Page 12

Mal

A chill stole over Malcolm, his skin icing over, every hair lifting. An animal wasnae supposed to be able to scream like that. But the rest of the estate he had snuck onto seemed oblivious to the torture currently being carried out in the small building before Malcolm and his fellow groom, Wright.

“If gossip is true”—Wright whispered from their cover in the thick wood that bordered the stables and its various outbuildings—“the stallion threw the Baron during his morning ride.”

Malcolm’s mouth tightened. So the beast was paying for it now. And there was no doubt in Malcolm’s mind it hadn’t been the poor lad’s fault.

“Did ye gather anything else?” Malcolm had seen a likened spirit in Wright when it came to the welfare of horses early on. Wright had served as his indispensable right-hand man on these expeditions ever since.

“He rides him with a curb bit. With a twisted metal mouthpiece, Campbell.”

“Och.” Malcolm cursed.

No horse should be forced to endure such torment. Those bits weren’t allowed anywhere near the Bentley estate. But many a master believed forcing a horse into submission—using pain and fear—was a way of training. It wasnae training. It was cruelty.

At that moment, the stallion was led out of the small barn, and all the breath fled Malcolm’s lungs.

Head reared back, foam surrounding the horse’s soft pink and grey muzzle, eyes white and bulging and darting in every direction.

It was akin to looking at a scream of agony.

His spun-gold coat was dark with sweat. Malcolm’s eyes fell shut.

Dark with blood. Blood-spurring stains were evident low on the horse’s coat.

Ridden with a harsh bit and spurs. When all one needed to do was glance at the horse to see he needed a soft hand.

The Baron let his whip fall on the horse’s hindquarters, and a squeal fled the stallion as he shifted in place, white mane flying with a toss of his head.

The poor beast had nae idea what his master even wanted of him.

Not that he would be able to discern anything in his frightened state.

A horse cannae work in a state such as that.

Wright shifted closer to Malcolm and spoke hushed by his side.

“There are two others, ones he clearly plans to use for phaeton racing. Bloody hell, Campbell. He’s going to work them to death.

He pushed them so hard they could barely breathe.

It was—” Wright’s voice broke, and Malcolm’s gaze flew to the companion, the man’s face twisted, like he was trying to erase his memory.

“You could hear them choking, Campbell. Their bodies failing them. Could barely walk back to the stables. Have you seen a horse stumble from exhaustion? I thought one would collapse.”

Malcolm’s stare found its way back to the stallion, now in the round pen being pushed in ever faster circles, the whip crashing down on his flanks. The bonnie boy was skeletal. The Baron would send him to an early grave. And the other two as well.

“They’re not going to make it, Malcolm.” Wright’s voice held all the gravity Malcolm held heavy in his chest.

“Aye, they will, Wright. Because we’ll save them.”

“I’ve got wind of a place…”

Malcolm’s attention shot to Wright.

“A contact I have in Sussex said the new Duke of Devonford rehabilitates horses. I can post a letter. Because these horses need more than a new home.”

“Aye, Wright. Send the letter. And then we’ll arrange a raid.”