Free A Lady's Wish by Katharine Ashe

mind the labor. He had not forgotten the day when he’d had to perform this task himself, and others much worse, because he could not afford the price of boot blacking let alone a servant to apply it. Now the stable hand was busy assisting Carr with the carriage horse’s poultice, and Rum had not yet returned from the posting house with the fresh cattle. And Nik liked his horse, a new purchase in London, an easy tempered animal with a degree of intelligence.
    Unlike its master.
    He should not have teased her the night before. He had done it out of anger. He saw the spark of interest in her cornflower eyes and abused it to soothe his pricked vanity.
    But it was not truly vanity that pained him. It never had been.
    She was married, changed by the years, yet he still wanted to touch her. He had wanted to touch her—needed to—from the first moment he saw her. For that reason alone he had teased her. But she was still married, and he was still the fool.
    Footsteps sounded on the floor planking and a bright head appeared above the stall’s half-door.
    “Good morning, Captain. Have you breakfasted?”
    He rested his arm across his horse’s back. “I have indeed, Miss Ramsay.”
    “The rain seems to have eased. I daresay we will reach our cousins’ house today. Has Mr. Rum returned yet with the new horses?”
    “We may expect him shortly.”
    “I have nothing to do until then. May I help you?”
    He smiled. “I would be glad for the company, of course, but I am afraid you are not quite dressed for the occupation.”
    “Neither are you.” She unlatched the door and entered. “What shall I do?”
    “Have you brushed a horse’s mane before?”
    “Never! What fun.” She extended her hand. “A tool, please, sir?”
    He handed over a brush and she set to work.
    “I like it that you do not treat me as an imbecilic female.”
    “It requires no particular intelligence to comb out a horse’s mane, Miss Ramsay.”
    “That is not what I mean, of course. You are very civil to me. Most gentlemen are impatient.”
    “Cads, all of them.”
    She giggled. “I am quite serious, Captain. My sister is wary of you, and tells me I must take care. But she has been disappointed in marriage and imagines all gentlemen unworthy of me, I think.”
    Nik had to force himself to continue working the currycomb across his horse’s coat, his gut tight. This information should make no difference to him.
    “When was your sister wed?”
    “It was 1807, the year Tricky spent the spring with our cousins. It has been all those years since she last visited them, in fact.”
    He pressed the comb into the bay’s flank, the rhythmic action forcing steadiness to his breaths and heartbeats. How many times at sea as a young sailor had he set scrub brush to deck and labored in body to bring command to his thoughts? Each time, in those early years, he had thought of his father and brothers and how they would not believe the indolent, carefree Nikolas could force discipline upon himself so successfully. And during those long hours of hard work, earning experience and respect amongst his fellow sailors and superiors, he had also thought of her. He had always thought of her.
    “In what month?”
    The girl stroked the horse’s hair with the comb, petting its neck with her other hand. “May.”
    Betrothed?
    Not remotely.
    He drew a slow breath. “Did your parents arrange the match, then?”
    “Oh, yes. Papa was still alive, and he and Mama were quite heavy handed with Tricky and Timothy—that is our brother. But Papa died and now Timothy only listens to Mama when it pleases him. He is quite improved since succeeding to the title, actually.”
    The title ?
    “Your brother is Lord . . . ?”
    “Bramfield. He is a viscount.”
    Viscount?
    “It is not a particularly old title or grand estate, and so far north we may as well be in Scotland. But we were always well enough, and my brother is quite a solid member of Parliament now, though of course he