"That was private medical terminology."
"I treasure it."
My smile betrayed me. He reached for my hand, then paused. "May I?"
I gave him my hand. His fingers closed around mine with careful warmth. He did not tug me closer. He did not assume. He waited, and that waiting did more damage to my common sense than any kiss could have.
"I am a village-born trainer who hears horses," I said. "People will talk."
"People are already talking. Lady Beatrice told three callers that Bramble solved a financial conspiracy. Reverend Hale is considering a sermon on divine hoofwork. The county has lost the right to surprise."
I laughed.
"Besides," Rowan added, "I am a Duke who pretended to be more paralyzed than I was while hiding evidence in a saddle and taking legal advice from a stallion. I am not entering this courtship from a position of normality."
Bramble's thought came through the window: Normality is for sheep.
"Bramble says normality is for sheep."
Rowan nodded solemnly. "A persuasive point."
Our courtship was less scandalous than expected and more ridiculous than feared. Rowan insisted on proper walks, which became improper because he sometimes needed to sit halfway, and I sometimes sat beside him on the ground, which made Lady Beatrice announce we were communing with mushrooms. He sent flowers; Bramble ate the note. I sent Rowan a peppermint as thanks; Bramble tried to steal it from his waistcoat and discovered pockets had buttons. This led to a battle of strategy that Rowan won only because he had thumbs.
At dinner, Lady Beatrice asked me whether horses commented on hats.
"Constantly, my lady."
She touched her feathers. "What does Bramble think of mine?"
I glanced through the window. Bramble stood in the yard, perfectly visible because Lady Beatrice had demanded he be available for consultation. Bramble identified it with disdain: Nest for dramatic birds.
I coughed. "He finds it memorable."
Lady Beatrice beamed. "I knew it."
Rowan nearly dropped his wine.
There were difficult days, too. Rowan's pain returned in storms. Some mornings he could not stand, and shame tried to creep back into his face. I learned not to cheer him through it like a parade; I learned to sit nearby, mend tack, and let silence be ordinary.
On one such morning, he said, "I hate the chair today."
"Then hate it," I replied. "It will survive. Furniture is smug."
He looked at me, then laughed softly. "You make room for ugly feelings."
"Horses have many. I practice."
Bramble, from his stall, sent an offended thought: My feelings are muscular, not ugly.
"Bramble objects to the adjective."
"Of course he does."