Just One Touch (14 page)

She watched him leave the room, supported by servants. Her father, once so robust and commanding, had become a shadow of his former self. He’d lost a lot of weight, reducing his once-powerful frame to near skeletal. His hands tended to shake, and his dark eyes looked sunken in his face.

But when she looked into those eyes, she saw the spirit of her father there, vital and strong and determined to fight.

She held that image in her mind as the shell of the Duke of Belvingham was all but carried from the room by his loyal retainers. He was slipping away from her little by little. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Rogan perused the letter that had just arrived via messenger from Gabriel Archer. The missive contained basic facts about Randall Althorpe, though Archer assured him he had barely scratched the surface of the matter. This was just what he had pulled together over the last couple of days—well-known details about Althorpe’s life. Now, Archer conveyed, they needed to determine which aspects were truth, and which were fiction.

Rogan shook his head in admiration as he scanned the lines. Althorpe had done a good job of keeping his reputation free of any taint. In fact, if the information Rogan now held was to be believed, Althorpe should be nominated for sainthood.

No man was
that
clear of misadventure.

No, Althorpe’s reputation was so clean that Rogan knew a little digging on Archer’s part would no doubt produce some juicy tidbit of scandal. A woman, a gambling debt, cheating at cards, bad financial decisions. Something. The duke seemed utterly certain that not only was Althorpe a miscreant, but a murderer as well.

Now they just had to prove it.

Rogan looked up as he heard the front door open. “Caroline?”

“Yes.”

She came to the doorway of the parlor without removing her bonnet or gloves. The look in her soulful dark eyes had him setting aside the letter
and rising from his chair, all in one smooth movement. “Caroline, what’s the matter?”

She sighed and shook her head, stripping off her gloves one at a time. “Papa. He’s getting worse.”

“I’m sorry.” He came to her and rested his hands on her shoulders as she fumbled with the ribbons of her bonnet. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” She gave him a sad smile that nearly broke his heart, then glanced down at her hat strings, which she had somehow managed to knot. “Oh, botheration!”

“Let me.” Gently he pushed aside her hands, then set about the task of unknotting the ribbons. She stood silent as a statue, so quiet that he could almost believe her made of marble.

Finally the knot gave. He glanced up in triumph, the smile on his lips fading as he watched one tear after another trickle silently down her cheeks. “Caroline?”

“He’s dying,” she whispered as he tugged the bonnet from her head. Her gaze clung to his, her beautiful dark eyes begging him to disagree with her. “He’s dying, and I can’t stop it.”

“I know.” He brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb.

She turned her face into his hand, seeking comfort, then reached for him, gripping his coat blindly as the sobs shook her body. He cradled her to him, pressing her tearstained face into his chest as her grief swept over her.

He should tell her about Althorpe, the duke’s wishes be damned. About the poisoning. Perhaps it would make her feel less helpless.

But not now, not while she clung to him and wept with heartache.

There was time for that, he thought, burying his face in her dark hair. He would tell her. Soon.

L
ord Tennsley’s horse was a devil.

While she tied the ribbons of her bonnet, Caroline watched from her bedroom window as Rogan worked with the ill-tempered beast. His great patience with animals struck her as odd when compared to his strange and inexplicable furies. It was as if he were two people, one gentle and the other enraged.

Right now he coaxed Tennsley’s skittish gelding to come to him, his posture nonthreatening, his hands low, palms open. Tallow and Grafton stayed well out of the way, knowing that only a master of Rogan’s caliber could handle the unpredictable animal. She could almost hear the soothing Gaelic that he sang to the horse. There was great power in that melodic voice, in the softness of it, the unspoken offer of safety.

She knew, because he’d used it on her.

Her gaze drifted along her husband’s fine form. Dressed in a simple shirt and worn trousers for working with the horses, he presented a handsome picture.

The wind ruffled his ink-black hair and molded his shirt to his brawny chest and arms. She made a sound of pure feminine appreciation, hardly able to believe that such a handsome creature belonged to her. He shifted his weight as he worked with Odysseus, the muscles of his thighs and buttocks clearly defined beneath the formfitting trousers.

Realizing that she was staring at his rear end, she jerked her gaze away, her face flushed with heat. Her gown suddenly felt too constricting, and she took deep breaths to calm herself. What was she doing, lusting after her husband in the middle of the day? Hadn’t he made it clear that she didn’t arouse him that way? And even if he did feel attracted to her, she was incapable of going further than a kiss or two.

She turned away and reached for her pelisse. Her fingers shook as she swept the garment around her shoulders, and she forced herself to look down at the fastenings instead of out the window at her husband. Like the gelding, she, too, longed to succumb to the lure of Rogan’s call. His presence attracted her more than her fears repelled her. She found herself longing to feel his arms around her, his mouth on hers. She wanted
to open her heart and let him lead her to new worlds she had yet to discover.

But always distrust reared its ugly head—a primitive distrust of the male animal, so deeply buried in her memories that she had no control of it. Until she could break down that wall of suspicion, until she could go freely into her husband’s arms and offer herself to him, she didn’t dare allow herself to get too close.

