Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

his shirt about his waist. He would change to a clean one. Aye and a pair of unsoiled breeches would feel good. And perhaps, a self-mocking voice continued a shave and a haircut? Might as well put a razor to an ape, MacLean. Dress a monkey in pumps and a chapeau bras and he’s still a beast, worthy of mockery at best, pity at worst. Do you honestly think that she would come back, that she would trust a man with a face like yours?

The courtyard was empty, the bundles gone from beside the door.

Have you no pride? That you would go chasing after a woman who would only have you as the best she could make of a bad bargain? The voice asked. Are you a dog then? That you would beg for any bones that she might throw you?

Duncan picked up his saddle and headed for the stables. Although the stalls themselves were a near-ruin, the sheltered pasture behind was still relatively secure. “Come on laddie,” he said, as Selkie whickered a greeting. “‘Tis an errand of mercy that we undertake.”

With a snort that was too close to a laugh for Duncan’s comfort, Selkie tossed his head. “Remember, were it not for me, you would be a gelding by now, so take care if you think to mock me," Duncan warned. “I will admit that my motives are somewhat selfish. Dewey said it could be months before the tangle is unraveled. Can you imagine a winter with only Fred and a deck of cards for company?”

The horse whinnied softly. “Aye, you can well afford to affect scorn. Grass and oats are bread and meat to you, laddie. You’ve no need to endure Fred’s cooking; and mine is worse by half. Mayhap we can convince the ladies to stay once we bring them back?”

He was about to hoist the saddle onto Selkie’s back when he heard a bark that seemed to be coming from the upper pasture. There was a chorus of angry squawks and the whirr of frantic wings before a covey of birds burst from the cover of the trees. The pheasant had barely gained the sky when it plummeted earthward, landing nearly at Duncan’s feet. He picked the bird up by the protruding arrow shaft. A poacher. While Duncan had no objection to a hungry man taking a bit of game, he could not like anyone hunting so close to the castle.

The rustling noise from the far corner of the pasture sent Duncan seeking for cover. Bow-hunting was often a poor man’s means of conserving precious shot. However, there was a fair chance that the poacher might have more than arrows at his disposal. Unarmed and possibly outnumbered, it would be extremely unwise to confront his crofters now and ring a peal over their heads. Considering the legacy of regard that his father had cultivated they would be more likely to shoot their new laird than listen to him.

. . .

Kate leaned her bow and quiver against the ramshackle fence before scanning the pasture. There was no sign of the fallen bird, but the sight of the stallion capering near the stables was almost enough to make her forget the game. A magnificent creature. Even though Marcus’s stables had been accounted excellent, they had contained nothing to match the sheer power that was apparent in the animal’s every move. Besides, she thought glumly, even if Marcus had owned that stallion’s match, she would never have been permitted to ride him. How she had loathed those timid lady’s mounts! Walking was far superior when one was perched on side-saddle, dogged by grooms and confined to discreet trots at fashionable hours. She had endured it all for Marcus’s sake, trying to be the wife that he wanted, the porcelain doll, wrapped in the cotton batting of convention. But that cozy world had been an illusion.

The stallion had noticed her and he galloped toward the gate.

“Ah, you are a handsome brute,” she crooned admiringly.

Her voice carried clear across the open field. Kate? It was Kate! Duncan took a measured breath, trying to understand this strange feeling of elation, knowing full well it was beyond the bounds of reason. Why did the fact that she had chosen to remain matter? But this was no time for contemplation, he reminded himself, not with poachers skulking about. However, before he could step from his concealment and warn her, she spoke again.

“Did you see where my pheasant fell, my beauty?” she asked the stallion. “I know that it must have hit ground nearby.”

The huntress? Although the idea seemed absurd on its face, somehow it fit. Duncan peered cautiously beyond the crumbling stone wall that shielded him from view. Kate was half-hidden by the brush and the fence, but he could see the bow leaning against the gap. He still could not quite believe that she had gotten off her arrow so rapidly and accurately. Then again, the woman seemed to have a veritable quiver full of surprises.

The stallion ceased his prancing, stopping just short of the fence to rear and pawing the air. But instead of drawing back in fear, Kate laughed. The sound was wonderfully startling, wholly at odds with Duncan’s expectations. Slow and mellow, her mirth rose from some source deep in the very heart of that small body. Never before in Duncan’s experience had there been anything like it, incredibly sensual in its earthy contralto range, running up his spine like fingers on a pianoforte. Her head was thrown back, her neck a long column of sun-gilded porcelain. Though he knew it was madness, he allowed himself to recall the feel of her skin, the silken touch of her hair.

“You are a braggart, to be sure. Do you think to impress me with your airs?” she asked, with a grin that seared Duncan to his core. By thunder, was he jealous of a horse now? There was no deceiving himself any longer. It was neither fear of Fred’s company