Free Pendragon by Catherine Coulter Page B

hesitation, her hands outstretched to him, “My family is in your debt, my lord.”
    He raised a dark eyebrow. He wanted to assure her that she wasn’t in his debt, that any decent human being would have brought that medicine to the vicarage without delay, but he wanted her in his debt, if that was what it would take. Just her.
    He let her hold his hands yet again as he said, his voice deep, “You are exhausted, Meggie. I want you to rest today. If it doesn’t rain on the morrow, why then, will you go riding with me?”
    â€œYes,” she said, “I will go riding with you, my lord.”

7
    T HEY WEREN ’ T ABLE to ride for two more days. It rained so hard everyone said that the skies wept. And wept. On the morning of the third day, it was cool and overcast. However, Mr. Hengis has claimed it wouldn’t rain anymore, so no one was particularly concerned. The sun would burst from behind those rather gray clouds, and all would be well.
    To Meggie, it was a fine day. She loved to ride, to feel the wind, strong off the Channel, tugging at her very eyebrows, flinging many a riding hat to the ground and under her mare’s hooves, and the man riding next to her had saved her little brother’s life. He’d even come every morning and afternoon to the vicarage to check on Rory’s progress since he’d brought the medicine, even in all that dreadful rain.
    Meggie was riding Survivor, a lovely bay mare whose name, she told Thomas Malcombe, had been changed early on from Petunia.
    â€œWhy was the name changed?” he asked.
    Meggie laughed, couldn’t help it. “Well, you see, Petunia just happened to be the first mount for all three of my brothers and me. That’s four children she’s survived. When Rory is just a bit older, then he will learn to ride on her as well. She’s still happy and running, so we all thought Survivor fit her much better.”
    â€œA noble horse,” he said, one of those black eyebrows of his arched, “with a great deal of stamina. Rory will mount her as well? Surely she has earned retirement by now. That is asking a lot of any of God’s creatures, don’t you think?”
    â€œSurvivor is a natural with children, so don’t waste your pity on her,” Meggie said, and laughing again, leaned forward to pat the glossy neck. Survivor slewed her great head around and whinnied softly. Meggie reached into her pocket and pulled out a carrot for her. The mare snagged the carrot and ate it without ever breaking stride.
    â€œShe is nearly twelve years old. I believe my cousin Jeremy wanted more than anything to breed her, but she is too old now.”
    He heard the slight change in her voice. Something sad or perhaps it was more wistful, he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t like it. “Jeremy?” he said carefully. “Which cousin is he?”
    Meggie shrugged, stretched, looked all indifferent as she stared at a maple tree to her left, and said, voice all thin and watery, and that just made him all the more on edge, “Oh, Jeremy isn’t really one of my dratted cousins. He’s an almost dratted cousin. There is no blood tie. He’s the brother-in-law of my uncle Ryder Sherbrooke.”
    She was obviously discomfited. He would let it go for the moment. He said, “I have heard many tales about your uncle. Is it true that he has sired more bastards than the sheiks in Arabia?”
    Meggie reached out and smacked his shoulder. “That is your punishment for listening to gossip, my lord. Although, you know, there are certainly many wicked stories put out about him, my other uncle as well. However, the bastard story—that’s nonsense. My uncle Ryder is one of the most moral men in the entire world.”
    â€œForgive me,” Thomas said, “he is your uncle. I shouldn’t have said that so starkly. It is as you said—there are many wicked stories told about him.