Page 10 of Taming the Earl (The Earls of the North #3)

P ure bewilderment was his first reaction. Why was Morwenna leading his horse from the paddocks in the rapidly darkening evening?

Had the horse become ill, he wondered? Or was this all part of her unusual approach to horse training?

But his confusion was replaced by a cold feeling of betrayal when her anguished gaze clashed with his. Her lovely face was awash with guilt.

“Where are you taking my horse?” he repeated.

She flinched at the question, but held his gaze squarely. A chill wind had taken hold, blowing strands of silvery blonde hair across her sea-green eyes. She made no move to brush them away, nor to deny her intentions.

“I am taking him to a place of safety.”

He took a step closer, not to indulge the magnetic pull of attraction which shimmered and snapped in the air between them, but to deter her from taking flight. She looked fearful, but beneath her nerves he saw a glowing defiance.

“Is he not safe here, in his own paddock?”

She pressed her pale lips together and shook her head. “Not when you promise to gift him to a cruel man.”

He had opened his mouth to explain before he realised the scale of her impudence. It was a boldness that contrasted jarringly with the strong anxiety radiating from her. Angus stood silently amidst the long grass, letting the evening dew soak into his leather boots, unable to puzzle it out.

“God’s Bones, woman,” he said at last, hands on his hips. “He is my horse to do with what I please.”

A gasp escaped her lips and her whole body trembled like a sapling tree in a storm. “He is a living creature who trusts me. I cannot see him harmed.”

Angus folded his arms across his broad chest, conscious of the weight of his mail shirt pressing across his shoulders. Although he had been triumphant in the jousting ring, the evening had not passed easily. First, there was the incident with his poor mother, openly conversing with someone who was quite clearly not there. Bad enough in itself, but far worse in front of hundreds of witnesses. Then had come Sir Henry’s heavy defeat, closely followed by Maxton’s scarcely veiled anger. The man had made a show of himself.

Competitive by nature, Angus firmly believed one should be magnanimous both in victory and defeat. He had absented himself from the back-slapping throng, wanting only a moment of peace in which to calm his thoughts. But no sooner had he slipped from the arena, than he spied a slender woman in a shabby grey gown fleeing through the paddocks like one of the fairy folk. Her long, golden plait gave Morwenna away, and his feet had followed her here. His eyes, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.

“I am paying you to train my horse, not steal him away.”

She broke her gaze and looked down at the damp ground, but her voice did not falter even as her limbs shook. “I have left all the coin you paid me back in my rooms. Together with my livery.” She placed a quaking hand on the top of her dress. “My desire is not to steal from you, my lord.”

Pity tapped him on the shoulder, but could not yet silence his anger. “You admit though, to the attempted theft of a valuable horse?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “Do you truly imagine that your wages are equal to his worth?”

His harsh words seemed to burn away her fear and the face she raised to him was newly set with purpose. “The horse will have no value at all once Sir Maxton has beaten the spirit out of him.”

Morwenna cared for the horse; that much was apparent. And her passion moved him. No doubt she was right about the potential consequences of Maxton’s cruelty. But Angus still couldn’t fathom it.

“Why should he go to Sir Maxton?” His voice rose in bafflement. “You have sole charge of him. And as you say, he trusts you.” He paused, clenching his jaw. “I also trusted you. Did you lie when you told me his training was in hand?”

“Nay,” she whispered, her gaze dropping again.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sound of a yapping fox. The horse breathed heavily before losing interest in the proceedings. He pulled at the rope until he could lower his head and crop at the grass. Morwenna let the rope run through her fingers, putting up no resistance.

The sun was slipping beyond the western hills, casting long shadows across the paddocks. Angus had removed his armour, but was still warm from his exertions in the jousting ring and the unaccustomed weight of his mail shirt. Morwenna, however, shivered before him in her poor grey gown.

“Have you nothing warmer to put on?” he demanded.

She started in surprise, hunching her shoulders so she appeared to shrink where she stood. “I am warm enough.”

“You are no natural liar.” He pulled off his own cloak and held it out to her, harrumphing in displeasure when she made no move to take it. “I will not see you stand and shiver,” he declared, striding forward and wrapping it around her slender shoulders himself.

His heavy green cloak swamped her thin frame, pooling on the sodden grass and threatening to slip away entirely. At the last moment, Morwenna shot up a hand to grasp the fur-lined collar, her chilled fingers sinking into the soft material. He saw her eyes close in momentary relief.

He straightened his back and rotated his aching shoulders, clamping down on an unanticipated and wholly inappropriate wave of tenderness.

“Now that you are not about to freeze to death, I would like you to answer some questions.”

A gust of wind snatched at his words but Morwenna showed she had heard with a barely perceptible nod. The horse, Fauvel, launched forwards in search of new grass, pulling his slight trainer after him.

Angus allowed himself to feel a flicker of admiration for her pluck. To stride into the night with a half-wild horse, leaving her earnings behind her, surely required equal courage to that of a warrior riding into battle?

Nonetheless, he had caught her in the act of thievery. As judiciary, he had locked men up for less.

“Did you come to Wolvesley intending to steal my horse?”

