some months ago. He followed her everywhere now. She was grateful that Friar Tucker allowed him to stay in the kitchens at the abbey or he‘d be sleeping on the ground outside her second-story window.
―Did you get the books ye wanted from Mrs. Simpson?‖ he asked.
―Yes, I did. And you aren‘t to tell anyone,‖ she reminded him again, having dragged the oath of secrecy from him before venturing into town. ―My visits to Mrs. Simpson are our secret.‖
He bobbed his blond head in reassurance, the perfect co-conspirator. Jack loved secrets. Last week he had helped her clandestinely bake a strawberry pie for Sister Nessa‘s birthday, which had required sneaking into the henhouse and stealing two eggs.
Wind gusts lifted her hair. They both looked up at the sky. ―Ye best be hurryin‘, Miss Rose,‖ he encouraged.
She‘d wrapped her books in her plaid scarf, but the thin fabric would not protect the leather-bound tomes from rain. She was relieved when they‘d finally crossed the open space and entered the woods surrounding the abbey, until the first crack of lightning sounded. A moment later Jack hopped out of the cart. As was their routine, she would take the horse to the stable while Jack slipped through a narrow opening in the stone wall and unlocked the garden gate.
The stable looming ahead of her, she leaped out of the cart and led the pony into the interior out of the storm. The heavy stone walls and thatched roof muffled the thunder, and she was at once met with the pungent smell of straw and aged leather. Her eyes shifted to the stall where Friar Tucker kept the Abbey‘s prize horse, an aged bay mare. The stall was empty. She still couldn‘t believe he would be away until the end of the month. He‘d said not to worry, but that was like telling the sky not to rain. He rarely left the abbey for more than a few days at a time. Now he would be gone three weeks.
After she unhooked the lead and chains, she housed the pony in the stall beside the plow horse, then scooped grain from the bin and fed both horses. Only after she returned to the cart and removed her books did she realize both oil lanthorns hanging from posts at each end of the stable had been lit. For some reason she had failed to notice this detail when she first entered.
Alarmed, Rose tightened her arms on the books and straightened. She peered up and down the narrow aisle, listening, but heard no one present. It was then she saw another horse, housed in the far stall. Not just any horse either.
The magnificent Irish hunter was a beauty, at least seventeen hands tall, with long legs and a full chest. Though its coat was dusty, she imagined it would shine a glossy red when brushed. Suddenly she had a vague recollection that this stallion looked familiar. Heart pounding, she stepped back and bumped a wooden trestle.
A leather bridle and saddle draped the rack. She traced her finger along the etching of a dragon. A chill coursed down her spine.
Impossible!
Jack had seen Roxburghe and his men cross the bridge.
Rose spun on her heel, swirling straw with her movement, and slammed headlong into a wall.
Or what could have been a wall. Her head smashed against a man‘s jaw with a blinding thunk . Her books flew from her hands, barely missing the water barrel, the impact propelling her backward. She would have fallen had two large hands not grabbed her arms and steadied her.
Her lashes snapped upward as her chin tilted and she stared into a pair of eyes, not quite black but indigo. Sensation bolted down her spine. Then just that fast, as if he felt it too, the expression of annoyance on his face vanished and her own alarm melded with something more pliable than fear.
Shock perhaps, for she would admit to nothing else.
Close up, Lord Roxburghe was even taller and more solidly built than she‘d thought when she saw him atop his horse in the village. But his strength did not come from his appearance as much as it did from some
―Did you get the books ye wanted from Mrs. Simpson?‖ he asked.
―Yes, I did. And you aren‘t to tell anyone,‖ she reminded him again, having dragged the oath of secrecy from him before venturing into town. ―My visits to Mrs. Simpson are our secret.‖
He bobbed his blond head in reassurance, the perfect co-conspirator. Jack loved secrets. Last week he had helped her clandestinely bake a strawberry pie for Sister Nessa‘s birthday, which had required sneaking into the henhouse and stealing two eggs.
Wind gusts lifted her hair. They both looked up at the sky. ―Ye best be hurryin‘, Miss Rose,‖ he encouraged.
She‘d wrapped her books in her plaid scarf, but the thin fabric would not protect the leather-bound tomes from rain. She was relieved when they‘d finally crossed the open space and entered the woods surrounding the abbey, until the first crack of lightning sounded. A moment later Jack hopped out of the cart. As was their routine, she would take the horse to the stable while Jack slipped through a narrow opening in the stone wall and unlocked the garden gate.
The stable looming ahead of her, she leaped out of the cart and led the pony into the interior out of the storm. The heavy stone walls and thatched roof muffled the thunder, and she was at once met with the pungent smell of straw and aged leather. Her eyes shifted to the stall where Friar Tucker kept the Abbey‘s prize horse, an aged bay mare. The stall was empty. She still couldn‘t believe he would be away until the end of the month. He‘d said not to worry, but that was like telling the sky not to rain. He rarely left the abbey for more than a few days at a time. Now he would be gone three weeks.
After she unhooked the lead and chains, she housed the pony in the stall beside the plow horse, then scooped grain from the bin and fed both horses. Only after she returned to the cart and removed her books did she realize both oil lanthorns hanging from posts at each end of the stable had been lit. For some reason she had failed to notice this detail when she first entered.
Alarmed, Rose tightened her arms on the books and straightened. She peered up and down the narrow aisle, listening, but heard no one present. It was then she saw another horse, housed in the far stall. Not just any horse either.
The magnificent Irish hunter was a beauty, at least seventeen hands tall, with long legs and a full chest. Though its coat was dusty, she imagined it would shine a glossy red when brushed. Suddenly she had a vague recollection that this stallion looked familiar. Heart pounding, she stepped back and bumped a wooden trestle.
A leather bridle and saddle draped the rack. She traced her finger along the etching of a dragon. A chill coursed down her spine.
Impossible!
Jack had seen Roxburghe and his men cross the bridge.
Rose spun on her heel, swirling straw with her movement, and slammed headlong into a wall.
Or what could have been a wall. Her head smashed against a man‘s jaw with a blinding thunk . Her books flew from her hands, barely missing the water barrel, the impact propelling her backward. She would have fallen had two large hands not grabbed her arms and steadied her.
Her lashes snapped upward as her chin tilted and she stared into a pair of eyes, not quite black but indigo. Sensation bolted down her spine. Then just that fast, as if he felt it too, the expression of annoyance on his face vanished and her own alarm melded with something more pliable than fear.
Shock perhaps, for she would admit to nothing else.
Close up, Lord Roxburghe was even taller and more solidly built than she‘d thought when she saw him atop his horse in the village. But his strength did not come from his appearance as much as it did from some
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