Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

Y ou are perfection!

Peggy’s eyes sparkled with unrestrained delight, and a soft smile graced her lips as she admired the horses in the stables. Morgan observed her quietly, captivated by the lightness she seemed to bring wherever she went. In her excitement, her enthusiasm was unfeigned and infectious.

He could not remember the last time he had felt so at ease—perhaps not since the conversation they’d shared the previous evening. The burden that had plagued him for so long seemed to ease, if only slightly, and now, watching her stroke the chestnut’s mane and murmur gentle words, he felt something unexpected: peace.

“Was this gallant gentleman also born here?” she asked, her voice lilting as she turned to him with a smile. Her fingers traced the chestnut’s coat as though memorizing its silken texture.

“He was,” Morgan replied, stepping closer to the stall. “He is a cross between an Arab I acquired from the Turks and a Spanish mare gifted to me by a business partner from Seville.”

Peggy’s face lit with intrigue, and her smile deepened. “How exotic,” she exclaimed, dropping a playful kiss on the horse’s muzzle. The chestnut nickered softly in response, earning another delighted laugh from her as she fed him a sugar lump retrieved from a pouch.

Morgan could not suppress a smile of his own. “Would you care to ride him?”

Her gasp of delight was answer enough, and within moments he had called for saddles to be prepared. Once everything was in order, he offered his assistance, his hands steady as he helped her into the saddle atop the chestnut. She settled herself gracefully, though her excitement betrayed her as she adjusted her skirts.

Morgan mounted his own horse, an imposing obsidian Shire stallion, and guided them out of the stable yard. Peggy rode beside him, her figure upright and elegant, but her green eyes darted about as though trying to guess his intentions.

“Where are we going?” she asked at last, unable to contain her curiosity.

“You shall see,” he replied, his tone deliberately cryptic.

She pouted, her lips curving into a charming display of impatience. “Patience is a virtue, or so I have been told,” she said with mock resignation. “But I confess I am not inclined to observe it at the moment.”

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. “Patience may be a virtue, Margaret, but curiosity is no sin. I assure you, your wait will be worth it.”

Her laughter joined his, and for a time, they rode in companionable silence. Peggy’s curiosity, however, was not easily quelled. “Is it a favorite spot of yours?” she pressed after a while.

“Indeed,” he replied, not elaborating further.

“Is it far?”

“Not overly so.”

“Is it… romantic?” she teased, her eyes narrowing playfully.

Morgan cast her a sidelong glance, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “That would depend on one’s definition.”

“You are most infuriating, Your Grace,” she declared with mock severity, though her laughter gave her away.

They rode on, her questions unceasing and his answers deliberately evasive, until at last they approached a cluster of ancient trees that marked the edge of the property. Morgan dismounted first, tethering his stallion to a nearby stump before moving to assist Peggy. She accepted his hand, her touch light as he helped her to the ground.

“Are you still withholding the grand secret?” she asked, her tone arch as she adjusted her bonnet.

“Come,” he said simply, offering his arm. She took it without hesitation, allowing him to guide her through the trees toward their destination. As they walked, the sunlight filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows along their path. Peggy’s steps quickened, her anticipation evident in every movement.

Whatever lay ahead, Morgan thought, he hoped it would bring her as much joy as her presence had begun to bring him.

“Oh my,” Margaret breathed, her voice tinged with awe. “This is breathtaking, Morgan,” she said, her gaze sweeping across the panorama before them with unrestrained delight.

They stood on a cliff’s edge, the land dropping gracefully into a miniature valley below. Two rolling hills embraced a small, glittering pond nestled between them, the water catching the sunlight like a scattering of diamonds.

“It looks like a scene from a storybook,” she said, turning to him, her eyes alight with wonder. “A secret valley, untouched and perfect.”

Morgan’s lips curved faintly as he followed her gaze. “Occasionally, you might find ducks gliding across the pond or sheep grazing on the hills. I suppose even they cannot resist its charms—though I suspect food and water are their primary motivations,” he added with a low chuckle.

Margaret laughed softly, a sound as light as the breeze that tugged at her bonnet. “Wherever do they come from?” she asked, her curiosity ever ready to unfurl.

“They belong to the tenants,” Morgan replied, turning slightly to crouch. His gloved fingers brushed the soft earth as he plucked a small cluster of mauve hydrangeas from where they nestled in the grass.

When he rose, he extended them toward her with an air of casual chivalry. “For you,” he said simply.

“Oh my,” she gasped, her cheeks coloring faintly as she accepted the blooms. It was only then, with her gaze shifting, that she seemed to notice the abundance of hydrangeas growing wild around them. Clusters of soft mauve, pale blue, and blush pink dotted the landscape, their beauty a quiet but persistent reminder of nature’s artistry.

“They’re everywhere,” she murmured, bringing the small bouquet to her nose instinctively. “Were they planted here, do you think? Perhaps brought from the gardens?”

Morgan shook his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I cannot say. They’ve always been here, as far as I recall.”

His voice softened as he glanced at the familiar scene, unchanged yet somehow ever more vivid in her company This place had been his refuge in boyhood, a sanctuary from the burdens of duties and grief. Time, instead of eroding its beauty, had only seemed to enhance it, and its significance to him had deepened with each passing year.

“Then perhaps the ones in the gardens were taken from here?” Margaret suggested, ever undeterred in her pursuit of answers.

Morgan couldn’t help but smile. Her inquisitiveness, unrelenting and endearing, was as much a part of her as the freckles that danced across her nose. “It’s possible,” he conceded, his voice tinged with affection. “But I’m afraid I cannot provide a definitive answer to that either.”