He was braced for the worst but she answered quickly. “I did not.”

The first pricking of something like relief darted through him. “Did you tell me the truth about how well your training was going?”

She nodded soundlessly.

“Then why…” He paused, grasping for words and finding none. What he wanted to voice was a plaintive grievance, coming from some place deep in his heart.

I thought I could trust you.

Not because he was lord and master, but because of some honest, instinctive understanding he had believed existed between them. Because she felt right in his arms. Because she was different from everyone else. Because of a hundred reasons that had led him astray from his rightful senses.

It was not as an earl, but as a man that he asked. “Why, Morwenna?”

She gave a little sob, slumping forwards so all he could see was the top of her silvery-blonde head and the swamping folds of his cloak. The horse raised his head and nudged at her stomach, but Morwenna didn’t react.

“I could arrest you. Mayhap I should arrest you.” He ground his teeth, torn between frustration and that burgeoning tenderness which refused to yield.

Morwenna finally spoke up. “You could. I know right well that you could.” She put a hand on Fauvel’s nose and lifted her beautiful green eyes up to his. The expression on her face had changed from shamefaced fear to something harder and more resolute.

“You know that I am the King’s judiciary?”

She drew herself up to her full height; still diminutive in her physicality, but larger in presence than he had ever seen her. Overhead, an owl took flight from the nearby tree, causing the horse to startle.

“It is one of the first things I learned about you.” She shifted her stance, twisting the lead rope around her hand. “I have a question of my own, if I am permitted to ask it?”

Taken aback, he answered without pause. “Go on.”

“As the King’s judiciary, how is it that you don’t arrest your own mother?”

Her words fell into the cold night air like a slap across his face. He felt winded, as if she had delivered a physical blow, but his deflection came with practised ease. “How can you ask such a thing?”

“Because I have nothing left to lose.” He heard the break in her voice. “And because I believe the answer may be important.”

He grasped for the gatepost to steady himself. How much did she know?

“Why should I arrest my own mother?”

He didn’t look at her; couldn’t look at her. An awful certainty swirled in his gut that Morwenna had witnessed his mother’s actions during the joust.

This slender, slip of a girl from Escafeld had learned the secret he’d been guarding so carefully.

Morwenna inched closer, her green eyes full of compassion. “Because she has the Sight,” she whispered.

Not an accusation but a simple statement of fact.

His heart plummeted. The horse paused from his grazing and pricked his ears as if conscious of his distress.

“You can’t know that.” Angus raised a trembling hand and pointed it towards her. “Not unless you also have the Sight.” He was grasping at straws, still clinging onto hope that she may be thrown off the scent.

Morwenna shook her head steadily. “I do not have the Sight.” She hesitated for a moment, weighing her words. “Not truly. But my grandmother did.”

It was a confession not lightly made, for the girl was no fool. She would know that owning a grandmother with such gifts meant the finger of suspicion would also be pointed at her. Besides, she hadn’t fully denied his own desperate accusation.

For a moment, time slowed down. They stood still and silent as the scent of woodsmoke drifted towards them from the castle.

Morwenna held his gaze, unflinching now. “I know the signs.”

In amongst the sea of emotions crashing over his head, he recognised a faint glimmer of relief. Here was someone who understood.

He exhaled shakily, no longer intent on denial. The evening shadows had lengthened and Morwenna’s eyes were the brightest points in the darkening paddocks.

“Why do you not arrest her?” she asked again, her voice level but insistent.

A nighttime insect zipped between them, but neither Angus nor Morwenna reacted. The horse lifted his head higher, following the small creature’s progress towards the woods.

Angus yielded to the unlikely turn of the conversation, part of him grateful to speak truthfully about a matter that had grieved his heart for so long.

“She has done no harm.”

Morwenna let out a short unladylike snort and folded her arms. “That is not always held to be important.”

His eyebrows shot upwards. “Was your grandmother arrested?” he asked, following her lead for directness.

She shook her head. “Nay, she died peacefully, in her own bed.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He found it was true.

Morwenna pulled his cloak closer around her. “So you do not believe that witchcraft in itself is a crime?”

Angus scratched at his beard. His beliefs had never been queried before. “I take a strong line on sorcery because I do not like to see peaceful people whipped into a frenzy of suspicion. But if someone’s actions are quietly done and bring no harm, I see no need to intervene.”

Morwenna inclined her head. She had grown in stature, from a guilty peasant to a lady of worth. “That is not a proper answer.”

“It is all the answer I am going to give you.” As his shock receded, Angus felt the first flicker of renewed frustration. “We are talking in circles. None of this is relevant to the fact that I caught you trying to steal my horse.”

Her eyes met his and their gazes locked.

Morwenna was the first to look away. “You deserve an explanation.”

“I am glad we agree on something.” He rotated his shoulders, feeling again the weight of his mail shirt.

She ran a hand down the horse’s neck, as if taking comfort from his warmth. “I never intended to steal Fauvel. Not before I saw how cruel Sir Maxton was.”

