Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,134
hour came, Lord Jack himself arrived to escort her to the stables. He was freshly shaved and dressed in his black riding clothes, which fit his long legs and broad shoulders to perfection. Sewn by a tailor in London, she supposed. Or Paris. How easy it was to forget that Lord Jack had traveled the world.
“You’ll be home well before sunset,” he assured her, leading her across the grassy expanse north of the house. Though the air was clear and dry, the ground beneath their feet was still spongy from two days’ rain. “I’ve arranged for the mare to be boarded each night in Mr. Riddell’s stables on Kirk Wynd.”
“You’re most kind.” She looked up at him as they walked, his rugged face framed by the rosy orange sky. “The household has been quite … understanding.”
He slowed his steps, his gaze locked with hers. “You did not mind, then? Perhaps I should have asked your permission first.”
“ ’Tis best they heard the truth from you,” she told him, longing to say more. Because you are trustworthy. And because you are respected by all who know you.
A stone’s throw from the stables, Lord Jack stopped altogether, then turned toward her. “I think you’ll find the men of Bell Hill eager to guard your safety, Bess.”
She’d already witnessed their loyalty in action. “I cannot step into the servants’ hall without a footman watching over me,” she admitted, lifting her face, no longer caring if he saw her wound. “However can I thank you, milord?”
His answer was swift. “By riding home without delay.” Then he leaned closer, capturing her hands. “And by letting me take care of you, as I should have from the first.”
Elisabeth paused, her skin warming beneath his gaze. “I’ve always felt safe here,” she finally said. “Though I am not a woman who needs looking after. Truly, I can fend for myself—”
“Can you?” His voice was low, but she heard the faint edge of frustration. “Had I insisted you ride home in my carriage on Wednesday eve, you’d not be hiding behind this ugly bonnet.” He released her hand long enough to pull open the ribbon and lift the bonnet from her head. Then he examined her cheek, the touch of his gloved finger exceptionally tender.
“Would that I might remove his mark as easily as I dispensed with your hat,” he murmured. “Time and the Lord’s hand will manage what I cannot.”
Oh, Lord Jack. With him standing so near, his clean, masculine scent overwhelmed her.
“Come, Bess,” he said softly, “or we’ll lose our light.”
She moved forward, following his lead. “You are riding with me?”
“I am.” He was already waving over the stable lad, who had Janvier in hand. Hyslop was not far behind him, bringing Belda. Lord Jack lifted Elisabeth into the sidesaddle with ease, then mounted Janvier in a single sweeping motion. “Shall we?”
They trotted side by side along the tree-lined drive, a warm breeze moving through the branches, fluttering the leaves overhead. In another month the elms and maples would exchange their green garments for yellow ones, the oaks for bright reddish brown. Summer would truly be at an end. But not yet.
As they neared the road to Selkirk and the massive boulder loomed ahead, Bess gripped the pommel more firmly, aware of Lord Jack watching her. Without a word he moved slightly ahead of her, blocking her view until the road straightened again and the boulder, with all its grim memories, was well behind them.
She rode on, feeling her heart ease its frantic pace and her breathing return to normal. You’re not alone, Bess. The worst is over.
Lord Jack waited until she was beside him again, then asked amiably, “What can you tell me of Michaelmas? For we paid scant attention to such festivals aboard ship.”
She offered him a shaky smile, releasing the last of her fears. “Michael is the patron saint of the sea and of horses as well, yet you’ve never paid him homage?”
“Nae, madam. Though for the sake of Janvier and Belda, I might reconsider. What rituals must I endure?”
“I cannot say what the good folk of Selkirk may do, but Highland women gather carrots on the Sunday afternoon before Michaelmas.”
“Laboring on the Sabbath?” he said dryly. “Won’t Reverend Brown be pleased to hear that?”
“Since Michaelmas Eve falls on Sunday this year, the hearth will be put to use too,” she informed him. “While the women are baking into the wee hours of the night, the men are lifting horses from their neighbors.”