Grace Burrowes: Ethan: Lord of Scandals

“Horse thievery,” Heathgate spat over the sound of retreating hooves. “As the local magistrate, I am happy to report this is a hanging felony.”

“Papa,” Jeremiah said worriedly, “Argus is bolting.”

Jeremiah had the right of it. While Alice watched, Argus flattened from a gallop into a dead run. The horse’s ears were plastered to his head, and Collins was sawing frantically at the reins.

Ethan shifted so Jeremiah’s face was hidden against his father’s side, but over Ethan’s shoulder, Alice saw Argus thunder beneath a low-hanging branch, the rider flopping to the ground like a rag doll.

Justice, Alice thought without a shred of remorse. She’d been dragged and lamed by a horse, thanks to Collins, her sister had been emotionally lamed, and apparently others—Ethan included—had suffered at the man’s vile hands as well. The pain of that knowledge rivaled the throbbing in her shoulder.

“I’ll see to him,” Heathgate said, striding off in the direction of the fallen baron.

How long Alice stood there in Ethan’s embrace, her hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder, she did not know. The morning was crisp and sunny, the birds were singing, and nothing but the hurt felt real.

“Neck broken,” Heathgate reported when he returned. “He didn’t suffer, which is a great injustice, though the Crown might get its hands on his private holdings. I suppose that’s something.”

Because Alice was leaning directly against Ethan, she watched his expression shift from consternation to, not resignation, exactly, but acceptance.

“Ethan!” Nick’s call was followed by his appearance through the trees with Fairly at his side. They were riding bareback, mounted on matching chestnut draft horses. “All’s well?”

“Hullo, Uncle Nick,” Jeremiah called. “Hullo, Doctor Lordship. Miss Alice is hurt, but she’s not crying.”

“Always a good sign,” Fairly said as he slid off his horse. “Any bleeding?” he asked as he approached Alice.

“I’m not bleeding,” Alice said. “It’s my shoulder.” Fairly did not reach out and touch her shoulder, he walked around her, gesturing to Ethan to drop the arm he had around her waist.

“Dislocated,” Fairly said briskly. “Easily fixed, but more than a bit uncomfortable.”

“Will she cry?” Jeremiah asked.

Fairly smiled slightly at the child. “I might cry. Grey, take the lady in your arms as if you’ve the honor of a very friendly dance. Miss Alice, let Mr. Grey support you, and close your eyes.” Alice obeyed, letting Ethan’s embrace and the warmth and scent of him sink past the pain. She felt Fairly’s hands on her back, then on her neck, finally on her shoulder.

“We’re going to do this on the count of five,” Fairly said, taking a firmer hold of Alice’s shoulder. “Deep breath, Miss Alice, then let it out and hold onto Mr. Grey tightly. One, two, three, four, five.”

Except on “three,” Fairly had deftly wrenched her shoulder, putting it back in place with an audible click. Alice saw stars and would literally have been felled by the pain except for Ethan’s hold on her.

“Catch your breath.” Fairly’s gaze was sympathetic. “When you can see straight, have a nip of this.” He tucked a silver flask into Ethan’s pocket. “You’ll be sore for a few days, and you shouldn’t lift anything substantial until the soreness passes.”

“My marchioness would be more than willing to have you recover with us,” Heathgate said. He’d bound Thatcher’s hands and left the man sitting on the ground. “Fairly will be in residence at Willowdale, if he knows what’s good for him,” Heathgate added with a sardonic smile. “You could be spoiled and attended by your personal physician.”

When Alice might have demurred, might have expected Ethan to intercede, Nick came stomping over.

“Ethan?” Nick called. “Argus won’t let me near him. We’ve too damned many horses, and something will have to be done with Collins.”

The next few minutes were spent organizing the ride back to Tydings, and all the while, Ethan wanted to tell his friends, his neighbor, his brother, and even his son to take themselves off so he could speak with Alice.

And yet, he dreaded what they might say to each other.

When all was sorted out, Collins’s body was draped over the back of one draft horse, Thatcher sat bound on the other, Nick was up on Bishop, Fairly on Waltzer, each towing a draft horse. Heathgate had Alice up before him, while Ethan put Jeremiah up before him on a perfectly composed Argus and gave Jeremiah the reins to Fairly’s mare.

“Argus was a good boy.” Jeremiah thumped the gelding on his golden neck. “He remembered the falling-off game even when the baron was riding him.”

“He did.” Ethan sneaked a kiss to his son’s crown. “And so did you.”

“I’m glad Collins is dead,” Jeremiah said on a sigh. “I’m glad Argus killed him. He was mean and nasty to everybody. Worse than a bad dragon.”

“Much worse.” Ethan glanced over at Alice where she rode on Constantina. He’d overheard what Collins had said to her, about knowing her sister and Alice being unable to help her sister. And Alice had overheard him , admitting he’d been one of Collins’s victims too.

Was that why she wouldn’t look at him now?

Even had he the courage, Ethan didn’t have the opportunity to confront her. Collins’s body had to be dealt with, Heathgate as local magistrate had to take statements, and Thatcher needed to be dispatched to the back room of the local tavern, which served as a makeshift gaol.

When Ethan saw Alice put into the most comfortable coach he had for the trip to Willowdale, it was close to noon.

“So, now what?” Nick asked as they trudged through the gardens.

“I want to see Joshua,” Ethan said. “I expect you do too.”

Nick turned his head to regard Ethan levelly. “You don’t have to be that generous, Ethan. I’m a big boy. When you swive another man’s wife, you don’t have a claim on the progeny, particularly if your brother is generous enough to obscure the issue of paternity.”

“Don’t be an ass. You didn’t intend to swive my wife, as you so vulgarly insist on putting it, and the progeny you refer to is a little boy who thinks his uncle is—God help you—capital.”

“I may not be his bloody uncle, and if you weren’t so busy trying to out-decent the Pope over having my bas—”

He never finished the word, because Ethan tackled him from the side and sent them rolling across the back gardens. They wrestled, as they hadn’t since boyhood, elbows, knees, arms, and legs tussling, first this one in a hold, then that one, until they were both panting with the exertion.

“Joshua Nicholas Grey is not a bastard,” Ethan hissed, his arm around Nick’s thick throat. He hauled up, the result intended to be brutally uncomfortable but not quite dangerous.

“Joshua Nicholas Grey is not a bastard,” Nick grunted. When Ethan relented, and the fight should have been over, Nick moved, quick as lightning, to reverse their positions, putting Ethan’s arm behind his back and kneeling over him.

“Ethan Grey is not a bastard,” Nick rasped in his brother’s ear. “Say it, you stubborn ass.” He tugged up for good measure. Ethan struggled fiercely beneath him, but Nick wouldn’t give quarter.

“Ethan Grey is not a bastard,” Nick insisted, voice hoarse. “Say it, or I’ll break both your arms, Ethan. I swear I will.”

Ethan renewed his efforts to break Nick’s hold, but Nick had several inches and two stone on him.

“Ethan! You are not a bastard. Say it!”

Ethan went still, Nick’s point finally becoming clear. “Ethan Grey,” he said softly, firmly, “is no longer a victim.”