Angus opened his mouth to point out that he would have no cause to give the horse to Sir Maxton if Morwenna trained him as agreed. But he closed it again. There had been riddles enough this night. She must tell the tale at her own pace.

“I had to leave Wolvesley,” she continued, speaking so quietly he had to lean forwards to hear her. “Because I feared that you were going to arrest me.”

“Arrest you?” He started backwards in surprise. “Why would I do that?”

She swallowed, leaning upon Fauvel’s sturdy shoulders for support. “Because, back in Escafeld, some people believe me to be,” she paused, licking her dry lips, “a witch.”

For the second time that night, Angus was left speechless. A gust of wind stirred the heavy folds of his cloak and lifted Morwenna’s silvery blonde hair around her pale face.

“Why?”

She looked down, but not before he had seen a tear gleaming in the corner of her eye. “I don’t know. Nay, that’s not true. It’s because I made a stupid mistake. I healed a donkey and then I told Gerrault that I could talk to horses.”

“Gerrault?” Angus felt as if the conversation was again spinning out of his control. “You mean the stableboy who works here?”

“Aye.” She put a hand to her stomach as if she might be sick. “But all this happened just days after our village succumbed to the flux, and louts from Berneshay raided our homes. All that bad luck had to be pinned on someone.”

“And they pinned it onto you,” Angus finished for her, remembering the old woman who had been unfairly blamed for the infant’s death in his youth. “Had you no one to speak for you?”

She shook her head, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “None who dared.”

This was a different woman to the horse trainer who had challenged his views on the fairer sex and warned him against seeing Fauvel as a circus animal. She was a creature of contradictions, both weak and strong. Though he felt instinctively that the weakness inside her was a product of circumstance.

Circumstance which he would like to change.

“Morwenna,” he whispered, unable to quell the instinctive urge to offer her comfort. He stepped closer and opened his arms, pulling her towards him. As she stepped into the circle of his strong embrace, the burden of anxiety sitting on his shoulders seemed to lighten. She stood with her head pressed against his chest, his strong hands caressing her shoulders beneath the heavy fabric of his cloak. “You need not have worried,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

She lifted a tear-stained face. “Nay?”

“You can trust me,” he all but growled, his fierce eyes boring down into hers. Angus didn’t know who he was most angry with; the ignorant mob who had instilled such fear into this pure-hearted woman, or himself for not detecting her fears earlier. Either way, he was determined to make sure she never felt that way again.

He could never explain what happened next. One moment, her lovely face hovered beneath his; the next, his mouth was pressed against hers. Their kiss was hot and urgent, as if all the emotion of their exchange had transmitted itself to their lips. His hands roamed over her back, pulling her closer to him so their bodies could meld themselves together. Morwenna rose onto her tiptoes, her cold fingers reaching up to his shoulders. The urge to span her waist and lift her against him was undeniable.

Almost.

Flustered with passion, Angus came to his senses. His hands cupped her face as he pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his fingertips tracing the sharp line of her cheekbones. “Forgive me.”

She shook her head, her breath coming in short bursts. “We should not have.”

But God’s Bones, it had felt good and right. For the first time in many months, Angus had been like a free man while he held her and kissed her. As if she alone could quiet the turmoil in his mind.

Still and all, she was a woman here in his employ. Under his protection.

And he was betrothed to another.

“We should not,” he agreed. His voice was heavy with regret. “Morwenna, I do not understand what is happening between us. ’Tis as if you put me under a spell.” She blanched and he cursed his idiocy. “’Tis as if something exists between us that I cannot deny.” Her warm breath hit his cheeks and he was taken anew with the urge to press her to him; to lower his lips to hers and taste her sweetness. His voice shook with the effort of quelling all such instincts. “I am not in the habit of seducing my serving maids.”

She showed a glimmer of a smile. “I am no serving maid.”

“Nay, but you are in my employ. Under my protection.” His hands were back on her shoulders, caressing them gently. He should let them go, but a force greater than his own reason kept them in place.

She whispered something that he did not catch.

“Say again.” He ducked his head down to be closer to the words as they escaped her tremulous lips.

“I said that in this moment, I feel protected.”

“But it cannot be, you and I.” He growled, more to himself than her. “I cannot allow it.”

“Just moments ago, I felt afraid. As if peril lurked all around me. But now, here in your arms, I feel safe.” She moved imperceptibly closer, her soft curves pressing against his hard chest, through her poor shabby gown.

“But there is more than just this moment, Morwenna,” he told her gently. “There is the morrow, and the next. I would not take your good name.”

She put up a small hand and laid it against his stubbled cheek. He could do nothing but clasp it firmer with his own fingers, leaning into her quiet steadfastness.

“You will vouch for me?” She swallowed hard. “You protect your mother, because you see that she does no harm. Will you extend that to one such as me? Even though I am not of your blood and have neither name or status? I am just a girl with a knack for talking to horses.” Her voice shook with daring. “Standing here, in your arms, I feel that you will.”

“I will.” The words were squeezed from his heart. “Morwenna, I give you my word, you are safe in Wolvesley.”

It was so little to promise when he would readily offer her so much more.

She fixed him with her beautiful sea-green eyes. “Then I will kiss you again.”