Carole Mortimer - His Bid For A Bride

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…?

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