Page 52 of Disenchanted
I nodded in understanding, but much as I admired the commander for his reticence, part of me wished the man did not have to be so frapping honorable.
“There is information from Fugitate that I can share with you,” Crushington said. “He was able to identify the brute who attacked you. His name is Burt Iggy. I have crossed paths with him before, a man of most villainous reputation although I have never been able to prove anything against him. Unfortunately, it is never easy to track miscreants in Misty Bottoms. I have checked all the varlet’s usual haunts and been unable to find him. It is as though he has vanished into the fog.”
Vanished? I felt the color drain from my face as I recalled Mal’s grim reaction when I had told him of Crushington’s pledge to hunt down my attacker and arrest him.
Not if I find him first.
Crushington must have misunderstood the reason for my dismay because he placed his hands reassuringly on my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Ella. You will be safe. That villain shall never come near you again. I will find him.”
I smiled weakly, hoping that Iggy wouldn’t be found floating face down in the Conger River. How far would Mal go in his zeal to avenge me? Even I was not sure.
Suddenly I was aware of how close I stood to Crushington. I could feel the warmth of his palms through the worn fabric of my gown and experienced that same curious tingle as I had when he had blown on my wrist. His deep grey eyes seemed to turn to smoke. I sensed how badly he wanted to kiss me even though I had little experience of such things.
There was my experiment with Mal when we were twelve, an awkward and uncomfortable experience for both of us that involved more bumping of noses than actual lip contact. Other than that, there had only been my trysts with Harper, all thosesweet, stolen kisses that had caused me to believe I would never want to feel any other man’s arms around me but his.
I could not help wondering what it would be like to kiss Horatio Crushington. But curiosity is not a good excuse for toying with a man’s feelings.
I eased away from the commander, murmuring, “The ponies are down here in the last stall.”
I thought I heard him give a faint sigh as I ducked past him into the stables. The interior was shadowy and cool, the air redolent with the scent of sweet hay and the earthier aroma of horseflesh and dung. There were four stalls, two of them empty. We had had to sell off our horses and the gig a long time ago.
As I led Crushington down the length of the barn, I could already hear Pookie and Pippa whickering and stamping their hooves with impatience, expecting it to be Amy bringing them a treat.
When I first bought the miniature ponies for my sister on her tenth birthday, she had wanted to share her bedchamber with them. It had taken much persuasion to convince her they would be happier in the stables. I had hired an itinerant carpenter to knock down the wall between two of the stalls and replace one of the doors with wooden slats.
As we approached, Pookie and Pippa poked their shaggy heads over the topmost rail, their glossy coats the color of chocolate. I had never fully appreciated how small the ponies were until Crushington loomed over them. They barely came up to his kneecap.
Many horsemen would have regarded Amy’s pets with indulgent contempt, but the commander’s eyes lit up with delight.
When Crushington hunkered down to pet the ponies, I warned him, “Be careful. They only like Amy and they tend to bite. Hard.”
Pookie’s and Pippa’s ears flattened back as they bared their teeth in ominous fashion. But the commander murmured something low and soothing. As he slowly extended his fingers toward them, an astonishing thing happened. The ponies whickered, their ears coming forward. They jostled each other in their eagerness to nuzzle Crushington’s hand.
He stroked them each in turn, rubbing behind their ears, reducing the ponies to a state of equine bliss. It was as though the man had magic in his fingertips.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “I have never seen them respond that way to anyone but Amy.”
Crushington shrugged. “I have always been better with horses than people. Even as a small boy, I…” He trailed off.
I waited for him to continue, but his eyes had clouded over. He straightened so abruptly; he startled me. Turning to face me, he burst out, “Ella, there is something I need to say to you.”
My heart missed a beat. Surely, he did not mean to declare himself so soon and here in the stables. Dismayed, I stepped back from him. My first instinct was to stop him, but if the commander intended to propose, it was better to have done with it. I could gently refuse him and that would be the end of the matter.
Yet Crushington did not look a man about to avow his love. His eyes darkened with some inner torment as though he wrestled with a difficult decision.
Finally, he said, “I overheard the remarks your stepmother made earlier. About me being a foundling.”
That was all he wanted to discuss with me? I let out a sigh of relief and said, “Pray forgive her. Imelda is far too credulous, believing every nonsensical bit of gossip she hears.”
“It is not nonsense,” Crushington said quietly. “It’s true.”
“Oh,” was all I could think to say at first, then I protested, “But what of the parents you spoke of, the ones who christenedyou with all those names, the mother who taught you to blow the pain away?”
“The Crushingtons adopted me when I was seven. I have no idea who or what my real parents were. As an infant, I was abandoned in the Red Grove Forest. I would likely have perished if I had not been found by a hermit.”
“And this hermit took care of you?”
“No. Do you not know what is done with abandoned children, Ella?”
