Chapter 2

The wind buffeted Maxwell's face when he stopped on the ridge. He stared out over the distant cliffs, narrowing his dark eyes and breathing deeply, drawing air into his lungs. The unfamiliar scent of grass and wet earth smelt strange, and he wrinkled his long, elegant nose. He'd only been on the ship for three days, yet already it seemed a real change to be on land once again. His legs ached, and his head spun with the sudden transition from the shifting deck to firm ground again.

One good thing about being an earl, he thought thankfully, is being able to afford good passage on a decent boat.

It seemed the only good thing, given that he'd inherited the title so recently. It was that sudden inheritance that had him speeding across the countryside in the late evening, heading from Dover to Carronwood Manor. He stared ahead, running a hand briefly over his dark hair, a habit when he was thinking.

"How do you feel about riding on?" He called out to Gavin, his companion and cousin, who rode a little ahead. Gavin turned, making a disgruntled face, his chestnut hair bright in the late afternoon sunshine.

"I feel like lying down in that field and sleeping until a hundred years pass." Gavin told him with a grin. "But if you insist, we can ride onward. I suppose it's better to find somewhere to sleep that isn't a field."

"You might say so," Maxwell answered, his thin lips twisting into a grin. "Fields are not the best place to lay one's head. You're liable to wake up without boots on at the very least nowadays." The crime along the London road had increased and the thought of an attack by footpads or other brigands was constantly present in his mind.

"They can have them. You have any idea how bad these boots of mine smell?" Gavin asked.

"Yes."

They both laughed.

Carronwood, Maxwell's estate, was three days' ride east from London. Maxwell looked around; brow lowered in confusion. He'd been in Spain for three years, and England was at once alien and familiar. The English weather was still cool and refreshing, and the grass was still emerald green on the coast, the high cliffs still imposing and beautiful. The people at once seemed friendly and familiar and maddening for their familiarity. England was just the same as it was.

He had changed.

When he had left England three years earlier, he was twenty-two, and he had lived in a different world. He had been young and reckless, and Father was living.

Now, he was five-and-twenty, and he had seen much of the world, and Father had passed away. The world was not as it had been, and Maxwell felt out of place in the familiar scene.

Gavin had surpassed him, Maxwell falling behind as he pondered. Leaning forward, Maxwell urged his steed to quicken its pace, clicking his tongue in encouragement. His tall, dark stallion bunched his legs to increase the pace and they cantered across the grass, drawing up alongside Gavin.

His head pounded, confusion and dizziness pressing in equally. The shock of the news of Father's passing had numbed him, and he'd slept deeply on the ship; it was only now that they were in England that he was starting to feel more than a dull ache inside.

Gavin had slowed, stopping to admire the view. Maxwell cantered ahead, and Gavin hurried to catch him. In Spain, during their stay, they had raced often; both of them taking delight in equestrian sports. It was, after all, why they were there.

Maxwell was pursuing his dream of becoming an expert horse-breeder. Gavin was there because he, too, had an interest and because they'd been friends all their lives, since they were just three.

"I'll get you!" Gavin yelled teasingly, catching up on Maxwell's left-hand side.

"That's all very well. But you haven't yet," Maxwell replied jokingly.

Maxwell's black thoroughbred strode easily ahead, with Gavin's smaller, half-Arab stallion bunching his muscles and racing to meet the challenge. The two gentlemen sped over the landscape, coat-tails flying. Maxwell's thick dark hair was almost the color of his mount, while Gavin's was a richer, darker red than that of his fiery stallion. They raced across the landscape, two shadows moving swiftly over the grass in the darkening evening.

Maxwell looked around as fields and trees flashed past, gripping with his knees as he'd learned when he was a child. He had always loved riding, but horses themselves—their power and grace—had captured his spirit.

And just as I decided to start a horse farm, I had to become the earl.

