How to Train Your Highlander Page 3

  They were all beautiful, and they were beautifully housed, every horse granted his own stall with oats and hay and fresh water piped in. Every stall was as large as a crofter’s house back home. She blinked to see it and knew that she would speak with her father about improving the Clan’s housing, as soon as Ian’s next ship came in.

  Then Mary Elizabeth forgot all else, for she found another soul mate standing alone, looking fraught, in the body of a great stallion.

  “There now, ye wee beastie. And what might be your name?”

  She crooned to him as she had seen her da croon to newborn foals. The black stallion heard her voice and shifted on his feet. The groom who had been trying to open his stall door backed away to make room for her, his eyes on Atlas.

  “Don’t get close to him,” Atlas said. “He’s mad.”

  “Is he now?”

  Mary Elizabeth dismissed that nonsense for the foolishness it was.

  “I’ve ridden him twice, but he is too fierce. I hope he’ll breed well, for he’s not good for anything but his bloodlines.”

  Mary Elizabeth turned on him then. He could not speak ill of a horse in its presence. Not when she was there to stop him.

  “Bite your tongue. That horse there is a king and a champion and a discerning beast to boot. He’ll not let the likes of you ride him, but he loves me.”

  “He loves no one. Please, step away from there.”

  His hand was on her arm then, and she raised one eyebrow, letting her eyes linger on the place where his calluses warmed her through her ruined dress. Atlas was smart enough to drop his hand, quick like, and she turned her gaze back to the horse before her.

  “There now,” she crooned, offering the heel of her palm. “Here’s a great beastie who needs a bit of love.”

  The huge horse shifted toward her, and instead of taking a nip at her as she expected him to, he sniffed her hand, then snuffled along it, searching for a treat.

  She kept her voice low as she spoke to Atlas. “Hand me a carrot, quick.”

  Atlas ignored her, but his companion groom offered her a carrot from a great sack hanging close by.

  “And no wonder this one’s in a foul humor,” she said. “Good carrots so close and not one in his mouth.”

  She offered the carrot, and the stallion ate it whole. He slobbered on her hand, and when she reached up to pet his forelock, where a blaze of white shone bright, he let her.

  “And what is your name, sweet boy?” she asked him.

  Atlas said, “That is Sampson.”

  “And a fine, braw name it is,” she said. “And what’s yours?”

  The man beside her flinched, and the other stable boy took a deep breath as if to speak. He stayed silent though, and Atlas answered her. “My name is Harry.”

  She felt a strange weight in the moment, as if her new friend did not often give his name. Perhaps the mad English simply called him boy or some other ridiculous title.

  Mary did not want to embarrass him further, so she kept her hands and eyes on the horse. “Sampson, this is Harry. Be sweet to him, and he’ll be sweet to you. I’ll come back in the morning and ride you. Until then, eat your oats, and don’t bite these boys here, or there’ll be no more carrots for you.”

  The stallion turned one great brown eye on her, and she petted his cheek. He moved toward her quickly, and Harry jumped but did not interfere. The horse did not bite, though, but pressed his head into her palm, that she might stroke him again.

  “This one just wants love,” she said, instructing the groom and Harry together. “He smells your fear, and he knows he’s alone. That’s why he bites at you. Love him, and he will love you.”

  She could tell that neither Harry nor the groom believed her, and she sighed, pressing her palm once more to the warm horse before she let him go.

  “I’ll leave you to your work then,” she told them both, not looking at the blue of Harry’s eyes. She strode out and neither man spoke to her. But Sampson whinnied behind her, and she knew that she had made a friend.

  She listened hopefully with half an ear for the sound of footfalls behind her from Harry’s booted heels, but they did not come. She sighed and told herself not to be a fool as she followed the sound of the sea.

  Four

  Harry watched the barbarian girl go. He realized, as the sway of her hips disappeared around the door of the stables, that though he had given her his, he did not yet know her name.

