Page 4

Mal

Present Day — Twelve Years Later

Thornfield Hall,

Jennings Family Country Seat

Kent, England

February 1796

MALCOLM SET DOWN the bridle he was polishing on the table before him and rolled his shoulders. He tilted his head to the side until that delightful pull stretched across the tight muscles of his neck.

“We’re off to the tavern. You joining us, Campbell?”

Malcolm glanced up, already shaking his head. He caught Wright’s gaze from where the groom leaned against the tack room doorway, tapping his tricorn hat against his thigh. “Nae, next time.”

“You said that the last time,” Wright pointed out. Accurately. Damn the cove.

Malcolm lifted the bridle in one hand and gestured to the saddle slung over a rack. “Still more to prepare for the morrow.”

“That can wait until mornin’. The wenches can’t.” He threw Malcolm a wink.

Malcolm’s lips twitched. The lad was still a young buck, eager to find a willing lass agreeable to a quick tumble. But he was a good lad. Loyal. Clever. Had a genuine heart.

“Best I dinnae go, or else none of the wenches will take ye to bed, aye?”

Wright snorted and started backing away. “I’d call you an arrogant bastard for that statement. But you’ve proved that to be true one too many times.” His face split into a teasing grin. “No idea what they see in your ugly old arse.”

A chuckle rumbled from deep in Malcolm’s chest. “They’re not looking at my arse, lad.”

Wright threw back his head and laughed. “That’s God’s own truth.” And then, with a salute, the man disappeared, his footfalls slowly fading away.

Wenching didn’t hold the same appeal it once had for Malcolm.

When he’d first come to work at Thornfield Hall as a lad of eighteen, he’d frequented the village in search for a bonnie lass.

Then he’d had a brief stint where he’d been a wee bit wild, falling into bed with a wench or drowning himself in the bottom of a tankard more oft than he cared to admit.

But he’d been desperate back then. Desperate to smother feelings he didn’t know what to do with, ones he knew he shouldn’t be having.

About a woman who wasn’t for the likes of him.

He dipped his cloth in the beeswax and began working it over the reins.

But it’d been near twelve years living with those feelings.

He had a handle on them now. He scoffed quietly, the lie ricocheting around the tack room.

The work he was doing right now was a glaring example of the falsehood he fed himself.

“Wright told me you declined. Again.”

Malcolm drew in a deep breath and let his frame sag as he released it. Porter.

“The polishing willnae do itself,” he said without looking up.

Footsteps echoed and then paused next to Malcolm.

His boss—the aging stable master. The man Malcolm would take over for in a year’s time.

The one who had taught Malcolm everything he knew—about working the stables, about being a man.

He’d been, in many ways, the only father Malcolm had ever known.

And he’d been the one who had dunked Malcolm’s drunk arse in a bucket of frigid water after an especially raucous night out in the village.

Porter had hauled Malcolm back to his own home that night, thrust a hunk of bread in his hand, and let him sleep off the drink.

Come morning, he’d delivered a tongue-lashing so sharp, Malcolm still had the scars—figuratively speaking.

Porter had laid it bare: the path Malcolm was treading would cost him everything.

A position as groom, and eventually head groom, at the Bentley stables was a prestigious, highly sought after position.

A rare opportunity, and Malcolm was in line for securing it.

It was not something to be squandered pining over a woman Malcolm could never have.

The lecture had been effective. Malcolm’s reckless carousing was a relic of a younger, more foolish man.

Porter dropped down next to him, the bench creaking under their combined weight.

“You’re five-and-thirty, Malcolm.”

Och. Porter Malcolm-ing him? Another lecture was coming. And like any cheeky son would do, Malcolm responded, “You’re eight-and-fifty, Porter.”

The man’s soft snort echoed around them.

“Don’t be smart with me, boy.” But affection softened his words.

“You need to find yourself a nice woman.

Settle down. Have children, bairns, what have you.

Wright might jest about the ladies always preferring you, but we all know ‘tis the truth. You could have your pick of any of them.”

Porter fell quiet and drummed his fingers over the worktable.

At Malcolm’s prolonged silence, he let out a huff.

“You’re not getting any younger, Malcolm.

You’re making a respectable living, on your way to a stable master position in due time.

Which comes with a cozy cottage, I might add.

You should be moving on to having a family. ”

Not doing what Malcolm was currently doing. Delaying. Postponing. They both heard it, even though Porter didn’t say it.

“I’ll think on it, Port.”

The man let out a strangled groan. “You could be living, Mallie.”

And as it always did, Malcolm’s heart pinged at the father-son nicknames they’d developed for each other over the nearly twenty years they’d known one another. It was a sign, a reminder, of the seriousness with which Porter meant his words.

“You could be building a life of your own. I see how you are with those children. You’re meant to be a father. Stop looking through the window. Go live the life you want.”

But Malcolm couldnae. Wouldnae ever be able to. Not truly. And it wouldnae be fair to the lass he married. Not until he was ready to let go.

“You need purpose in your life,” Porter said, jerking his chin toward the rag in Malcolm’s hand. “More than just work.”

“I have purpose.” He glanced up and met Porter’s gaze. “You know I do.”

“And you know how I feel about that .” And the way the man’s mouth tightened, his dark eyes turning steely, only confirmed it.

“Those horses can’t save themselves, Porter.”

“And neither can you when you’re swinging by the end of a rope.”

No, but at least he’d have saved some. Thieving horses might be illegal, but what those masters were doing to their cattle? That was what truly should be a crime.

They sat there in silence, just Porter’s rhythmic finger drumming and the light scuffing sound of cloth over leather. He massaged the beeswax into the stiff leather of the reins until the material softened beneath his touch. They needed to be butter soft for her hands.

“‘Tis been unseasonably warm this week,” Porter finally murmured, his knowing gaze tracking over the tack Malcolm was preparing. “The Countess going for a ride in the morning?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“You know, any groom could do this. One of the younger lads. So you could head to the village with the others.”

They could. But Malcolm wouldn’t let them. He had to be sure everything was in perfect condition. Shined, smoothed, safe.

He wanted everything to be perfect.

For her.