Kathryn Smith (8 page)

There was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity. Blythe nodded. “Sometimes. Are you going to answer or not? I’ll tell you.”

He must have found her offer tempting because he acquiesced. “I would change my eyes.”

The offensive organs watched her from beneath thick, velvety lashes. “But you have pretty eyes!” She didn’t care how forward she was, it was the truth!

He grimaced. “That is why I would change them.”

Blythe shook her head. “No, I simply cannot allow it. Pick something else.”

Disbelief drifted over his features before giving way to a chuckle. “All right. I would change my nose.”

There was nothing wrong with his nose. It was a little long, yes, but it was otherwise straight and slender. “Your nose has character. It is fine just as it is.”

He was openly grinning now. Long dimples creased his cheeks. “My feet then.”

She glanced down at his boots. “What is wrong with your feet? Warts?”

Devlin laughed. It was a bit rusty-sounding, but it made Blythe giddy all the same. “No. They are too big.”

“But big feet are good on a man.”

A teasing light she didn’t quite understand lit his eyes. He knew a joke and wasn’t going to share it with her. “Oh? Why?”

“Because…” Well, she couldn’t remember exactly why, but she had heard someone say it once before. “Because who would want a man with little feet?” She affected a shudder.

Chuckling, he looked out over the field before them, then turned his attention back to her. “All right. What would you change?”

“That is easy.” She smiled—albeit a bit self-consciously. “I would change my height.”

He studied her with such intensity that a heat that had nothing to do with the warm weather crept up Blythe’s neck. “Why the devil would you want to change your height?”

Wasn’t that obvious? “Because I am too tall. Men do not like tall women.”

Scowling, he made a scoffing noise in his throat. “Insecure men might not like tall women. Real men like tall women just fine.”

Maybe so, but the idea of towering over her husband was unappealing all the same. “Easy for you to say. I’m not taller than you.”

“If you found a man taller than you, would you still wish to be shorter?” His dark gaze pinned her. It was impossible to look away.

One look in his eyes and there could be no denying that both of them were very much aware of the fact that he was such a man. “I…I suppose not.”

One side of his mouth curved upward. “Don’t change a thing, Lady Blythe. You are perfect just as you are.”

Perfect? Her? Frowning, Blythe stared at her mare’s ruffled mane. How was she supposed to respond to that? Did he actually mean it? No. He was just being polite.
Nobody
was perfect.

Or maybe, blast it, he meant it. Regardless, it was nice of him to say it. “Thank you, Mr. Ryland.”

“Devlin,” he replied with a wink. “After all, you know my deepest, darkest secrets now.”

No, she didn’t, but she’d like to. And she didn’t like
that
one bit.

Perfect just the way she was. Good God, how much more obvious could he be?

Even now, hours after the fact, Devlin wanted to groan aloud at his folly. Fortunately, Lady Blythe’s mare had thrown a shoe, and that took precedence. Blythe hadn’t made further mention of his remark.

But then he had to go and offer to reshod the mare for her. He was a schoolboy, panting after his first infatuation.

“Would you show me how to do it?” she had asked, all innocent and seemingly unaware of the growing effect she had on him. Could she truly not see it? Then he was a better actor than he thought.

Of course he’d said yes. So they were to meet again later that afternoon—after the picnic Varya planned for the guests—and replace Marigold’s shoe.

So now Devlin sat on a rock, eating an apple and watching Lady Blythe as she talked and laughed with a group of ladies sitting on a blanket beneath the shade of a large, leafy tree. As usual, she was bonnetless, but a parasol deprived him of seeing the sun highlight the glory of her hair. The way she sat, with her legs tucked to the side, wrapped her amber skirts about her limbs, accentuating the strong curves of her long legs and the swell of her buttocks.

Was she purposely trying to drive him to distraction? It was bad enough that the gown she wore displayed the flesh of her upper chest in all its creamy perfection, did she have to tease him with hints of the rest of her Junoesque form?

