His Bid For A Bride

‘It is.’ Falkner nodded abruptly. ‘And your father would tell you exactly the same—’

‘Don’t presume to tell me what my father would or wouldn’t say!’ Her eyes glittered furiously.

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘Skye, you’re only angry because you know I’m right,’ he rasped.

Yes, she was; her father had always been a pragmatic man. His philosophy had always been, if you fell or received a knock of some kind, then you picked yourself up and carried on. It was what he had done after Skye’s mother died. During the last difficult six months, too. It was what he would want Skye to do now…

She knew that as well as Falkner obviously did.

But none of that changed the fact that just the thought of going with Falkner, of walking outside with him, where someone might recognize her, made Skye squirm with discomfort.

‘I’m feeling rather tired, Falkner—’

‘Coward,’ he murmured softly.

But not so softly that Skye couldn’t hear him. Or resent him for being right.

She was behaving like a coward, and her father would have been disappointed in her, would have launched into some lengthy Irish parable that made a mockery of her fear.

But, she realized impatiently, Falkner’s method of making her angry had exactly the same effect.

‘Okay!’ she agreed forcefully, ignoring the hand he held out to her, ignoring the pain in her ribs as she struggled to her feet without help. ‘Satisfied?’ she added challengingly, blue eyes sparkling with resentment.

‘Perfectly,’ Falkner answered lightly, opening the door for her to precede him.

Skye did so stiffly. And not just because of her painful ribs; she really didn’t want to do this.

‘Okay?’ Falkner prompted softly a few minutes later as they approached the stables. It was curiously quiet, none of the bustle of activity here today that there had been six years ago.

‘Okay,’ she echoed tensely.

‘This way.’ He turned to the left, leading her down the long row of closed individual stables, his limp more noticeable now.

‘I don’t understand, Falkner; where are we going?’ Skye frowned her puzzlement as she followed reluctantly.

Why on earth was he taking her round his deserted stables? Perhaps this was Falkner’s version of that ‘Irish parable’ her father would have subjected her to, something along the lines of ‘he had succeeded despite no longer being involved in his love of showjumping’, as she would have to survive without her beloved father. If that was what this was about, then Falkner was wasting his time, because she—

‘Almost there,’ he dismissed lightly—that lightness belied by the heavy frown between his brows.

‘I—’ Skye broke off as she heard a familiar sound, her whole body tensing as she turned in the direction of that sound, and she realized not all of the stables were empty after all, eyes widening in shocked surprise as that whinny of recognition was loudly repeated. ‘Storm…?’ she questioned dazedly, hurrying to the open stable door several stalls down, staring in total disbelief as the massive head stretched across the top of the open door to nuzzle ecstatically against her face. ‘Storm!’ she acknowledged chokingly, burying her own face into his glistening black neck, tears falling hotly down her cheeks as her arms clung to him weakly.

It had been the shock of her young life six years ago when, three months after her initial meeting with Falkner, a horsebox had arrived late one evening at her father’s stable, the door opening to reveal a very disgruntled Storm.

Skye had turned to her father dazedly as she’d easily recognized the horse.

‘Falkner changed his mind,’ her father told her with satisfaction. ‘He telephoned me one day last week and offered to let me buy Storm, after all.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a total surprise for you,’ he added happily.

A total surprise had to be an understatement. Falkner Harrington hadn’t looked like a man who ever changed his mind about anything, and after the blistering rebuke he had given her three months earlier, once she had walked back to his house, Skye had been sure he would never allow her so much as near one of his horses again, let alone allow her to own one.

But there Storm was, as big and beautiful as ever. And—miraculously—he was hers.

‘This is literally a case of “never look a gift horse in the mouth”, me darlin’,’ her father teased as he slipped his arm about her shoulders, giving her a hug as they both looked admiringly at the prancing stallion.

That was how Skye had come to own Storm, after all—but it certainly didn’t explain what Storm was doing back in England now.

He should still be in Ireland, at her father’s stable, had certainly been there a week ago when they’d last spoken to Uncle Seamus on the telephone.

She turned to look at Falkner, her arms still wrapped around Storm’s neck, the paleness of her face showing the tracks of her tears. ‘Why—how—when—?’ She gave a helpless shrug, totally overwhelmed by this latest development.

‘I brought him back from Ireland with me last night,’ Falkner told her evenly. ‘Although he certainly wasn’t as sweet-tempered as this on the journey,’ he added ruefully.

No, she could imagine he hadn’t been. Storm hated travel of any sort, part of that ‘temperament’ Falkner had once referred to, and crossing the Irish Sea in a horsebox must have seemed like the ultimate in discomfort to him.

Falkner’s explanation told Skye ‘how’ and ‘when’, but it still didn’t explain ‘why’…

Storm hadn’t left Ireland since the day he’d been delivered to her six years ago, had made his feelings clear from the beginning concerning even the possibility of being put into a horsebox again, let alone being taken anywhere in one.

Yet Falkner had somehow managed to bring the horse back from Ireland with him yesterday, something that must have been as uncomfortable for him, with his injured leg, as it must have been to the horse…

Skye shook her head. She didn’t understand any of this. Friday, the day of her father’s funeral, was going to be the second worst day in her life—the day her father died would always be the worst—but surely after that there would be no further need for her to remain in England.

And yet Falkner said he had brought the horse back from Ireland with him only yesterday—

‘What were you doing in Ireland?’ she questioned sharply.

Falkner grimaced admiringly. ‘That bump on the head hasn’t slowed you down any, has it?’

‘I was suffering from concussion, Falkner, not brain damage,’ she returned dismissively.

He shrugged. ‘I had no idea what had happened to—didn’t know about the accident,’ he bit out flatly, ‘until I saw that awful photograph of you in the newspaper—’

‘I’m surprised you recognized me,’ Skye derided.

Falkner gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he conceded dryly. ‘You’re looking a lot better now,’ he added encouragingly.

‘Really?’ she speculated. ‘Then I must have looked pretty awful earlier in the week.’ She had looked a complete wreck when she’d glanced at herself in the mirror at the hospital earlier.

‘You did,’ Falkner confirmed bluntly. ‘You were also, according to the officious ward receptionist when I telephoned, refusing all visitors. I was given the distinct impression that wasn’t negotiable, so, rather than kick my heels waiting for you to be well enough to be discharged, I flew over to Ireland to see if there was anything I could do there instead.’ He sighed. ‘Your uncle Seamus is a self-pitying drunk,’ he stated flatly.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed heavily; there was no doubting that he had become so since his wife had left him a year ago.

Falkner shrugged. ‘The housekeeper is quite happy to stay on, and I talked to your father’s groom, and he’s quite prepared to take care of the horses, but I thought you might rather have Storm here with you.’

Which explanation still left the question mark—why bring Storm here at all when the likelihood was that she would be returning to Ireland herself in another week or so?

Wouldn’t she…?

CHAPTER THREE (#ufc196ffb-0f10-55e6-92cc-b4e88a2af61b)