Tye remained silent, resenting Balfour’s astuteness.
And the trickle of shame it dripped into Tye’s conscience.
“I want what is best for Fiona,” Tye said. It was the truth—despite the marquess’s machinations, Tye could be honest about this much.
Balfour sighed mightily as they approached the stables. “That’s what I’m afraid of. The English have ever wanted what is best for Scotland, and the Scottish have wanted only to be left the hell alone. Give Quinworth my respects when next you report to him, and warn him he’ll have a fight on his hands if his intentions toward Fee are less than honorable. We’ll expect you at Balfour House tomorrow night for dinner. Be prepared for an assault on your ears.”
He walked off without a bow or a backward glance, and Tye was reminded that for now, Balfour outranked him and had the advantage of fighting on home turf.
For, apparently, a fight it would be.
Sitting next to Spathfoy at morning tea, Hester had noted a resemblance between him and the Earl of Balfour. They were both tall, dark-haired, and green-eyed, true, but the resemblance went deeper, to a force of personality that had little to do with brawn or wit per se. Ian was relentless when committed to a goal; Hester had the sense Spathfoy would be no different.
When the opportunity to best him came along later in the morning, she could not resist.
“If I give you a few lengths head start, my lord, will you race me to that cow byre?” She pointed across the valley to a small stone building set half into the earth of the hillside.
Spathfoy drew his horse up. “A few lengths head start? Should I be insulted, Miss Daniels?”
“I know the terrain, my horse hasn’t recently been ridden half the breadth of Scotland, and I’m the one challenging you.”
He looked thoughtful, while his horse capered and curvetted beneath him. “No head start, and not to the cow byre, but to the wall just beyond it.”
“To the last jump then.”
“The lady gives the start.”
She brought her mare alongside his gelding at the walk, collected her horse with a few simple cues, snugged her knee to the horn, and gave the signal quietly. “Go.”
The valley was a good mile across, and Dolly was fresh and eager to show the fidgety gelding her heels. Hester bent low and let the mare have her head.
They flew effortlessly across the ground; the wind sang in Hester’s ears; and the rhythm of the horse thundering beneath her beat away every worry, woe, and anxiety she had ever claimed. She urged the horse faster, aware that Spathfoy’s gelding was keeping pace half a length back.
Of course he was. The beast was a good hand taller than the mare, giving Spathfoy an advantage of height, even mounted. And the damned gelding jumped so smoothly in stride, Spathfoy barely had to get up in his stirrups, whereas Dolly chipped at the first wall and overjumped the second.
Hester ran a gloved hand down the mare’s crest even as she whispered to the horse for a hair more speed.
They cleared a burn that Spathfoy and his gelding weren’t prepared for, and it put Dolly a full length in the lead. As the last wall loomed closer, Hester could feel Spathfoy gaining, pushing his horse hard to close the distance. She knew better than to look over her shoulder.
“Don’t let them catch us, girl.” With a touch of her heel, she urged the mare into a flat, flowing gallop that sent them sailing neatly over the wall.
Like a perfect lady, Dolly came down to the walk on cue, her sides heaving, her neck wet with sweat.
“Well done, my lady.” Spathfoy’s horse was winded as well and blowing hard, but still dancing with nervous energy beneath its rider.
Hester gave Dolly a solid pat on the shoulder. “Did you let us beat you?”
“I did not. Rowan has tremendous stamina, but your lighter mount has more native speed, particularly for a short distance. Then too, Rowan is young and wastes energy fretting. Shall we walk for a bit?”
They turned back through the meadow, the race having eased something inside Hester’s body and mind. That Spathfoy would honestly pit his horse against hers was a compliment; that she’d beat him was a lovely boon.
“You ride quite well, Miss Daniels.”
“You’re being gentlemanly again. You needn’t bother.”
Some of her pleasure in the ride dimmed at the exchange, but Spathfoy remained quiet on his horse beside her until they came to the burn.
“Shall we let the horses rest? We’re a good way from the manor.”
“Rest and have a drink.”
Too late she realized this would require that he assist her off her horse. When Ian or his brothers offered the same courtesy, it meant nothing. Gilgallon was inclined to flirt, Connor to handle her like a sack of grain, and Ian to turn it into such a gallantry as to be a jest. To a man, they had to comment on her diminutive size each and every time.
Spathfoy turned it into… something else entirely.
Hester unhooked her knee from the horn, shifted sideways in the saddle, and put a hand on each of Spathfoy’s shoulders—surpassingly broad shoulders when measured thus. His hands went to her waist, which was standard protocol for such a courtesy.
When she boosted herself from the saddle, she expected his hands to merely ride along her sides until her feet met the ground, but no. His strength was such that he could control her descent, so she did not jump to the ground but was borne there by his hold, until she stood quite close to him.
Dolly swished her tail and took one step to the side with a hind foot, nudging Hester such that she was pitched into the solid expanse of Spathfoy’s chest.
“Steady there.” Not quite at her waist, but lower, almost on her hips, his hands held her for a moment. He didn’t presume, didn’t take untoward liberties, and yet…
It was the closest thing to a true embrace Hester had enjoyed in too long to recall. Yes, her brother hugged her, fleeting, brusque, mostly one-armed gestures of affection entirely foreign to their interaction until he’d married Mary Frances.
And Ian, Connor, and Gil were affectionate men, but always with Hester, there was a carefulness to their affection. It drove her mad, that carefulness.
“I won’t break, you know.”
She didn’t slide away, didn’t elbow the horse to make room for a backward step.
“I do believe you are one of the shortest women it has ever been my pleasure to assist from a horse.” He sounded curious, and before Hester could shake her riding crop at him for his rudeness, his hand settled on the top of her bare head and then measured her height against his breastbone.
She went still, staring at the shirt and cravat covering that breastbone while he did it again, only this time, his hand did not pass from her crown to his sternum. It slid down over the back of her head in what felt heartrendingly like a caress, and then settled at her nape.
“Your hair is an absolute fright. Come here.”
He steered her by the shoulders to stand before him, but facing away. Behind her, he was taking off his gloves with his teeth, admonishing her through a clenched jaw.
“You’ve no doubt lost half your pins, for which, somehow, you will blame me. This is the recompense I’m to be served for allowing you to win.”
“You did not let me win.” She half turned to remonstrate with him, but his fingers loosening the braid at her nape prevented an adequate range of motion. “Your horse was still fatigued from riding the length of the River Dee, you did not know the terrain, and it is not your fault if I lost a few of my pins.”
“Hold these.” He passed a dozen pins over her shoulder, and Hester felt her braid hanging down her back.
“Is there a reason why your hair must be so long?”