Most men found the sight of a woman in trousers and
boots far more scandalous, and often more sensual, than a woman in the more familiar garb of gowns and slippers, but for Devlin it was just the opposite. Blythe in trousers was definitely appealing, but it was Blythe in a gown that heated his blood and quickened his pulse. The neckline and short sleeves revealed far more of her pale skin than a shirt ever could, and the breeze that caught the hem of her skirts teased him with a glimpse of stocking-clad ankle. A man could slide his hand beneath those skirts. It was more difficult to touch so intimately when the woman wore trousers.

“You are smitten, are you not?”

Devlin spared Carny the briefest of glances before returning his attention to Blythe. “With whom?”

Flipping out the tails of his coat, Carny sat down on the rock beside him. “With Blythe.”

“Absurd.” He took another bite of apple. A large bite—one he couldn’t talk around.

“No, it isn’t.” The fair man stretched out his buckskin-clad legs in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. Did he always have to look so well put together? Devlin considered himself lucky if his stockings matched. “It would be an example of your extraordinary taste in women.”

His free hand dangling between his wide-spread knees, Devlin turned to stare at his friend as he swallowed. “I heard that you once had such taste.”

It was none of his business, and normally he wouldn’t dream of asking about things that didn’t concern him, but he wanted to know what had happened between Carny and Blythe. And damn it, he wanted to know if any of those feelings still existed.

Dark crimson blossomed on the high ridge of Carny’s cheekbones. “So I thought.”

Setting aside his apple core to give to Flynn later, Devlin plunged ahead. Carny had just confirmed his earlier suspi
cions. “I know how important honor is to you, Carny. How could you jilt her like that?”

Carny glanced toward the woman they were discussing. There was a wealth of regret in his expression. “There was no formal betrothal. Yes, Blythe and I had an understanding of sorts; I’ve never attempted to deny that. I thought she and I would make a good match. I had no idea her feelings went deeper. Then I found Teresa and I learned what love really was. I was not going to give that up—not for anyone, not even Blythe.”

“Was it worth it?”

Carny laughed sharply. “Yes. Even Blythe’s hatred was worth having Teresa by my side. Look at the two of them, laughing together. I hope to God they’re not talking about me.”

Devlin watched the two women. They did seem to be getting along. How odd they looked together. Teresa was a little hummingbird and Blythe a phoenix. Each beautiful in her own way, but where Teresa exuded quiet maturity, Blythe was innocence and light. Was it wrong of him to want to touch her? To want some of that light for himself? It seemed he’d been in the dark for far too long, and whatever innocence he once possessed had disappeared a long time ago. Nothing could shock him now.

Nothing except his reaction to Blythe. He wanted her. He thought of her constantly. If he closed his eyes and breathed deeply he fancied he could smell her, all sandalwood sweetness.

She hadn’t mentioned the handkerchief yet. Surely she must have found it. Did she wonder if he had given it to a maid or if he had gone to her room himself? Did she know that he had touched her pillow and imagined her lying there, her hair streaming out around her?

“You will have to earn her trust,” Carny said, interrupting his thoughts. “I fear I have made it difficult for Blythe to put her belief in any man.”

Devlin shook his head, his heart leaping at the sound of Blythe’s laughter. “I do not understand how you could have let her go.”

Carny’s hand came down on his shoulder. He seemed sincere, but there was a tightness around his mouth. “That is why you are the better man for her, my friend. If you are developing feelings for her, you should let her know.”

Feelings? Did Carny expect him to confess his lust and infatuation? He didn’t know if he believed in love, and even if he did, it was too much to ask that someone like Blythe fall in love with a man like him. What if all the darkness inside him extinguished her light? What if she found out what he was capable of, what he had done?

Wasn’t it too much to ask of anyone that she love a murderer?

Devlin was already in the stables when Blythe walked in later that afternoon. Thankfully she had had the forethought to change into trousers for her lesson in shoeing. Otherwise, he might have spent more time staring at her bodice than at the hoof in question. As it was, it was difficult enough just standing next to her. He could smell her perfume and the fresh scent of her hair. And when she walked by him to say hello to Flynn, her hand brushed his thigh. It was an accident, of course, but that didn’t stop his heart from stuttering or his cock—no, he couldn’t be so vulgar where she was concerned—his
John Thomas
from stirring. Good Lord, he was thirty, not thirteen!