Her brows furrowed briefly, though the soft smile on her lips never wavered. “You mean to tell me that you, the master of this estate, do not hold the secrets of its flora?” she teased, her tone light and playful.

“I grew up with these hydrangeas as they are,” he replied, glancing around them with a wistfulness that crept unbidden into his voice. “As familiar to me as the ones in the gardens, yet as mysterious as the land itself.”

“We shall never know which came first, then,” Margaret declared with mock solemnity, though her eyes danced with delight. “What a mystery we have stumbled upon now.”

Morgan chuckled, unable to resist the infectious excitement in her voice. “Indeed, a puzzle for the ages. Though I might add, you seemed altogether indifferent to this grand mystery when you walked straight to the fountain that night without so much as a glance at the hydrangeas lining the path.”

Margaret gasped, her expression caught between mock offense and genuine amusement. “Oh, you shall never grant me respite from that, shall you?” she asked, though a laugh quickly escaped her lips.

Morgan allowed himself a grin, enjoying the way her laughter seemed to ripple through the serene landscape. “Not likely, Margaret. A man must seize what opportunities he can.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the corners of her mouth lifted in a playful smile. “Then I shall take comfort in knowing it was my inadvertence that gifted you such a cherished memory.”

“Cherished,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with a warmth he had not intended to reveal.

Margaret looked away, her cheeks coloring faintly as she turned her gaze back to the valley. The hydrangeas swayed gently in the breeze, their soft hues blending seamlessly with the verdant beauty surrounding them.

Morgan sobered, his gaze drifting over the familiar landscape. The years had not dimmed the allure of this place. If anything, time had only deepened its hold on him, the memories woven into its every corner too vivid to fade.

“This place,” he began, his voice quieter now, “has always been my refuge. As a boy, I came here to escape the burdens of expectations. Later, after—” He paused, the words momentarily catching in his throat. “After the loss, it became my sanctuary. The only place where I could find even a semblance of peace.”

Margaret turned toward him, her expression softening, though her hands tightened slightly around the bouquet she still held. “Morgan,” she said gently, her voice laden with sympathy. “I am so sorry for all you have endured.”

He met her gaze, the sincerity in her eyes both comforting and unsettling. For so long, he had carried his pain in solitude, unwilling to share it even with himself, much less another. And yet, here she was, standing amid the hydrangeas, offering not pity but understanding.

“I am happy to share this place with you now,” he said after a moment. “It feels… right.”

Margaret stepped closer, her fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve as she looked up at him. “Thank you for trusting me with it,” she said softly. “It is truly a gift, Morgan.”

Her words settled over him like a balm, easing a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding. As they stood together, the wind carried the faint scent of hydrangeas, and for the first time in years, the sanctuary he had guarded so fiercely felt less like a retreat and more like a beginning.

Margaret’s fingers, soft and warm, brushed against his cheek. Morgan stilled at the touch, his breath catching as a surge of something tender and profound swept through him. Almost without thinking, his hand lifted to cover hers, holding it in place against his skin as though anchoring himself in the moment.

With deliberate care, he brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss first to her palm, then trailing to her wrist. Her blush deepened, a becoming shade of pink that seemed to radiate across her cheeks, and he found himself utterly undone by her.

This time, Morgan did not hesitate. He slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer until her soft gasp was but a whisper between them. Then, bending his head, he kissed her—thoroughly, deeply, as though the world began and ended in her arms. In that fleeting moment, all the shadows that had haunted him receded, leaving only light, warmth, and the quiet certainty that this was what perfection felt like.

When he drew back, her gaze was luminous, her lips softly parted, and it took all his restraint not to kiss her again. “We must return,” he murmured, his voice roughened by the strength of his emotions. “Dinner awaits, and I suspect the household would grow quite curious if we were absent for too long.”

Margaret’s laughter was breathless but genuine as she nodded. Together, they mounted their horses and began the leisurely ride back toward the castle, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the fields.

But the peace of the moment shattered abruptly. Margaret’s chestnut let out a sharp, frantic neigh, rearing on its hind legs. She gave a startled cry as she lost her balance, the reins slipping through her hands, and in the blink of an eye, she was thrown from the saddle.

“Margaret!” Morgan’s voice tore through the air as she fell, her head striking a jagged rock near the path. His heart thundered painfully as he leapt from his own mount, his boots hitting the ground with a jarring thud.

As he reached her, his eyes caught the flicker of movement—a serpent gliding through the grass, its sinuous body vanishing into the undergrowth near the chestnut’s trembling hooves. The sight filled him with cold dread, but he forced his focus back to Margaret, who lay crumpled and still on the ground.

She stirred slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips, but her face was pale, and a dark smear of blood marred her temple. Panic clawed at Morgan’s chest as he knelt beside her, gathering her carefully into his arms. “Margaret,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not respond. Morgan’s throat tightened as he cradled her against him, his mind racing.

In the distance, he heard the hurried approach of footsteps. The grooms and stable hands appeared, their faces pale as they took in the scene. “Take the chestnut away,” Morgan barked, his voice sharp with command. “Now.”

The men moved swiftly, calming the panicked horse and leading it away while Morgan rose to his feet, Margaret still held securely in his arms. His movements were quick, purposeful, but his heart ached with every step as he began the trek back to the castle.

“Send for the doctor,” he ordered one of the footmen stationed near the stables as they reached the courtyard. “At once!”

The man dashed off without hesitation, leaving Morgan to carry his wife inside. His hold on her never faltered, but with every passing moment, the fear that he might lose her—the one bright, constant presence in his life—grew stronger.

“Stay with me, Margaret,” he whispered, his voice a raw plea. “Stay with me.”