  Sampson still stood beside him. The great beast had not gone after the groom close by, hoping to take a bit of flesh in his teeth. Many of the grooms had been nipped in the last two weeks, so that almost no one would come near the stallion. They drew straws now to see who would feed and water him. No one could ride him, so they simply turned him out into a paddock by himself daily and watched as he kicked at the fence.

  Harry had come the first week and watched him kick. He had tried to saddle Sampson himself and had ended up in the dust. But now, in the wake of the Scottish girl with golden hair, the beast and he stood, two males united by fascination—and perhaps a hint of infatuation.

  No better time than now to build on that fragile bridge.

  Harry offered the horse another carrot. The stallion reared his head back at first, the better to look suspiciously down his nose at his owner, as if affronted by Harry’s familiarity. But when Harry did not try to pet or cajole him, Sampson took the carrot between delicate lips and crunched it into oblivion after only three bites.

  It took three more carrots before Sampson would allow Harry to open his stall door without charging him, another two before he could slip the bit and bridle over his head. The saddle came next, and Harry was sure that the great beast would force him against the polished wooden stall in an effort to throttle him against the wall, but Sampson did not. He even let Harry tighten his girth and adjust the stirrups without protest.

  This time, Harry gave him an apple, which was met with much favor and blissful eye rolling.

  Sampson allowed himself to be led by the bridle out into the sunshine of the afternoon. The sound of the sea was close by, and Sampson’s ears pricked at it as his nostrils flared, taking in the smell of the ocean and the fresh air together.

  Harry did not hesitate, but raised himself into the saddle. He got the beast fair under him before Sampson kicked out, trying too late to kill him.

  “Steady on,” Harry said, keeping his voice low and his tone calm, even as Sampson tried to dislodge him.

  “We’re in this together. We might as well make the best of it.”

  For all the world as if he spoke English fluently, Sampson stopped trying to kill him and cocked an ear back at his rider. Harry nudged him forward gently with one booted heel, and Sampson moved into a walk, strolling out of the stable yard as if he had not just been cutting up and bucking.

  The grooms behind him gave a cheer, and Harry held up one hand to silence them. But Sampson did not take offense and bolt. Indeed, he seemed to think that his minions cheered for him, for he preened and strutted before Harry asked him to go into a canter.

  Harry laughed under his breath, and turned the horse toward the rocky shore. He let Sampson have his head, and discovered at last why he had paid so much for the beast. Aside from his bloodlines, Sampson was simply the best horse Harry had ever ridden. Since they had decided to be partners, at least for one ride, the horse seemed willing to overlook the fact that Harry was a human, just as Harry was willing to forget that Sampson often tried to maim him. Both gentlemen put such rivalries behind them and simply ran, the wind in their faces.

  * * *

  By the time Harry brought the horse back, the grooms had Sampson’s stall mucked out and fresh oats and hay brought in. Sampson still would let no one else near him, but he suffered to be brushed down by Harry, who even crooned to him a bit as he curried his hide.

  The horse sighed
in ecstasy, his back leg going slack. Harry chuckled and patted his flank. “You’re a good one, for all your biting,” he said at last. They were the first words he had spoken since they had returned from their race across the beach, and for once, Sampson seemed willing to listen.

  The horse caught his eye and nipped at his sleeve. Harry forced himself to be still, knowing that the bite would hurt but not wanting to flinch and show weakness. But instead of sharp teeth, Harry felt his sleeve tugged gently between Sampson’s lips. Two short tugs, and then Sampson turned from him, prepared to ignore him for the rest of the evening.

  But it was enough. The bridge between them still held.

  Harry, feeling triumphant, was about to return to the house for a much-needed bath before he ate a light supper and prepared his telescope on his balcony in the family wing, when the beautiful Scottish girl returned to the stable, this time with her governess and brother in tow.

  He felt his breath hitch at the sultry sound of her speech with its faint burr. She was keeping her tone low and soothing, so as not to startle the horses. He wanted to take her between his hands and see what she might sound like as he drew her close against him.

  Harry banished this cavalier thought, but like a siren song, her voice kept calling to him.

