebe felt over the soft gray muzzle. “Now next to her is a pretty lass, a bit shorter, and all white. I don’t know her nam
e, but if I’m not mistaken, she’s pregnant.” He moved her hand just as slowly to the second horse, but the mare snorted, backing away. “And, I’m afraid, a bit skittish.”
“Well, that’s only to be expected,” Phoebe said softly. “We’re strangers to her, after all.”
“True.” He moved their hands to the third mare, who immediately stretched her neck to snuffle.
Phoebe giggled. “She’s not so shy.”
“No, indeed.” Trevillion watched with a slight smile as Phoebe ran her palm over the horse’s nose. “That’s Prissy. She was a two-year-old when I last saw her and now she’s about to be a mother. She’s got a nice straight back and strong legs.”
“And the last?” Phoebe asked.
“I don’t know her by name, but she has the arched neck and fine little head of a princess.” He laughed softly. “And she must be friends with Prissy, for Prissy has her neck over hers.”
“Like sisters whispering together,” Phoebe said.
“Mm,” he murmured. “She’s a bit shy—she’s standing back from the fence. Perhaps if we’re still…”
He stood behind her and took her left hand in his. He held out her hand, tangling his fingers with hers, and slowly turned it, so that her palm was uppermost, cradled within his, an offering to the beautiful mare.
They were silent. Each inhalation brushed his chest and belly against her back. The top of her head came only to his chin. He leaned his right hand on the fence, near her hip, and as they waited, she placed her own right hand over his. It was warm and soft, reminding him that she did no physical labor, this lady. She was an aristocrat—a world apart from his yeoman upbringing. But here, in this quiet paddock, the only sound the soft thump of the horses’ hooves on grass, they were just a man and a woman. That simple.
And that complex.
At last the mare moved, stretching out her neck curiously, whuffling over Phoebe’s palm, and then letting herself be petted.
“Thank you,” Phoebe breathed, and at first Trevillion thought she was speaking to the little white mare.
But then she turned her head up to his.
“For what?” he asked, his voice deep.