“I forgot to thank you,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him as she stroked Flynn’s broad nose, “for returning my handkerchief.”

So she had seen it! Devlin shrugged, hoping he looked more relaxed than he felt. His brow pulled as he struggled to maintain his composure and not blush like a boy. “I thought you might need it.”

She wanted to ask why he had needed it; he could see it in her face, but she didn’t ask, and he was grateful for it.

“Well,” she said with a cough after a few seconds’ silence. “Are you going to show me how to shoe a horse or not?”

“Right.” He was making an idiot of himself. “I have a shoe ready. Marigold’s a size three.”

“Do you measure the shoe against the hoof to judge the size?”

He nodded as he entered the mare’s stall. She followed docilely as he led her out into the shoeing area. “The bigger the hoof, the bigger the shoe, obviously. Flynn is a ten.”

“Well, he is a big horse.”

Devlin grinned. “Are big feet preferable in horses as well as men?”

Blythe colored at his teasing tone. Had she figured out why big feet were supposed to be so desirable in a man? Would she be impressed if he told her each of his feet was over thirteen inches long?

“I suppose they wouldn’t be able to stand if their hooves were too small.”

No, she hadn’t figured it out. Devlin had to chuckle. She was so blunt and worldly in some ways, so deceptively innocent in others. It was a dangerous combination because it made him want to protect and educate her all at the same time.

“I want you to come over here and stand with your back to the mare’s head.”

Blythe did as he bid. Within minutes he had her in the proper stance, with Marigold’s hoof coming up behind her to tuck between her knees.

“Normally you would have to remove the old shoe first, but since that’s already been done, you can start by cutting down the frog—the center of the hoof.”

He handed her a curved blade and guided her in cutting out a portion of the hoof center. Then he handed her the rasp—a
long file with a sturdy handle—to level the bottom surface of the hoof.

“Good job,” he praised. “You don’t have to hold everything so tightly, though. Relax a bit or she’ll sense your tension.”

Blythe relaxed her shoulders as she measured the shoe against her mare’s hoof. She was as natural to shoeing as a fish to water. Even when it came time to cut the hoof down to match the curve of the shoe, she handled the clippers like an experienced groom. She had a lot of strength in her hands for a woman.

How would those strong fingers feel stroking him? He stifled a groan. Good God, was there no peace from this madness?

“How did you come to know so much about horses?” she asked. “In the war?”

He shook his head. “No. I spent a lot of time with our family’s groom when I was younger.” He’d spent almost all his time with old Sam. He had been more comfortable with him, felt more loved than he had with his own parents. But that was a subject he didn’t want to discuss.

“Now you nail the shoe in place.” He handed her the square-headed hammer and a curved nail. “Once you hammer it through, twist the end of the nail off about one quarter inch from the hoof. There are four nails for each side.”

“I won’t hurt her, will I?”

Devlin smiled at the anxiety in her voice. “No, you won’t hurt her.”

Once the nails were through, Blythe put Marigold’s hoof on the low stool as Devlin instructed and used the dull side of the rasp to make grooves in the side of the hoof for the nails to rest in. Then, using the hammer and a small iron block, she bent the nails over the block and tapped them against the hoof to keep them from working themselves loose.

It was amazing how good a job she was doing for her first
time. Unfortunately, it was taking longer than Marigold was used to, and Devlin was afraid the mare’s patience might be coming to an end.

“Why don’t you let me finish?” he suggested, picking up the rasp. All that was left was to file the hoof down so that it met the shoe, but Marigold was beginning to shift in agitation.

“I can do it,” Blythe insisted. And she did, but just as she was finishing, Marigold decided she’d had enough and pulled her hoof free of her mistress’s grasp.

And then she kicked with it.

Luckily for Blythe, it was a glancing blow, but it was still enough to knock her off balance, given the stance she was in. It was good that Devlin had been preparing to take over for her, otherwise he wouldn’t have been close enough to catch her.

“Are you all right?” he demanded as she fell into his arms.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Damnation, but that hurts!”

He would have laughed at her cursing were he not so concerned about her. He had to get her to the house, had to check and make sure her leg was sound. He had seen men’s legs broken by a horse’s kick. Flynn had taken out more than one Frenchman that way.