He shrugged. He was not going to let that be negative, even though it might feel so. There were definite benefits to owning the estate and land, and having inherited money meant that, at least in theory, he could begin farming horses in England. Whether he would actually be able to do it or whether the pressure of society and his duties would render that unlikely, he didn't know.

"There's that farm where they make good bread," Gavin commented as a low building with a sun-bleached thatched roof came into view ahead of them. "You are sure that you think we should continue down the road?"

"I think we should stop at the other inn," Maxwell agreed. He was determined to make the journey as swiftly as possible. Mama had a sickly constitution, and news of Father's passing might have worsened it. He needed to reach her.

I haven't been a good son, Maxwell thought sadly.

He recalled his mother—pale and thin, her eyes red from tears as she waved to him—and guilt twisted in his heart. He needed to reach her as fast as he could, and that meant riding the ten miles this afternoon, even if he would much rather have stopped to sleep.

It wasn't my choice to leave then, he reminded himself sadly. I had to.

"Are you going to go to London this year?" Gavin called out as they rode side-by-side.

Maxwell turned to give him a confused frown. "No. Why should I?" he asked neutrally.

"Well, London has what the countryside hasn't. Lots of girls." Gavin grinned.

Maxwell glared at him. "Gavin, you know I've no interest in the soulless bartering-market that is the London Season." He felt his heart twist.

Father had tried to force him into a loveless match—it was one of the reasons he'd left England. It was, in fact, what prompted his departure a year before he'd planned it. He'd hoped to attend Cambridge for another year and complete his law studies. But Father's insistence had led him to flee, all thoughts of the law forgotten.

He shuddered. The last thing he wanted was to show his face in London at the time of year when dowagers would be hunting for eligible suitors for their debutante relatives.

He rode on in silence.

"Sorry, old chap." Gavin sounded like he felt guilty.

"No trouble," Maxwell said formally. He drew a breath. Gavin was who he was. He had a different outlook on life to Maxwell, who was more serious and contemplative.

He smiled at Gavin and Gavin grinned back. In a second, Gavin was cantering off again and Maxwell leaned forward, letting Nightfire do the job of racing to catch him.

They caught up quickly.

He leaned back in the saddle, allowing Nightfire's pace to slow, and they settled into a walk as Gavin drew up alongside. He appreciated Sunshine, Gavin's horse, as much as his own. They had both come with them from Spain and were eager for exercise after three days on the ship. By the time they reached the inn, the horses would be exhausted, using the excess energy too fast, but he couldn't wait. He had to reach Mama.

He shut his dark eyes, trying not to think of her, especially not of how ill she could be.

"Gavin...I owe you two pounds," he commented as they rode ahead.

"You do?"

"Yes. I bet that we'd both be sick on the journey over, and we weren't."

"I was," Gavin argued, then grinned. "But, since you owe me two pounds, I'll forget that."

Maxwell laughed. "Very well. I'll pay for our stay at the inn. Then we can consider the debt cleared."

"Maxwell...you can't do that," Gavin protested, but Maxwell inclined his head.

"I want to," he said firmly.

"Well, I'm not about to refuse staying there without the inconvenience of having to pay."

They chuckled.

The landscape changed, becoming wilder with longer grass and more trees and hills. The distance stretched and Maxwell felt his spine jarring and his vision blurring.

I really am tired.

He felt himself falling asleep in the saddle, his legs gripping the horse and his hands tightening on the reins without him needing to think, even as he swayed, and his head drooped forward to his chest. "What...?" he murmured, shaking himself. He opened his eyes, looking around. The sky was darker now, the sunshine low on the horizon and the early blue of dusk tinging the edges. They must have been riding for three hours. He recognized the countryside. They were almost at the White Crown. "Just a few minutes before we can get to bed," he commented, riding beside Gavin, who grinned.

"I'm asleep, as I said. This is all some figment of my fevered imaginings."

They were both laughing as they rode into the inn yard.

Maxwell dismounted lithely and winced as he landed on his booted feet.

