Page 19 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

And Angus, as always, knew when his master wanted to be left alone. With a wry grin, he settled himself back onto the bale and gestured magnanimously toward the back of the stables. Demon, playing along, offered a bow as if grateful for the permission to saddle his own damn horse.

In some ways, he was.

The day his life had been ruined had started well enough, with him finally escaping his nagging mother in London, boarding his train car to return to peaceful solitude here in Scotland. He hadn’t expected the assassin who’d waited for him—and definitely hadn’t guessed the bloody bastard’s identity!—nor the firebomb which had followed.

Someone had noticed the flames and stopped the train, then pulled him from the wreckage. Doctors told him it would be a miracle if he could walk again. Or feed himself. Or anything.

When Demon had heard that, he’d laughed. Admittedly, it hadn’t been a nice laugh. Not able to walk? Sit up? Feed himself? Fook that, it was just a few burns!

Once he’d healed enough to move about—a big fook ye to the doctors on that one—Angus had been the one to help him regain his strength. Angus and his beloved horses. The groom was the only one who understood Demon’s need for silence, and it wasn’t like he was going to tell anyone about how the master had to be lifted into the saddle that first day.

But month by month, Demon had regained his strength and balance and dexterity, thanks to Angus’s silent dependability. His face still looked like hell, his arm worse, and his torso worst of all. Sometimes Demon stared at his own stomach and chest as he bathed and wondered how he was able to sit up on his own, much less ride a horse.

But he could, by Christ! He could, and he did, and if that’s what it would take to forget about a willful beauty and her dripping cunny…

If ye keep thinking words like dripping cunny, ye willnae forget her at all. And riding with a cockstand is almost as uncomfortable as walking with one. Damnation.

His ride took him, as it often did, to the ridge overlooking Endymion. The Cairngorm Mountains rose in the distance. Even in the November afternoon, there was a stark beauty to the land.

But for the first time, he saw it through different eyes. Not as his prison or his refuge…but a once-beloved estate, gone to ruin. The roof needed repair, the landscaping was overgrown or barely distinguishable. Even the lawn could stand a good sheep-grazing. The fields were fallow, bridge over the burn was in need of a stonemason’s attention, and the outbuildings stood silent and empty.

Hell, the stables were the only things still working.

And Georgia had walked here from Banchot? There was no carriage, no horse that could have carried her. Walked here and knocked on that door, despite the crumbling edifice making the place look cursed? And when she had been denied there, she’d found another way in.

She was determined, he’d give her that.

Determined to please her father. She was that desperate for the bastard’s approval?

When he blew out his breath, the gelding beneath him did the same, stamping twice to let Demon know his irritation with the stillness. Or perhaps the beastie was cold as well.

“I ken, I ken.” He smoothed his hand down Bullet’s neck, shushing him. “There’s a good laddie. We’ll run again soon, aye?”

The horse bobbed its own head as if in understanding and the unburned corner of Demon’s mouth curled. Aye, one beast understanding another.

Being a recluse suited him well. He could heal, and retrain his body, in peace. But over the summer, his one-time-friend and partner had burst back into his life. Rourke’s presence had been unwelcome, especially once Demon had heard the news the now-Duke delivered…but it had led to a healing of sorts.

Rourke and his new wife Sophia had come visiting twice since then, to discuss the past and the plans for Blackrose’s downfall. And of course Thorne, that excretable spunkbucket, continued to stop by unannounced.

He supposed technically, Demon wasn’t as reclusive as he’d once been. While he resented the intrusions, he had to admit none of them were as intriguing as the lass upstairs. His gaze rested on the window of the guest chamber where Mrs. Kettel usually placed Thorne. Was that where Georgia was, even now?

Was she waiting for him?

Can ye fook her and use her as a bartering chip with her da?

The horse whinnied against, and Demon clucked at him. “Och, patience, ye great bairn. A man’s got to have some quiet to ruminate, eh?”

Right now, there was a woman waiting for him, behind one of those windows. She hadn’t chosen him but after his injury, he’d never expected a woman to look at him without wincing, much less choose him. She’d been forced to accept his touch, and she had made the sacrifice for her family.

But he’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity, especially with the way his body had reacted to her arousal.

And she hadnae winced.

‘Twas true. She’d looked at him and hadn’t winced; hadn’t looked shocked or worse, pitying. She hadn’t looked away.

Well, fooknozzles.

Finally, he gave the horse free rein, and the animal shot down the hillside like his namesake. It was easier to push thoughts of Georgia from his mind as he focused on the feel of the powerful animal beneath him.

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