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Authors: Jennifer McQuiston
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trade for it either, and that tiny thing isn’t going to fit the Missus Morrison.” He flushed to be imparting such delicate information, but plowed on. “She’s expecting twins next month, you know.”
James raised a brow. As if he would trade the one bloody clue he had.
“You fetch the horse,” William broke in. “We’ll scrape together the fee, and we’ll make an exchange, nice and even-like.”
The boy eyed them both, as if he suspected they might disappear on him, then darted down the alley. “What was that all about?” William muttered.
“Damned if I know.” James squinted down the lane, half expecting Caesar to emerge as a fire-breathing dragon. “I . . . I will have to borrow the money if I can’t barter my cuff links.”
William smiled. “Of course.” He amiably patted his coat pocket. “And I shall be only too happy to offer my aid. If you can bring yourself to say please, that is.”
James worked his jaw around the objectionable word and found he could not say it.
“And in the Queen’s English.” William waved one finger in front of James’s nose. “It does not count if you say it like a Frenchie.”
“Please, you son of a—” James pulled up in astonishment as the young groom emerged from the dark alley dragging a saddled horse behind him. The oddity of the morning’s exchange fell into place as the boy dodged a near miss of clicking teeth and dancing hooves.
The moment called for something dramatic, but James was at a loss for what a proper reaction should be. Beside him, William started laughing, hearty guffaws that made the groom pink up in ignorant embarrassment and the anger churn red in James’s stomach. Of course this horse kicked down a stable wall. Of course James had left it here in a state of dim remembrance. It fit perfectly with the ridiculousness of the rest of his evening’s activities.
“Take it, sir.” The groom was practically begging now, handing over the snorting black horse as one would a lighted fuse.
James reluctantly reached out his hand and closed it over stiff leather reins that felt foreign in his hand. He gave voice to the thought tripping around in his head, though he doubted the question would win him any friends or do him any good.
“What is this?” He gestured toward the horse and earned a flattening of the animal’s ears for his trouble. “Is this some sort of joke?” He half-expected to see William bent over in laughter, having concocted this elaborate ruse merely for entertainment value.
The groom’s eyes widened in confusion. “It’s your horse, sir.”
“This is not my horse.” As if agreeing with him, the horse reached out and nipped at James’s waistcoat, ripping the fabric and taking a bit of skin, to boot. “My horse is chestnut.” He rubbed a hand over his newest injury and eyed the beast with irritation. “And male .”
“Well, it’s the horse you left with me last night.” The groom’s voice wavered.
“It’s not my horse, and therefore not my problem.” James started to hand back the reins, but the groom’s cry of protest halted his progress.
“Never say you aren’t going to pay!” The boy sounded frantic now. “If you dinna pay, I’ll lose my job. That would be a fine meddle, the town solicitor and Lord Kilmartie’s son, to boot, running out on his bill.”
The grim reminder of his father’s inevitable disappointment and what he stood to lose in this made James’s fingers curve inward, itching for release. Respect. He had worked hard to build the town’s trust of him, to prove he was more than a rough-and-tumble second son who needed to be saved by his father. He had turned his life for the better, and done it without the help of his influential family. He did not want to toss those gains aside.
He tamped down the urge to strike out at something with a skill born of long practice and necessity. It was not this groom’s fault he had misplaced his horse, any more than it was the groom’s
James raised a brow. As if he would trade the one bloody clue he had.
“You fetch the horse,” William broke in. “We’ll scrape together the fee, and we’ll make an exchange, nice and even-like.”
The boy eyed them both, as if he suspected they might disappear on him, then darted down the alley. “What was that all about?” William muttered.
“Damned if I know.” James squinted down the lane, half expecting Caesar to emerge as a fire-breathing dragon. “I . . . I will have to borrow the money if I can’t barter my cuff links.”
William smiled. “Of course.” He amiably patted his coat pocket. “And I shall be only too happy to offer my aid. If you can bring yourself to say please, that is.”
James worked his jaw around the objectionable word and found he could not say it.
“And in the Queen’s English.” William waved one finger in front of James’s nose. “It does not count if you say it like a Frenchie.”
“Please, you son of a—” James pulled up in astonishment as the young groom emerged from the dark alley dragging a saddled horse behind him. The oddity of the morning’s exchange fell into place as the boy dodged a near miss of clicking teeth and dancing hooves.
The moment called for something dramatic, but James was at a loss for what a proper reaction should be. Beside him, William started laughing, hearty guffaws that made the groom pink up in ignorant embarrassment and the anger churn red in James’s stomach. Of course this horse kicked down a stable wall. Of course James had left it here in a state of dim remembrance. It fit perfectly with the ridiculousness of the rest of his evening’s activities.
“Take it, sir.” The groom was practically begging now, handing over the snorting black horse as one would a lighted fuse.
James reluctantly reached out his hand and closed it over stiff leather reins that felt foreign in his hand. He gave voice to the thought tripping around in his head, though he doubted the question would win him any friends or do him any good.
“What is this?” He gestured toward the horse and earned a flattening of the animal’s ears for his trouble. “Is this some sort of joke?” He half-expected to see William bent over in laughter, having concocted this elaborate ruse merely for entertainment value.
The groom’s eyes widened in confusion. “It’s your horse, sir.”
“This is not my horse.” As if agreeing with him, the horse reached out and nipped at James’s waistcoat, ripping the fabric and taking a bit of skin, to boot. “My horse is chestnut.” He rubbed a hand over his newest injury and eyed the beast with irritation. “And male .”
“Well, it’s the horse you left with me last night.” The groom’s voice wavered.
“It’s not my horse, and therefore not my problem.” James started to hand back the reins, but the groom’s cry of protest halted his progress.
“Never say you aren’t going to pay!” The boy sounded frantic now. “If you dinna pay, I’ll lose my job. That would be a fine meddle, the town solicitor and Lord Kilmartie’s son, to boot, running out on his bill.”
The grim reminder of his father’s inevitable disappointment and what he stood to lose in this made James’s fingers curve inward, itching for release. Respect. He had worked hard to build the town’s trust of him, to prove he was more than a rough-and-tumble second son who needed to be saved by his father. He had turned his life for the better, and done it without the help of his influential family. He did not want to toss those gains aside.
He tamped down the urge to strike out at something with a skill born of long practice and necessity. It was not this groom’s fault he had misplaced his horse, any more than it was the groom’s
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