Page 9 of Gambling with the Earl
He turned in the saddle to look back at Rossfarne Castle. Two fortified towers reared towards the sky while roiling waves crashed continuously against the outer wall. His eye travelled over the crenelated stonework looking out for tell-tale cracks, but it all appeared sound. The castle lacked luxury, but it was weatherproof. Only the gatehouse, standing to the east of the bailey, needed attention. The marshal had told him of a ferocious winter storm that sent a tree crashing straight through the roof. If Guy still had his bag of silver, he could have set about ordering repairs right away.
The horse trotted forwards, ears pricked, easily eating up the ground. Guy found his face breaking into an unexpected smile. He’d feared any pace faster than a walk would unsteady him, but so long as he ignored the jolting pain in his shoulder, no one would ever guess that one side of his body had been slashed right through to the bone. The jagged scar ran from his navel, over his ribs to his shoulder blade. Guy inspected it every morning when he dressed. Not through vanity, but to ensure it continued to heal. He was counting the days until he could return to the life he loved in service of the king.
Maybe that day was closer than he dared to dream? Guy scanned the causeway as it stretched out before him. A straight path featuring just one bend. For as far as he could see, it was empty. Of course it would be. No one ever came here. The villagers lived in fear of the notorious Earl of Rossfarne. Guy had long ago disowned his family and in so doing, shrugged off the ghosts of his scarred upbringing. He believed in action, not sentiment—and he certainly had little sentiment for the terrifying old man who he had visited only once as a child. But while he was here, he intended to exploit his uncle’s dark reputation. It would ensure his days passed without the scourge of uninvited visitors, but more importantly, it would keep thieves and opportunists away.
How he hated his current state of weakness.
With no one ahead of him and the ground level, it was the perfect time to urge his horse into a canter. To see how far he was from full fitness.
The three-beat staccato rhythm brought a new surge of discomfort. A nagging ache encircled his torso and hot sparks of pain shot down his ruined arm. Guy gritted his teeth, but he was not a man to admit defeat. Wincing with effort, he transferred the reins into his feeble left hand, all the while keeping contact with the horse through his muscular calves. Reins secure, albeit only just, he lunged out with his sword hand, mimicking a sword thrust in battle. Sweat sprang out on his brow, but he had done it. Just.
Light-headed with pain and exultation, Guy sat up straighter in the saddle and drew back steadily on the reins. That was when he saw her. A young woman, tall and curvaceous, with a purposeful stride and a face that filled with fear when she saw the horse careering towards her.
“Whoa,” Guy instructed, his voice calm and deep. But he had not yet taken the reins back into his good hand and the horse, panicked at the insufficient contact with his master, veered sharply to the left.
The sudden movement knocked Guy off balance. For a long moment he hung precariously to one side, but his years in the saddle had given him an instinctive feel for a horse’s movements. He righted himself and grasped the slack reins, pulling the horse up short. At the same time, the girl darted forwards, pale hands outstretched for the bridle.
What madness was this?
Startled again, the horse reared, front legs thrashing at the air. Guy clung on, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.
“Steady there, steady,” urged the girl. Her straw hat fluttered to the ground releasing a surprising wave of hair the colour of autumn leaves.
The horse snorted and landed heavily. The jolt sent pulses of pure anguish shooting up Guy’s wrist. His shoulder was on fire and his back was damp with sweat.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” he demanded. His voice was low and calm because of the horse, but he imbued the words with all the authority of his newly acquired rank.
He expected her to flee, but instead she met the full force of his gaze. Her eyes were like a still sea on a summer’s day. Her chin tilted upwards in a small gesture of self-assertion he recognised from his own younger days. A small part of him noted that this was a woman of courage.
“I am steadying your horse,” she replied. Her voice was sweet and clear, not coarse like he’d expected. She may be clothed in a poor woollen dress, but she spoke like a noblewoman.
“My horse is no concern of yours.” The force behind his words lessened as he gazed down at her honest face and captivating green eyes. She was tall, unusually so. He estimated she stood just a half head shorter than he.
Undaunted, she reached out once again and stroked the snorting, foam-flecked creature. Instead of veering away, the horse exhaled with something like relief and dropped his head. Guy sensed the moment that all the fright and flight went out of the animal and simultaneously experienced something similar himself. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, heard the calling of the gulls overhead and the gentle breaking of the waves behind them.
What was happening to him? Witchcraft?
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded, straightening up.
Immediately she sank into a surprisingly graceful obeisance. “I believe I do, my lord.”
She knew who he was, yet she did not run in fear. Was this bravery or foolishness? Despite his reluctance for human contact, he was intrigued.
“What business do you have on my land?” His voice was softer now.
She swallowed, betraying her fears. “I am come looking for work.” Her eyes darted to the ground and rested on her fallen hat.
He was surprised. His household staff was small. The marshal had explained that few locals were willing to come there. He’d suggested it was due to the isolation of the island, the fierce storms, the separation from the mainland. Guy knew that none of these things would dissuade the villagers from steady employment and regular coin. The truth was, the people of Rossfarne would rather face starvation than seek work from his uncle.
He looked at her closely. She had no possessions and only a shabby woollen dress to protect her from the elements. A dress which clung tightly to the womanly curves of her body.
“Have you travelled far?” He averted his eyes from her figure with effort, fixing them instead on her heart-shaped face.
“Oh yes,” she nodded eagerly. Mayhap too eagerly. “For many nights now.”
It was a lie. This woman had bathed recently. He could smell the lemony freshness of her hair. And despite its poor quality, her dress was neat. He did not believe she had been sleeping rough in the fields.
Why the deception? Was she come to do him harm? His mouth twitched upwards. He’d faced mighty warriors on the battlefield and would enjoy any challenge issued from a green-eyed maid with a steely backbone.
