HartsLove by K.M. Grant Read Free Book Online Page A

lungs, though his back’s too short. A racehorse needs to be able to stretch and spread himself. And, of course, his coat’s a mess, and his mane and tail are thick as Tinker’s. Common blood in there somewhere.’ Daisy gazed at the horse in silence. She was sorry she had invited the insult. The horse himself, however, was staring into the middle distance again. Skelton threw on the rug and fastened it.
    â€˜I’ll put him back in his stable,’ said Daisy. She wanted to apologise to the horse in private.
    â€˜I don’t think so, missy.’
    â€˜I said, I’ll put him back in his stable,’ Daisy repeated.
    Skelton shrugged. ‘If he gets away again, your father’ll be furious.’
    â€˜It’s my legs that don’t work, not my arms,’ said Daisy coldly.
    Skelton undid the rope and handed it over. Daisy waited until he was in his house before she moved. Inside the stable, she undid the head-collar and took the horse’s long bony face between her hands. ‘Are you The One?’ she asked. He pushed her a little with his nose. ‘Are you?’ shewhispered. She tightened her hands. ‘I’m going to believe you are, and you’ve got to believe it too. We’ve got to believe it until it’s not possible to believe it any more.’ She wanted a sign – anything would have done – but no sign came and the horse drifted over to his manger. Daisy did not really want to leave him, but she was worried about Garth, and after a while went off to find him.
    When she had gone, Skelton came across the yard. He opened the stable door, threw off the horse’s rug and scrutinised every inch, tapping his fingers on his chin. He replaced the rug and went into the feedstore. Only two bins had anything in them: one was filled with oats and barley; and the other, into whose lock Skelton fitted a small key, was filled with bottles of brandy. Skelton counted the bottles with some satisfaction. Though he had paid for them himself, he was not tempted to open one. He had an idea in his head, though no actual plan was as yet formed. He relocked the bin and went outside.
    The horse was staring over the door of his box. Skelton flicked the feedstore key at him, making him jump. ‘Don’t be a dreamer, laddie,’ the groom counselled. ‘There’s been too much dreaming altogether round here. You can’t live on dreams. The world’s a-changing, boyo, and places like this with their ghosts and their tombstones need new blood.’ He noticed that Daisy had left her crutches behind and toppled them over with the toe of his boot. ‘Those girls! Might as well be living in 1261 as 1861! As for that boy –’ he flickedthe key again – ‘he’s going to be good-for-nothing, just like his da. Wise woman, that Lady de G. Got out while the going was good.’ Whistling, he returned to his house and slammed the door with a loud and proprietorial flourish. He thought nobody heard, but the tombstones at the Resting Place rattled like teeth.

4
    Though the castle was hunched under a blanket of mist and the roads treacherous, the first of the potential buyers turned up the following morning, unannounced. Charles himself had only just struggled back from the town, having been in a hurry to exchange Sir Thomas de Granville for three crates of wine, two of brandy, a small wodge of notes and a bag of change. He quickly carried the crates to the wine cellar, fearful of meeting his children. He could not explain his need of the contents of the crates to them or even, satisfactorily, to himself. He had sampled the brandy already.
    Gryffed alerted him, and coming back to the hall, the last crate safely stashed, Charles found a father, mother and two pretty daughters, the father remarking unfavourably on the statues, the dust and the inadequate light. Rose, Lily, Daisy, Clover and Columbine had heard Gryffed’s bark too and come