"Look at me," Gavin chuckled, slipping out of the saddle and catching onto the gatepost to steady himself as he almost fell, his legs still wobbly from the recent sea-journey. "Anyone is going to think we stopped off at the brewery and drank their stock before riding here."

"We don't smell like it," Maxwell said, breathing in. "We smell like we've been marching in the tropics for days." He felt awkwardly aware of his sweat-stained clothing. Gavin laughed.

"I suppose you're right."

"Let's go in," Maxwell answered, his feet sore and swollen from the long time in the saddle. "Perhaps they have hot water."

"A bath. Heavenly."

Maxwell was laughing as they staggered up the few stairs to the door, paying the groom on their way in to take very good care of their horses.

"We'd like two of your best rooms, please, and a meal tonight and tomorrow," Maxwell requested briskly as the innkeeper came into the entrance-way. "And care for our horses. Oh, yes. And a bath if you can provide that." He added. He took out his wallet. One positive thing was that he now had money to spend lavishly, and right now their needs were not complicated. Food, a bath, and the best accommodation they could get.

The innkeeper wrote their names into the book and widened his gaze at the coin Maxwell passed him.

"Thank you, my lord."

Maxwell inclined his head politely and accepted the keys he was passed in turn, then he glanced at the stairs. It seemed darker here, with less sunshine compared to Spain. It was springtime here, but in Spain it already felt more like summertime. He stepped up the staircase, which was dark with the onset of evening, barely awake enough to climb.

"Must be these ones," Maxwell murmured on reaching the second floor. The innkeeper had given them two keys for rooms there. There were only two doors on the second floor. The inn was not particularly large—there were three floors, four including the uppermost one in the roof-space. Each floor had two or three rooms, and he guessed the inn could host no more than fifteen guests at any time.

He was about to open the door when he heard two female voices, one of them raised in annoyance.

"And the best rooms already taken! I will not stand for it. I might not be titled, but our family is one of the wealthiest in London."

Another woman answered, voice high and indignant as she agreed. "Quite so. Most shocking. Most shocking."

Maxwell winced. Gavin and he himself had taken the best rooms, clearly cheating these ladies of their desired accommodation. They might be angry, but that was how inns worked—they could only provide the first customers with the best. He felt a little guilty, but reminded himself that he didn't exactly have a choice. There were only two good rooms, and they had them.

The woman was speaking again, getting closer.

"And the way that innkeeper spoke to me! I...oh."

The woman's voice paused as she stopped on the landing, and Maxwell blinked as he found himself face-to-face with two ladies and a tall man with a long, disinterested face. He could just make out a fourth head of blonde hair behind the women, but whoever it was—woman or boy—he couldn't see; they were too short to appear over the heads of the people in front.

"We need to pass," the younger woman—slim, with pale blonde hair and hazel eyes—demanded. Her voice was hard and haughty.

"Madam, this landing is very small," Maxwell stated politely. "If you give me a moment, I will open my door and go in, and then you may all pass more easily." He took out his key and inserted it in the lock.

"The nerve! Arguing with us," the older woman began. She was also slim, with golden hair that was tightly ringleted about her face, the top of it covered with the briefest of widow's caps. Her eyes were blue and angry as she glared at him.

Maxwell wanted to protest—he had not argued. But one look at the woman's cold stare told him to get away fast. He unlocked the door and stepped into the room.

He chuckled to himself as Gavin retreated swiftly, shutting the door on the party of people who marched past angrily.

He sat down on his bed, exhausted. He'd been travelling for so long. He allowed himself to rest for a moment, then tensed again. He had forgotten to ask the stable hand to check Nightfire's front leg where he had strained the tendon. He had to go down to the stables to remind him, or see to it himself.

"I hope that bath is ready when I return," he muttered. He buttoned his riding-coat and marched out. The horses were the one thing that mattered in this changed world, besides his Mama. He stumbled down towards the stables to check on Nightfire, already swaying and drowsy and longing for a nice warm bed where he could fall asleep.