Chapter Twenty-Four

T he house stirred the following morning, forcing the exhausted couple awake. Harry stretched his legs and arms out in the small bed, his feet easily peeking out over the edge of the frame.

Ruthie yawned next to him and curled into his side. Harry laid his arm around her shoulder, relieved that the magic hadn't disappeared through the night. Touching others would always be a challenge for him, but as long as he could hold Ruthie, he didn't care.

He kissed the top of her head, filling his lungs with the rosemary smell he'd missed. He would never allow the herb on his food; however, he couldn't get enough of it on his wife. "I demand we take the master suite in the next house," he said casually. "Just because I'm away from the city doesn't mean my comfort has to suffer."

Ruthie's head popped up and she rested it in her hand. "Do you mean to say you're traveling with the team? You'll stay with us until the end?"

Harry shrugged, nearly upsetting her head from its perch. "They're my homes. I should be the one to enjoy them, dammit. Besides," he said, sneaking in for a swift kiss, "I heard my wife played the game of her life yesterday. I'd hate to miss a star on the rise."

Ruthie toyed with the hair on his chest, twisting it around her finger. "But what about the club? You're always so busy. And Vine? Isn't there something we can do? I can't stand the fact that he's still out there. It's unnerving."

Harry placed two fingers over her lips. "Ernest can handle the club, and I've told Holly and Colleen exactly where we're going to be and when so they can keep me informed. Hiring Colleen was the best decision. The woman is terribly efficient. Not to mention her children are…insightful. And as for Vine…" He shook his head, refusing to let his anger and disappointment over that situation ruin their morning. "He'll emerge eventually. I've got most of London searching for him. He can't stay hidden for long."

With a frown, Ruthie laid her head back on Harry's chest, though her fingers increased their fidgeting, tickling him something fierce.

"Wife," Harry said, "stop that. If your hands are desperate to move this morning, I can think of a much better place for them."

Ruthie's lips curled, and she placed a wet kiss on his chest. And then she continued to move lower down his body. "Show me," she said.

*

The following weeks flew by in ways that Harry could never have imagined. He and Ruthie were like carefree children as they toured with the club, eating up the new experiences and scenery like—in Harry's case—a fresh bowl of plain carrots. Try as she might, by the time they'd reached their last stop in Manchester, his wife still couldn't get him to finish his meal with a dessert. Gelatinous goops of any flavor and creams, however cloudlike, would always be off the menu.

Despite his obstinate eating habits, Harry was proud of himself. He'd been an excellent travel partner. Yes, he still took longer than anyone else to relax on the train, and yes, there was that bumpy, frightful stint when he spent a half-hour repeating "we're going to die" under his breath, but besides that, he'd been a wonderful success.

Especially as he continued to surprise his wife, who boldly liked to announce that she knew him so well. Harry Holmes might enjoy his habits and routines, but that didn't mean life with him was boring.

He was on a mission to prove to his wife that it was anything but.

He would never forget her face when her younger sister, Julia, showed up at his estate in Manchester, three days before the cricket club's last match. Nor would he ever forget the wild and imaginative way she'd chosen to thank him for the gesture.

That night, as they'd lain together in the former master suite of Viscount Harrington (a degenerate gambler, to say the least) and Harry had finally caught his breath, he recounted how he'd been able to navigate around Lady Celeste's spite.

"Mother never let me leave London," Ruthie said, luxuriously draped over her husband. "She used to say that nothing exciting ever happened outside the city." He yelped as the minx bit his neck. "She was wrong."

Harry took her hand and held it against his heart. "It wasn't that difficult to persuade her. I merely told her that if she didn't let me help her financially and allow you to see Julia, then I would take her son to court for attempted murder. And I would win."

"That was it?"

"That was it," he said. "I have to admit, getting her to take the money took some coaxing, but she came around in the end, and I actually think she was relieved to have the matter out of her control."

"I have no doubt," Ruthie said quietly. "She held such control over all of us for so long. I used to think she enjoyed it, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was exhausting and terrifying for her, too."

"I'm sure it was," Harry replied, kissing the top of her head. "And she also told me to tell you to pay her a visit when we are back in town."

"She did?" Ruthe laughed bitterly, but she couldn't fool Harry. He could hear the sadness she was trying to mask. "What did you have to give her for that? I suppose she took you up on your offer of tea with the queen?"

"No," he said. "She didn't ask for anything. The lady said she only wanted you."

"Only wanted me?" Hope replaced the hurt in her voice.

"Yes, my love," Harry said. He turned to his side and hugged her. "It's the one thing we have in common."

*

The only downside of the trip was that Julia was not allowed to travel alone. Harry had recommended Reggie to chaperone the young girl to Manchester, but Lady Celeste wouldn't budge on her dreadful son. It seemed that the lady still believed nothing exciting happened outside the city, and that that mundane environment was just the place for Lord Mason.

Harry did his best to avoid him, still firmly concluding that if hell existed, it was most certainly a place of never-ending awkward encounters. And the last thing that Harry wanted was to feel sorry for the lazy bastard. However, when he stumbled upon his mopey brother-in-law in the stables the afternoon after his arrival, Harry couldn't help but shudder. Mason Waitrose's face looked like it'd been run over by a four-horse carriage.

