Trial by Desire. Courtney Milan

watch him. He finished moving the last of the hay into the cart and set the pitchfork down slowly. He stripped off his leather gloves, one by one, then pulled off the waistcoat and laid it on the tongue of the cart, next to the gloves and his cravat. Then he stretched and took a clay jug off the cart. Instead of drinking from it, though, he held it above himself and poured a thin stream of water over his head.

      His hair, already glistening from exertion, matted to the sides of his head. His white shirt turned translucent and clung to his chest.

      Oh, heavens. Kate’s breath stopped. The intervening years had been very kind to him. Fabric adhered to defined muscles—not thick, like a laborer’s, but lean and rangy, like a fencer’s.

      It was abominably unfair that he should leave for years and come back looking like that.

      She felt the glorious unfairness of it bite deep in her chest.

      Kate was not the only one watching. Some twenty yards distant stood the animal he had impetuously purchased today. The servants must have seen to it, because someone had transformed the beast from bedraggled to … slightly less bedraggled. The harness had been removed, and its dull coat had been brushed. Those small hints at grooming underscored how far the animal had yet to come. There were hollows where the animal should have sported muscle and worn spots where the ill-fitting harness had rubbed skin bare.

      Ned was not talking to the animal, not even in the low, gentle tones he’d used earlier that morning. For that matter, he didn’t act as if he was even aware that it stood so many yards distant. Instead, he picked up his discarded waistcoat and patted its pockets, as if searching for something. He plucked out a little sack and walked away.

      The horse—Champion, Ned had called the beast—watched him warily, turning sidelong to keep one eye on him as he walked. Ned whistled tunelessly and peered off into the distance, out at the short, scrubby stretch of trees that blanketed the nearby hill. Just as casually, he began tossing a tiny object from hand to hand. Kate caught a glimpse of white as it danced back and forth a few times, before he lobbed it off into the yellowing grass. He threw it with a sidelong motion, as if he were skipping a stone on the sea of shorn stubble.

      Kate took two steps closer, her hands closing on the fence rail.

      Champion’s nostrils flared at Ned’s sudden movement. He backed away, hastily. Ned turned from the horse. As he did, he caught sight of Kate. He stopped dead, and the small smile he’d been wearing slipped away. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked back to the cart. Once there, he donned his waistcoat and then his cravat, pulling the cloth around his neck. He tied the knot with grave finality. Then he advanced on her.

      Behind him, Champion laid his ears back in dire warning to any predators that might attack. He stamped his feet—once, twice. Then he trotted forward, lowered his head, and lipped up whatever Ned had thrown at him.

      Ned still hadn’t said anything. But as he came upon her, he put his hand in that sack again. He set another object on the fence post in front of him. In the sunlight, the thumb-sized object gleamed like a lump of white porcelain.

      “Come,” he said to Kate. “Walk with me.”

      Kate’s corset seemed to tighten. Hot lines of whalebone pressed into her ribs while she tried to draw in a pained breath. Some trick of the light made his eyes appear darker, almost black; by contrast, the afternoon sunlight tinted his brown hair halfway to gold.

      Shaving had revealed the strong line of his jaw. But he could still have used a valet’s services to trim his hair. The ends, still dripping water, curled into his eyes. Slowly, he lifted one hand and brushed those strands back.

      It struck her as monstrously unfair. When Kate’s hair fell into her eyes, it looked blowsy. On her husband, the untidiness seemed nonchalant and approachable. And yet, if she were to approach him with the truth of what she’d done …

      When they’d married, she’d thought he had an essential sweetness to him, a kindness. Perhaps that was why she had agreed to marry him. Marriage was a frightening business for a woman; one never knew what one’s husband might do. The man she’d married would never have condoned what Harcroft had done to his wife.

      But this man? It had looked as if he had left a white rock atop the post. But as she walked up to it, the object he’d left shone innocently up at her. Her husband might have been careless and thoughtless, but he had never been cruel. A man who fed a wary horse—she sniffed the air delicately—peppermints was not the sort of man to make her fear for her safety.

      So he was still sweet. But back then, he’d been sweet like a meringue—all froth and sugar, no substance. Now …

      She walked after him, her fingers tapping a worried percussion against the rough wood rail of the fence. He stopped ten yards away, on the opposite side of the fence. A few thin strips of wood. Not really much of a barrier.

      Kate took a deep breath. “I see you’re coddling the horse again.”

      He let out an amused snort of air. “Someone has to.”

      She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she might stare at the way his shirt plastered to his biceps, might think of that wet fabric under his waistcoat, clinging to his abdomen.

      She might imagine—oh, drat. She was. Kate turned into the wind, hoping the breeze would cool her flaming cheeks.

      She sniffed and set her foot on the wooden stile that traversed the fence. It was composed of an ingenious set of narrow, wooden steps, placed so that humans, but not cattle, could clamber across on agile feet. Still, she felt as graceless climbing those narrow strips of wood as if she were an ox. A well-laced corset and heeled half boots, set with jet buttons, were all well and good in a drawing room. They weren’t made for scaling fences.

      When she reached the top, she glanced down at her husband. His gaze was not fixed on her face, as would have been proper. He stood too straight, his eyes caught on that bare strip of ankle revealed by her movement. The moment lasted just long enough for him to blink and look up. He offered her his arm; she took it.

      As if he hadn’t looked at her legs. As if she hadn’t looked at him, either. When her heels wobbled on the last step, he steadied her; and when she stood beside him, he looked away. So did she. Her gaze settled on the horse. It lifted its head and stared at her, its ears tilting forward. Some women of her acquaintance had practically grown up on horseback; Kate had been thrown once when she was younger, and the broken leg she’d nursed had left her somewhat shy of the animals. Her father had once explained to her what that particular tilt of the ears meant. It was either horse language for I am very hungry, or the equine equivalent of Help, a wolf! Now, which one was it?

      “Don’t look at him.” Ned’s voice was deep, right beside her.

      “Why ever not?” She kept her voice light, to disguise the flutter in her stomach.

      “Because he’s nervous.”

      Help, a wolf! it was. She looked away—but her eyes caught on her husband, and she felt her stomach contracting. She quickly looked back to Champion. Twenty yards away, the horse peeled his lips back. She caught a glimpse of yellowing teeth.

      “He’s going to think you’re challenging him.” Ned sounded amused. But the alternative to looking at Champion was looking at her husband.

      “Maybe I am,” she teased. “I should like to be lady of this pasture. I should reign over the goats in spring, and the straw in winter.” And I would command you to move piles of hay in your shirtsleeves. Daily.

      “You may reign over as many goats as you wish, if you just—oh, damn.”

      Across the field, Champion stamped. Kate had only a second to realize how serious the situation was before the animal charged toward them. Hooves pounded against turf. She didn’t think he would actually trample her, but before she could turn and scramble over the stile, Ned had picked her up for the second time that day, and swung her over the fence. She landed, awkwardly, and grasped the fence rail to keep from crumpling