Page 2 of A Gathering Storm

Nick ignored that flicker of bad temper, his expression neutral. Godfrey was a domineering old martinet who controlled his household with an iron hand and sought to control everyone else who came into his vicinity too, but he couldn’t control Nick. He might be Nick’s employer, his landlord too, but Nick made sure Godfrey knew that if Nick had to walk away from his position and his cottage, he’d do it without a second thought. And he never let Godfrey see him getting riled. He reacted to all the old man’s bluster with the same calm equanimity.

No matter what it cost him to do it.

“Miss Isabella has an excellent seat,” he agreed now, his tone mild, “but you know she’s careless with her hands at times. She damaged Acteon’s mouth last month, pulling too hard at the reins. She didn’t mean to hurt him, but she was showing off, being reckless.”

He didn’t waste his breath agreeing that she was indeed a superior rider to her brother, Harry. Godfrey was the only person permitted to criticise his heir.

Beside him, Godfrey gave a harrumph in poor-spirited acknowledgement of Nick’s point, and they fell into silence, both turning back to the paddock.

The mare was cantering playfully round the perimeter now, and Nick found himself imagining what it would be like to ride her himself, to let her have her head on the long beach at Constantine Bay with no saddle between them. He’d hug her flanks with his thighs and bend low over her neck as she galloped, and something of her would be in him and something of him in her as they raced.

Gaze fixed on the mare, Nick made a soft, clicking noise in his throat. Her pointed ears flickered, and she slowed her pace, turning her head in his direction. She paused, as though considering, then changed direction, swinging round to walk towards him. He reached into his pocket as she approached, drawing out a slightly shrivelled russet apple. He offered it to her from his flat hand, and she eyed it—then him—carefully. At last, though, she lowered her great head to accept the tribute, taking it almost delicately, her moist breath huffing against his palm. He patted her powerful neck as she munched the fruit.

Godfrey tutted. “Bloody typical. I couldn’t get her to come near me when I tried earlier.” His tone was light, but it carried an irritable edge. He and Nick shared a passion for horses, but Nick had an affinity with them—with all animals—that far outstripped Godfrey’s mere knowledge, and at times, Godfrey seemed almost resentful of Nick for it.

The mare butted Nick’s shoulder with her beautiful head and whickered softly, demanding his attention, blatantly ignoring Godfrey.

“You’re a flirt,” Nick told her. “A bad ’un, through and through.” Her neck was warm and powerful under his hand. She was quick with the magic of life, and again, he found himself wishing fiercely he could ride her.

The mare tossed her head, as though insulted by his words, but even as she did so, she stepped closer, bumping him affectionately with her nose.

Godfrey made a disgusted noise. “Christ, sheisflirting with you. Bloody animal wouldn’t evenlookat me!”

“Ayes, you like me fine, don’t you?” Nick agreed, addressing the mare. “Maybe you’ve decided I’m husband material.” He chuckled softly.

She gave him a look at that but stood her ground, docile as he patted her. When Godfrey stretched a hand out to her, though, she sidestepped, then turned and walked away. Slowly, as though to insult him.

Godfrey huffed a sigh. Nick took pity on him. “You did well to get her for the price you did,” he said. “She should’ve gone for twice that.”

That was all it took to cheer Godfrey up. Soon he was telling Nick the story of the auction for the second time that day, reliving the glory of his success.

Godfrey Roscarrock was a man who liked to speak far more than he liked to listen. He dominated every conversation he was part of, and though he was a fine storyteller, Nick had heard all his stories a dozen times or more. He was used to only half listening as the old man talked, and that was what he did now, grunting occasionally when Godfrey paused for breath. In truth, though, his attention was on the mare as she slowly circled the paddock.

After a while, another head butted him, below his knee this time. Nick looked down to meet the gaze of the white bulldog sitting at his feet, its unlovely face made uglier by a missing eye.

He smiled at the dog. “Did you think I’d forgotten you?” he asked Snow, bending down to ruffle the silky flaps of the dog’s ears.

“That ugly mutt’s still trailing after you, I see,” Godfrey said disapprovingly. He kept a few hunting dogs, but was not a man to make a pet of an animal and couldn’t understand why Nick would.

“He’s a good dog,” Nick said mildly. Godfrey just grunted, and they fell silent again.

Nick began tracking the mare’s gait, fixing his gaze on her as she circled the paddock over and over. She had a slightly unusual high-stepping gait that made him wonder what she’d been used for before Godfrey had bought her.

He was about to ask just that, when Godfrey prodded his arm and said, “Well? Have you?”

Realising he’d missed something, Nick said, “Have I what?”

Godfrey’s mouth tightened. “I knew you weren’t listening.”

Nick didn’t bother to defend himself. As Ma used to say,“No point saying sorry when you’re not, is there?”

“I said, have you seen Sir Edward?” Godfrey said.

“Who?”

Godfrey gave an impatient huff. “Sir Edward Fitzwilliam—the fellow who’s built that new house up by the Hole. He’s calling it Varhak Manor. Apparently he’s some kind ofscientist.” Godfrey saidscientistas though it was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard, adding dismissively, “He must be a madman to build something up there—the bloody place’s liable to fall into the sea!”

Nick used to play at the Hole when he was a lad. The village children were all fascinated by it—an eighty-foot-high cavern that stretched from cliff top to seabed. When Nick was little, and Ma used to tell him stories about thepiskeyfolk, she said the cliff had been gored by a giant bull. He’d believed her for years. That was just what it looked like after all, as though a huge horn had been driven into the cliff and torn back out again.