  She ignored him altogether, though he was standing close by his stallion’s stable door. “This is Sampson,” the girl said to her governess, a note of pride in her voice. “He is my particular friend.”

  The great beast glared at the smaller lady, and she stepped back, only to come up close against the hulking Scottish man. The siren’s brother drew her governess into a protective embrace, blocking her body as if the great stallion might spring over his stable door and accost her. If Harry thought it odd that the man seemed to have more of a care for the hired help than his own sister, he did not speak of it. Clearly, the Scot and the governess were lovers of long standing.

  Harry told himself that he did not judge the proclivities of others, but he found himself annoyed all the same. Seducing dependents was not making love at all. It was an imposition.

  He forced himself to pay attention to the beautiful Scottish girl and to forget her brother, as hard as that was with the man standing so close by.

  “Mary, ye’d best step back from there,” the Scot said. “He’s a great brute who might take your hand off.”

  Harry felt a bit nonplussed that the girl’s name was Mary, far too bland an appellation for so colorful a woman. The girl in question did not spare a glance for her brother, but extended her hand to Sampson, a dried apple in her fingertips.

  “Nonsense, Robbie. Sampson is too much of a gentleman to attack a lady. All true warriors are.”

  The Scot snorted at that but did not move to stop his sister from endangering herself. Harry tensed, ready to intervene if his stallion’s earlier good mood had flown. Unable to allow himself to be ignored in his own stables any longer, Harry spoke at last.

  “Sampson won’t bite a lady” was all he said.

  Mary ignored them all, caressing Sampson’s nose. The horse leaned closer to her, looking for another apple. The huge creature seemed to welcome the girl’s touch, but Harry kept careful watch in case his pleasure turned to sudden annoyance.

  “Mary Elizabeth, perhaps we had better go back to the house and dress for dinner,” the governess said.

  Mary Elizabeth. For some reason, the name pleased him. It had a noble ring to it and was far less pedestrian than the simple Mary.

  His Scottish girl sighed. “Ah, well. If the duchess rings the dinner bell, I suppose we can’t keep her waiting.”

  Mary Elizabeth gave the horse one last caress. When she stepped back and away from him, Sampson stamped and snorted loudly, as if protesting the loss of his prize. Harry knew just how his new horse felt. He felt the sudden urge to reach for her arm and keep her with him. He felt an even more bizarre inclination to take himself to the house and dress for dinner. His mother would be so pleased.

  He did neither, but stayed still, almost transfixed by his sudden lust and the equally desperate need to tamp it down. He must keep his mind bent on marriage to a biddable English girl who knew the rules of polite society, who would bear his sons and do the least damage to his peace in the years to come. Lust for debutante Scottish girls, no matter how exotic and fearless, had no place in his life, that day or ever.

  The girl he panted for did not notice him at all, but spoke to his horse as if the beast were the only reason worth being in the stable at all. “I’ll be back tomorrow, you great bully. Mind your manners while I’m away. No biting the grooms, you hear?”

  She stared the horse down, and Sampson shifted on his feet, as if being called to task by a schoolmarm. Harry could not be sure, but Sampson seemed a bit chagrined.

  “Do not bite this one here, is that clear?”

  She pointed to Harry then, who blinked to find her finger in his face. He wanted to take it between his teeth, to nestle it between his lips to suckle it, and then to suckle on the place where her throat met her bodice. She would not be able to ignore him then.

  The hulking Scot was not as foolish as he looked, for he seemed to glean something of the tenor of Harry’s thoughts from the look on his face. Her brother stepped between them pointedly and offered his arm. “Come away from here, Mary. That’s an expensive beast, and you’ve deviled him long enough.”

  Harry almost laughed out loud at how true those words were, even if the man had not been talking about the horse.

  Mary Elizabeth took her brother’s arm. The hulking Scot nodded then with a hint of civility, but Harry saw the threat in his eyes.

  “Watch out for him, Harry,” Mary Elizabeth called over her shoulder as the Scot propelled both women toward the stable door. “Sampson’s a bit sweeter, but he’s got a mind of his own.”