Besides, he might not want her.

Her fingers stilled. What had happened to that obvious hunger on their wedding night? There had been no repeats of that hot, demanding need in the days they’d been married, just sweet kisses that lingered longer each night before they retired to their separate rooms. Perhaps he had told her the truth, that his arousal had been only a natural occurrence in the morning. Nothing to do with her.

Nothing at all.

And if that were the case, it made it only harder for her to go to him.

Then there was the matter of his temper. It amazed her that a man with such a good heart was capable of such utter rage—and equally incapable of controlling it.

From what he had told her of his family, she suspected that as a child he had simply not been taught to rein in his temper. If anything, it seemed as if his family enjoyed indulging in such dramatics, turning on each other like hungry wolves at the slightest provocation.

When consumed with fury, Rogan seemed to almost enjoy the experience. But afterward he often castigated himself, aware that such behavior was ill-advised, yet incapable of stopping himself.

But
she
could stop him. And perhaps once she had helped him control his rages, and he helped her get past the wall of fear that prevented her from sharing his bed, maybe then they could finally have a real marriage. Maybe.

She shook off the melancholy brought on by such deep thoughts. With her father so ill, she had decided—with Rogan’s blessing—to continue her charitable works with Belvingham’s tenants. She had decided on a schedule of making her rounds twice a week, much as she had done before her marriage, which still allowed time to manage Rogan’s house and keep the accounts. It gave her a sense of normalcy to visit the sick and read to the children at the school. It was as if the clock had wound backward to a time when her father was hale and hearty, and she had nothing to worry about except the weather.

She smoothed her hands down her pale gray skirt and scooped up the books she intended to read to the parish children.

An equine shriek split the air, and she nearly dropped the volumes. Shouting erupted from the yard. She rushed back to the window and looked down to see Grafton leading away an unfamiliar horse, while Tennsley’s animal raced around the yard, ears flickering, clearly agitated. The gelding shrieked again, clearly a call of distress.

And grappling around in the dirt outside the fence were two men, one of whom was Rogan.

“Not again,” she muttered and hurried downstairs.

By the time Caroline bolted outside, Lord Tennsley’s horse was pawing the dirt, snorting like an angry bull. Tallow tried to separate the two men fighting on the ground and got knocked aside for his trouble. Grafton came at a run from the stables.

She wasn’t about to get into the middle of two large men trying to pound each other into dust. Disgusted with males in general, she took up her skirts and marched around to the kitchen. When she came back, she lugged along a pail of water, clutching the handle with both hands as she struggled not to spill the sloshing contents.

She put the pail down with a thump and watched for an instant longer as Rogan and Colin (as she could see now despite the dust that covered both men from head to toe) continued to wrestle and—from the looks of it, anyway—twist each other’s heads from their necks.

“Stop it!” she shouted. “Both of you, stop right now!”

Neither man paid her any heed. Narrowing her eyes in irritation, she bent down and tried to lift the heavy bucket. Grafton hurried over to her side. With his assistance, she was able to heave the water at the two fighting brothers.

Water splashed over both of them, eliciting howls of surprise. They rolled apart, and both
men clambered to their feet as Grafton darted away, clearly unwilling to be associated with the wet, cold call to order.

Rogan—drenched, muddy, and clearly furious—narrowed his eyes at her. “Explain yourself, madame.”

She shivered at the warning in his voice. She knew that tone, had heard it the day he bought Peterson’s horse. Nonetheless, she faced him. “I had to do something to stop the two of you from brawling like schoolboys.”

“Schoolboys, is it?” Rogan’s brows lowered, and he planted his hands on his hips as he raked an angry glance over her.

She didn’t back away, though part of her screamed to do just that. This was her husband, and they were surrounded by three other people. He wouldn’t hurt her.

Not with witnesses anyway.

She swallowed her nervousness and propped her own hands on her hips as she met his glare with one of her own. “What would you call two grown men rolling about in the dirt?”

“Brothers,” Colin answered, his amusement plain even through the mud smeared on his face.

“Hush,” she snapped, then turned her attention back to Rogan.

Even as she watched, his eyes seemed to lose some of their ferocity. “Did you just tell my brother to hush?”

“I did. And you can do the same.”

Colin chuckled and cast a glance at Rogan. “She sounds like Mother.”

Annoyed beyond words, Caroline folded her arms and gave Colin a pinch-lipped look of disapproval. “I do believe I asked for silence, sir. You will have your turn to speak.”

“You’re very brave today.” Rogan’s low voice whispered along her spine like the cold finger of death.

“And you’re very foolish,” she snapped back. “Have you even noticed what your altercation has done to Odysseus?”

Rogan whipped around to look at Tennsley’s horse, then muttered a curse. Two long strides carried him to the fence, and in one leap he was over it. His pace slowed down as he approached the spooked animal. The soft murmur of Gaelic words drifted to Caroline on the breeze.

