Trial by Desire. Courtney Milan
turned away, his hands clenching. His stomach felt queasy. He hadn’t saved Champion only to have him put down out of some sense of wrong-headed mercy. An image flashed through his head: a pistol, tooled in silver, the sun glinting off it from every direction.
No.
He’d not wish that end on anyone, not even a scraggly, weak-chested horse.
“How far gone is he?”
Mr. Plum shrugged. “No way to know, unless someone gives it a try. Have to make the decision out of rational thought, sir. Me? I doubt the animal’s worth the effort.”
He paused again, another one of those too-long halts. Ned began to drum his fingers against the leg of his trousers, an impatient ditty born out of an excess of energy. Another bad sign.
“Very little use in him, sir.”
“Use.” Ned pressed his palms together. “No need for an animal to be useful, is there?”
Plum met his gaze. “Use is what animals are for, Mr. Carhart. Useless animals have no place.”
Ned knew what it was like to feel useless. He had been the expendable grandchild, the non-heir. He’d been the fool, the idiot, the one who could be counted on to muck up anything worth doing. His grandfather had expected nothing of Ned, and Ned, young idiot that he had been, had delivered spectacularly.
But he had learned. He had changed himself, and it had not been too late.
“Where have you put him?”
“Old sheep corral. It’s empty, this time of autumn, what with the sheep all brought to the lower fields.”
“He’ll come around.”
“Hmm.” It was a versatile syllable, that. Plum might have delivered an essay on his disbelief with that single sound. “In all those heart-felt do-gooding stories, some child rescues an animal and it then proceeds to take the cup at the Ascot. And the knock-kneed beast does so, just because it’s fed a decent measure of corn and lavished with kind words. But be realistic, Mr. Carhart. This is a barrel-chested animal that’s down on its strength. Even if you do somehow calm the thing enough to toss a harness on it, and convince it to pull in tandem with another animal, it’ll be skittish all its life.”
“Skittish,” Ned said, “I can live with.”
Plum stared at him a moment, before giving his head a dismissive shake. “Hope so, then. There’s still hay out in that field,” he finally said. “We’d been planning to bring it in soon, before the rains come. I’ll pull a pair of men from the home farm this afternoon and see to it.”
“Don’t bother,” Ned volunteered. “I’ll do it.”
This was met with a longer pause.
“You’ll do it,” Plum finally repeated, looking off at a speck of dirt on the ground. He said the words as if Ned had just announced that not only did he plan to save a useless horse, he had five heads.
And no wonder. Gentlemen offered to pitch hay approximately as often as they sported five heads. And a marquess’s heir was no common day-laborer to dirty himself with a pitchfork. But then, Ned wasn’t precisely a common marquess’s heir, either. He needed to do something to bleed off the excess energy he felt. It was beginning to come out in fidgets; if he didn’t do something about it, it would never dissipate.
Instead, it would go careening off at the first opportune moment. Or, more like, the first inopportune one, as he’d learned by experience.
“This is a joke?” Plum asked, bewildered. “You always were one for jokes, when you were a child.”
Oh, the inopportune moments of his childhood.
“I’m perfectly serious. I’ll manage it.”
Over the past few years he’d learned he could contain the restiveness, his simple inability to just stop. All he had to do was channel that excess energy into physical tasks. The more mundane, the more repetitive, the greater the strain on his muscles, the better it worked.
Plum simply shook his head, no doubt washing his hands of his master’s madness. “Cart’s already in the field,” he said.
Ned found the cart in question half an hour later. Champion watched him, his eyes lowered, yards away at the fence. Pitching hay into a cart was excellent work—back-straining and tiring. Ned could feel his muscles protest with every lift of the fork. His back ached in pain—the good sort of pain. He worked through it.
One hayrick. Two. The sun moved a good slice in the sky, until Ned was past the point of tiredness, past the point of shoulder pain, until his muscles burned and he wanted nothing more than to set down the pitchfork and leave the work to the men Plum would undoubtedly send.
But he didn’t. Because not only did this bleed off all that extra intensity, this was good practice. While there were days like today, when he felt vigorous and invincible, there also came times when he wanted nothing more than to simply come to a halt.
Those were the poles of his life: too much energy, almost uncontainable, followed by too little. When the next pole came riding ’round, he’d be ready for it again.
For now, though, he pitched hay.
CHAPTER FIVE
KATE FOUND her husband’s coat carelessly tossed across a fence rail. She’d trudged down a muddy footpath in search of him. The trail meandered behind a short scrubby line of trees, past an old, weathered line of fence. In the distance, ducks gabbled peacefully.
By the time she found him, her dress, once pristine, had picked up a band of mud at the hem. The starch of her collar had become limp against her skin. Not quite the way she’d wanted to confront her husband.
He, on the other hand … Ned had stripped to his shirtsleeves. His dark waistcoat hung open. He was wielding a pitchfork with the deft efficiency of a farmhand. Beneath the unbuttoned waistcoat, she could see the loose folds of his shirt swinging in time to his work. He had no cravat. A moment’s search found that white length of cloth draped near his coat.
The other gentlemen of her acquaintance would have looked foolish, without the armor of their clothing to hide thin shoulders, or the bulge of their bellies. But Ned had an air about him, not of disorder, but of casual confidence. Perhaps it was the self-assured rhythm he’d adopted. That uncivilized swagger suited him.
He had never seemed dangerous before he left, and she felt no fear now. And yet there was something different about him. Too casual to seem arrogant; too controlled to come off as happy-go-lucky. He’d changed.
He had a touch of the carefree ruffian about him even now, when he thought nobody was watching but a solitary, skittish horse. Champion huddled on the opposite end of the pasture, ears plastered against his head.
Ned was friends with Harcroft. He’d been the one to introduce the man to Lord Blakely and his wife. Anything he discovered—and as her husband, Ned had the legal right to discover a great deal from Kate—would ruin all of her carefully laid plans.
He was already ruining her plans. He had unquestioningly taken the side of Lord and Lady Blakely. He had ushered Harcroft in with hospitality. And he would want to know—quite reasonably, he would think—how his wife spent her time. His presence would impede Kate’s ability to communicate with Louisa. How could she see to her friend’s safety if she couldn’t even visit her?
No. Even if he didn’t know it himself, her husband was a danger to her. The slightest word to him, carelessly spoken, could be repeated. In the blink of an eye, Louisa could be exposed.
He was dangerous in a more subtle way, too.
Five minutes of conversation, and she could still feel the mark his finger had left on her chin. Her hand bore an invisible imprint, where he’d laid his atop it. Five minutes, and he’d