  “God’s teeth, girl, stop talking to the servants as if you’ve known them all your life. We’re farther North, that’s true, but we’re still among the English.”

  Mary Elizabeth spoke blithely. “Don’t mind Harry. He’s harmless, if a bit simple.”

  The Duke of Northumberland opened his mouth to protest this cavalier dismissal, but her brother interrupted him.

  “I do mind him,” the Scot said, his voice hard as stone. “And you’ll mind me. Stay away from stable lads, or I’ll tan your hide.”

  Mary Elizabeth did not sound defiant so much as miserable when she answered. “All right, Robbie.”

  Their voices faded into the distance, and Harry was left alone, as he was always alone, staring after her.

  “I want that girl,” he said aloud to no one in particular.

  “Then you should have her, Your Grace,” his head groom said. “No woman can say no to a duke.”

  Harry smiled and clapped his hand on the groom’s shoulder. He did not speak again, but headed toward the house by his secret way, through the rose garden and up past his mother’s parlor. In spite of the odd, frustrating ending to his afternoon, Harry felt a strange sense of well-being. He started to whistle.

  His man was right. No woman had said no to him yet. Scot or no, neither would this one…if he asked her. Since she was a well-bred girl of marriageable age, he could not ask her. But the temptation was there, beckoning to him in the sway of her hips.

  Food for thought.

  Five

  Mary Elizabeth was bored.

  She stood on her balcony, looking out over beautiful moonlit gardens. It was well past midnight, and the summer sun had finally set. The long gloaming that she loved so back home, here only made her wish for things she could not have. A quiet walk with her da beside the burn. A fresh salmon, just caught, and well-roasted over an open campfire. Harry.

  She could not get the stable boy out of her mind.

  Mary Elizabeth had no idea why this was so. Men had never before interested her in the slightest, s
ave for how well they could hunt or fish and whether or not they could keep up with her when she rode. But this night, of all nights in her life, she thought of a man who had done nothing to vex her. But he irritated her nonetheless, and she did not know why.

  God forbid irritation should give way and she start mooning over a man, any man, as Mrs. Prudence mooned over Robbie.

  Mary Elizabeth dismissed that thought as absurd as soon as it came into her mind. She was not a mooning kind of girl.

  Since she could not escape her thoughts, she decided that she was going to ignore them. She took up her claymore, Fireheart, in its sheath and snuck down the back stairs with it clutched in one hand. She had no idea what she might do if she ran into a servant on the way, but the house was dark, save for one low-burning lamp in the kitchen. She snuck outside and stood still for a moment, drinking in the night, and the light of the moonrise.

  She did not wait long, for she was wasting good darkness. She raised her sword, admiring it in the silver light, before she brought it down in one swift arc, cleaving an imaginary enemy in two. The sound of good steel whispering through the night air made her smile, and she circled her sword above her head and moved to dance with it again.

  * * *

  Harry could not find the stars, for he had turned his telescope down into the yard, where Mary Elizabeth played at murder.

  Who on God’s green earth had thought it wise to give a slip of a girl a sharp piece of metal almost as long as she was Harry could not say. He watched patiently—and he was not naturally a patient man—for her hulking brother to appear and take the steel away from her. But five minutes turned to ten, and no one came, save the stable mouser, joined by the kitchen cat, both of whom sat on the wall over his mother’s rosebushes and watched her antics. Neither seemed inclined to intervene, which, from the swiftness of the moving steel, Harry deemed wise.

  Harry sighed, then watched in alarm as she slipped on the oyster shells that lined the walkway, as an unseen opponent forced her back in her false battle. Her battle might be a game, but the unstable shells beneath her feet were real enough. Harry calculated how far it was from his place on the third story to the ground below and told himself not to be a coward. He swung himself onto the trellis that he had used repeatedly to escape his rooms as a boy, only to find that it was still reinforced to the wall with steel rods, as his mother was never sure if he would take that way out of his room again, as he had when he was thirteen.