“You’re a brave woman,” Colin said, glancing from Rogan back to Caroline. “Even my father hesitated to take on Rogan in a temper.”

“And what of your part?” she demanded. “How did this start? What did you say?”

“I said hello,” Colin shot back, clearly offended at the question. “I barely arrived, and Rogan came after me.”

She raised her brows. “I find that hard to believe.”

His façade of innocence faded under her skepticism. “Well, I did ask him if he’d considered my
request. But that was
after
he ordered me off the property.”

“More the fool you,” she said with exasperation. “Rogan can’t be bothered with visitors when he’s working with a difficult animal. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“This is important to me! To our family.”

Caroline cast a glance at her husband, who once more seemed to be completely focused on the horse. That wouldn’t last long, she knew. “I suggest you go inside and clean up and wait for him to finish training Odysseus before you begin pleading your case.” She turned to leave.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Far away from here,” she replied with a twitch of her lips. “Grafton, will you please see to Mr. Hunt? And send Marie to me. We’re expected in the village.”

“Yes, Lady Caroline.”

“You’re going to leave me alone here?” Colin asked in astonishment. “What if he starts another fight?”

“Just don’t break anything in the house.” Dismissing her brother-in-law, she headed for the waiting carriage. As she passed the yard, she couldn’t stop herself from casting one last glance at Rogan.

And met his eyes—dark, aggravated, and brimming with the promise of retribution.

It had taken a good while to get Odysseus calmed.

Rogan sat in the parlor and sipped his whiskey. That his petite wife had managed to soak him with water and escape unscathed while he was in the middle of one of his rages was a complete miracle. Even now he shuddered to think what he might have done has she not distracted him with Odysseus.

But damn if he didn’t admire the chit for standing up to him. Lady Caroline Hunt had spine beneath that delicate exterior, and finally she was beginning to realize it.

“Are you still brooding?” Sitting across from him, Colin enjoyed his own glass of whiskey.

Rogan sent him an annoyed glare. “I could have harmed her. And you, come to think of it.”

Colin shrugged off the comment. “Not me. I’m used to your rages.”

“Well, I’m not.” Rogan rose and put his glass on the table. “I never will be.”

“Bloody hell, Rogan, will you get past it already? You have the gift, so you get the temper. It’s been that way for generations.”

“That’s a convenient excuse, nothing more. I never realized that before now. I just need to maintain control before the fury takes hold—or before I start swinging.”

“Well, I seem to bring out the worst in you.” Smirking, Colin tossed back the dregs of his drink. “I came by to ask you for help, to play on your loyalty to the Hunt name and lend me the money I need to make Hunt Chase a working stable again.”

Rogan arched a brow at his brother. “Lend?”

“All right then. Give.”

“You and Father should have considered that before you sold off everything.”

“By the devil, Rogan, do you intend to hold that foolishness over my head forever? Father was the one who sold everything. Yes, I helped, but I want to restore Hunt Chase to what it once was. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Maybe it will. Eventually.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Why do I think I can reason with you?”

“There’s the door.” Rogan gestured with his glass before moving to refill it.

“I’m not leaving.” Colin thumped his glass down on the table. “You care about Hunt Chase, too, Rogan. I know you do. What Father and I did was wrong, but I’m trying to make it right. Help me. Give me the money to make our legacy great again.”

Rogan didn’t answer. With a frustrated growl, Colin got to his feet and stalked toward the door.

He intended to let his brother leave. Intended for him to go back to his empty house and impoverished existence and reap what he’d sown. But then he thought about it, imagined what it would be like to have Hunt Chase restored to its former glory, a sister operation to his own breeding stables.

In his heart of hearts, he knew it was what he really wanted.

“Wait.” He turned to face his brother as Colin paused, one hand on the door latch. “I have a proposition for you.”

Colin raised his brows in a skeptical expression Rogan knew had frequently been seen on his own face. “Will I have to pummel you again once I hear this?”

Rogan bared his teeth in a challenging smile. “I believe
I
pummeled
you
, dear brother. But it does not signify. I will give you the funds to set Hunt Chase to rights, but in exchange, you will work here for two months.”

“Work? Me? Curse you, brother, but I am no groom to be employed at your whim!”

Rogan arched a brow. “Aren’t you? The money is yours, Colin, for two months of your time.”

Colin opened his mouth to protest again, then slowly closed it. Finally he said, “Done.”

“I’ll expect you here by week’s end. That should give you enough time to set affairs in order at Hunt Chase.”

Caroline crept into the house with all the care of a drunken spouse unwilling to wake a scolding wife. As silently as she was able, she removed her bonnet and gloves. She’d stayed in the village as long as she could, but she knew she had to return home, to face Rogan.

Enough hours had passed that his anger should have cooled, but at the same time, she knew that there was bound to be a confrontation. No doubt
he would lecture her, paint himself the devil incarnate, and warn her to stay clear of him when his temper flared.

She tiptoed past the parlor, but just as she reached the staircase, she heard the door open behind her.