Harry almost got away with it. When he strode into the stables and spotted Mason petting a speckled mare in her stall, he stopped in his tracks, hoping to backtrack without being noticed. But just like in London, everyone noticed Harry Holmes when he entered a room.

Mason turned to him, and his face grew red, or at least Harry thought it did; it was hard to tell with the bruising that still marred the baron. One eye was better off than the other, but Harry was relieved to see that Mason could open the other as well, although only slightly. He still believed that Mason had got what he deserved, but his wife had voiced her worries over it.

The baron cleared his throat. "I'll leave," he said in a tone that still wasn't as humble as Harry would have liked, but marginally better than before.

Harry waved a hand. "It's fine. I was just cutting through. I was told there was a chapel in this direction; however, I can't seem to find the damn thing."

"In need of some forgiveness?" Mason chuckled, but it died quickly. "I apologize. That was rude of me."

Harry shook his head. "It's fine. I know you're an ass, and I'm also aware a man can't change overnight, however much he might want to."

Mason snorted, turning back to the mare. "What makes you think I want to?" Despite his harsh tone, he had a soft touch, and the horse responded in kind, allowing Mason to stroke the velvety pink middle of her nose.

"I can spot hate. I can also spot when a man is disappointed in himself. All too well."

"What do I have to be disappointed about?" Mason asked. "My sister married a rich man, and now the family is saved. All our money problems are over." He arched a brow at Harry, though the act made him grimace. "I assume my debts will be cleared at the club?"

"I suppose they have to be."

Mason nodded, his expression grim. He rifled inside his pocket, took out a few small carrots, and offered them to the delighted horse.

"You're good with them," Harry said, gesturing to the animal. "I barely know how to ride. I've never liked horses much—the smell always got to me."

Mason threw him a confused look. "I thought the Irish were mad for their horses."

Harry shrugged. "I'm a different sort of Irishman, I guess." His own words struck him. He couldn't remember ever referring to himself that way…Irish. It felt odd, but not wrong. Like most things in his life lately, he would have to give it time, acclimate to it.

Mason finished feeding the mare and gave her one last pat before dusting off his hands. "I've always loved them. You know, I used to think I could talk to them. Before my father sold ours, I would spend hours with them having entire conversations, knowing in my bones that they understood me. I might be insane, but I think they were the only things that ever did." He lifted his shoulder sheepishly, embarrassed that he'd offered that part of himself to Harry. "Well, I'll leave you to it. You're very lucky, Mr. Holmes. These are fine stables. Viscount Harrington had a good eye for horses. Some of the best thoroughbreds in the country are now in your hands."

"Luck had nothing to do with it."

Mason bowed his head. "As you say."

He was just about to make his escape from the uncomfortable meeting when Harry stopped him.

"What if I told you that your debts at the club weren't paid off?" he said.

Mason spun around. "What are you talking about? My sister would never allow that."

"She will," Harry countered firmly, "if I give her a good enough reason."

"And what's that?" Mason asked, crossing his arms. "You want to watch me dangle from your hook a little while longer? Well, go ahead. I deserve it. I know it, but I'll warn you, I'm tired of being the clown. I'm sure my misery won't be half as entertaining as it used to be."

Harry threw up his hands. "My God, man, you tried to kill me. Don't play the victim now."

"I apologized for that!"

"No, you didn't!"

Mason's head jerked straight. "Oh… Well, you know…" His voice dropped. "I'm sorry for pointing a gun in your direction."

"You mean for almost shooting me?"

Mason rolled his eyes. "I never would have shot you. I lacked the courage."

"Well, don't sound sorry about it!" Harry said. He raked a hand through his hair and reminded himself to tell Ruthie again how much he loved her. He had to, to put up with her idiot brother. "I accept your apology," he grumbled. "Now, are you too depressed to work?"

" Work? " Mason spat out the word like Harry would spit out souffle.

"Yes, work," Harry said, nodding to the stalls. "I had no idea the horses were so valuable. It seems a waste for them to sit here not doing what they were bred to do."

Mason crept further into the stables, his expression wary but hopeful. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I need a good man to manage my horses. I don't just have these. I must have plenty of others getting fat and bored at my other estates. Find them, train them, or hire people who will. Or go back to your worthless existence in London living under your mother's thumb. I don't care."

Harry had him. He could see it in the man's good eye—and his bad one.

"You'd let me do it?" Mason asked. "You'd really let me run your stables? You don't even know me. I could have no idea what I'm doing."

"If you're shite, I'll tell you to fuck off. I can promise you that."

Mason laughed, and it was the first time that Harry had seen him look genuinely happy and sober. Because it turned out that the man didn't need a destiny—he needed a purpose.

"But wait a second," Mason went on just as Harry was about to look for that blasted chapel. "You never gamble on horses. I've heard you say that only fools who want to lose everything bet on them."

"I'm not betting on them," Harry returned. "I'm betting on you. Now, don't make me regret it."