Page 127 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Thirty-one
“This?” He shook the bottle. “Purely for medicinal purposes.”
“Like the brandy.” Genevieve laughed. “Do tell.”
“For the horses.” He smiled, glad to have lifted the cloud that hovered after Lord Barnard’s visit.
Whiskey sloshed in hand. He didn’t want it. Last night had been a mistake, and he’d have to forgive himself and move on. The drink had never enslaved him like some men, but he was never as free as others. Most days at Pallinsburn, the craving hung in the periphery, a specter waiting to devour him. There was truth in facing what hounded him, the same as he found truth with Genevieve.
“Sometimes…the way you look at me…I believe I can conquer anything,” he confided. “Iwantto be the man you believe in.”
“Thank you. You’re a grown man, milord. I shouldn’t have questioned you.”
“I meant what I said. You, the horses, Samuel and his mad plan to make us king of northern horse trading…” He grinned. “Even Pallinsburn. I’m happy here. Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
Her lips parted as though she debated kissing him or saying something. The kiss against the front door was nearly his undoing—and hers, if he judged the carnal light in her eyes.
He eyed her gown’s front lacing. “If we stand here much longer, I’ll devote my day to untying your gown, removing every layer. One. By. One.”
“Oh.”
His stare wandered upward, pausing on the pink flush above her bodice. “Protecting you is my solemn vow, but you and I have work to do. Certain four-legged beauties will be sorely neglected if we don’t get to the barn.”
“Then we’d better tend them.”
Heat bounced between them in the humble kitchen. Pure lust. Yet Genevieve’s eyes sparkled at the mention of working at his side. Women had always been a distraction, a pastime, never a partner in life’s daily motions.
Folding his hand around hers, he led her out of the kitchen. “I want you to know, after I left London, I hadn’t had so much as a sip of whiskey until last night.”
“That’s what I mean about me causing you trouble,” she said to his back.
In the entry hall, he set down the bottle and handed over her cloak. “You thinkyoudrove me to drink last night?”
“I didn’t help matters.”
Marcus donned his redingote as Genevieve wrapped herself in red wool. His young wife surprised him with her uncanny insights, but here she’d missed the mark.
“My mistakes are my own,” he said, sliding on his gloves.
“As are mine, milord.”
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered and opened the door to a blast of cool, mind-cleansing air.
Chickens scratched the ground. Horses ambled along the pasture’s stone fence.
Genevieve lingered on the front step, scanning the roiling skies. “Another storm’s coming.”
“You know, I’ve never had to work this hard to convince a woman to stay with me,” he said, putting on his hat.
Dark eyes flirted from the red hood. “There is a first for everything.”
They walked to the barn, the wind nipping Marcus’s cheeks. Alexander stopped his hammering and waved across the pasture. The new herd clustered on a knoll for warmth. Marcus flipped up his collar. This was his home, and Genevieve was part of it. He’d gladly married her to keep her here.
He yanked open the barn door. “Remember. Keep close.”
Genevieve nodded, brightening when Hester poked her nose over the stall. “There’s my girl,” she cooed, rushing to the young horse.
Brisk air carried aromas of hay and earth. Marcus breathed in deep, listening to his wife. Her red-gloved hands petted the little brown horse. She deserved better than what life had served her.
