Page 68 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
Later that morning, 19th December
A half hourpassed before Rye came to find her.
“How is he?” She’d been pacing outside the library, not wishing to intrude. Cameron had enough female relatives to fuss over him.
“Just needs to rest up a week or two, and then take it easy. Everything’ll heal, as long as he avoids climbing trees.”
“Or getting into the saddle of madcap horses.” Ursula couldn’t help the barb. She’d been replaying the scene over and over—of Cameron taking the reins and hoisting himself upward. Charon had stood nice and steady, just as Rye said he would, right up until the moment Cameron lowered himself onto the stallion’s back. Then, all hell had broken loose. Charon had become a different horse entirely.
A muscle ticked in Rye’s jaw. “There’s nothing wrong with Charon. I’m going out to speak with Campbell. See if I can get to the bottom of this.”
“I’ll come with you.” She had to know. She’d been right there when it happened. Rye had invited her to mount the horse before Cameron had interrupted them. It might have been her…
Campbell was rubbingdown Charon with straw, speaking to the horse in the same soothing way Rye always did.
Ursula had to admit that Charon was handsome—finely proportioned and well-muscled, not unlike Rye himself. His eyes, dark and soft and full-lashed, followed Rye as he approached. There was devotion in those eyes, even though Rye had only been riding him these short weeks.
“Stay here.” Rye spoke quietly. “Campbell’s likely to be more forthcoming if he’s just confiding in me.”
She accepted with a shrug. It was the same with most things, wasn’t it? Women were another species, most of the time—not rational enough in men’s eyes, or not to be trusted with hearing unpleasant truths. It was one of the reasons she’d always felt that she didn’t want to get married. Men tended to want to put you in a box: housekeeper, mother, wife. They didn’t want someone who had ideas of their own, or aspirations.
Not that Rye seemed that way. He appeared to admire the fact she, as Miss Abernathy, was making her own way in the world.
Ursula still wasn’t sure exactly what her aspirations were—but something worthwhile beyond looking after a man’s home. Her father, clearly, hadn’t taken seriously her hopes of running his half of the business. He hadn’t believed in her, or not in the way she’d wanted him to.
But she could still believe in herself. She just needed to work out where to direct her energies. She was very fond of dogs, and most animals really. Perhaps she could run a home for them instead of for a husband! A home for animals that other people didn’t want, or a home from which they might adopt an animal. She’d give that some thought.
There were only seven more days until she came into the first installment of her inheritance; then, she’d have choices.
Wandering along the stalls, she petted one of the mares. Campbell did a good job with the stable. Every horse looked in good condition—bright eyed and sleek coated.
A few minutes later, Rye joined her, his face drawn. “I’ve told Campbell to saddle Charon again. I’m taking him out—to prove there’s nothing wrong with him.”
Ursula’s heart gave a lurch. “No!” She looked up into Rye’s face, needing him to listen. “It might not be safe…so soon after.”
“When Campbell removed the saddle, there was a dried thistle head under the blanket.” Rye held her gaze.
“Strange…” Ursula frowned. “But I suppose it must happen round here. There are so many thistles; they grow like weeds.”
“They do, but I don’t think it’s so common that they find their way under saddles.” Rye passed his hand over his forehead. “Campbell told me he’d only seen it happen once before. He found the same just after my uncle, the first Lord Balmore, was thrown.”
Ursula’s hand flew to her mouth. What was Rye saying? That someone had meant his uncle harm? That someone meant him harm as well?
“What about the stable boy?” She remembered how scared the lad had looked. “He was the one who made Charon ready for you. What does he say about it?”
“Buckie’s nowhere to be found.” Rye rubbed his chin. “It doesn’t mean anything, of course. The lad’s probably fearful of being dismissed. He’ll turn up later, I expect.”
“He wouldn’t have put the thistle there on purpose, would he?” Ursula worried at her lip. Even as she said it, she knew it was an unlikely theory. What reason would he have to wish harm on anyone in the family. It made no sense.
Rye seemed to agree. None of it made sense. Perhaps the thistle really had gotten under the blanket by accident.
“At least, Lady Balmore can’t make you put the horse down, now, can she?” Ursula touched Rye’s arm. “Not when she hears what caused the stallion to rear up like that?”
“I doubt she’ll think it makes much difference what caused it but, no, I won’t let her hurt the horse. It’s not the animal’s fault. She’s just lookin’ for someone to blame.”
Ursula nodded. She noticed that Rye was wearing a riding coat of tweed today—in shades of grey and moss. It didn’t look new, though it fit him reasonably well. Had it been his uncle Brodie’s, or been worn by the other one—Lachlan wasn’t it? Of course, it made sense for Rye to make use of their serviceable clothing, but something about it made her shiver. It was like stepping into dead men’s shoes.
“If you’re saddling up, I’ll come with you.” The declaration was out almost before she’d finished thinking the words. “Just in case.” A warmth stole through her cheeks. She was acting impulsively again, she knew, but she had a feeling Rye oughtn’t to be alone right now—on the moor, or anywhere else. For all his strength, he needed someone to look out for him.
