“Apparently the same thing you are. Finding comfort with the animals. But may I ask, why not your own stable?”
Clara took a shallow, ragged breath. “I was not allowed to bring Aethelred.” She nuzzled the orange fur. “And we don’t have Rufus.”
“Aethelred?”
“My horse.”
Michael stepped closer, his hand idly stroking Copper’s back. “You named your horse for a Saxon king?”
“He is quite regal.”
“I have no doubt.”
Clara gave a slight smile and nuzzled the big cat again.
“The last time you were here, Rufus did seem to bring you a great deal of comfort.”
She nodded.
“That he tolerates you in this way is nothing short of a miracle. Good mouser, but he will not let any of us touch him. Takes absolute umbrage at being petted.”
Clara swallowed. Michael’s low voice seemed to relax her, almost like Rufus’s purr. “Perhaps he simply does not like men.”
Michael grinned. “As good an explanation as I have heard.” The grin faded to a slight smile. “Or perhaps he knows you need him.”
She wrapped both arms around the cat, who shifted but purred louder. “I did. I do.”
“I apologize if my desire to dance with you created problems.”
The soft confession shook every emotion Clara had been fighting, and she trembled, burying her cheek against Rufus again. The tears sprang into her eyes again, and this time she could not stop them. “But I wanted to. It was the finest moment in the entire evening.” She bit her lower lip, but the sob still escaped, sounding far too loud in the quiet stable.
Michael’s eyes widened. “Oh, my darling!” He pushed out of the stall, forcing her to move back.
Clara stumbled, losing her grip on Rufus, who pushed off her chest and dove for the ground. Michael caught her shoulders and pulled her hard against him, wrapping his arms around her as his hat toppled to the floor. The hug felt like being enveloped in a hot blanket and she collapsed against him, the tears soaking the black and white cloth covering his chest. He held her, murmuring nonsense against her temple until the deluge eased. She sniffled and looked up at him. “I seem to do this a lot.”
He smiled. “Cry into my waistcoat?” When she nodded, he stroked her cheek with one finger, brushing away a tear. “If it gets you into my arms, I cannot despise it too much. I do wish you were not in such pain.”
She shrugged, that annoying sense of despair trying to capture her again, even over his words. “It cannot be prevented.”
His brows furrowed as he studied her. After a moment, he looked around, as if a herd of stable boys were about to appear. He looked behind her, then eased out of her arms, holding on to one hand. “Perhaps I can help.”
Michael opened the stall door across from Copper’s and held his arm wide. “Step into my parlor.”
Clara blinked, peering into the stall, sadness giving way to curiosity. “In there?”
He nodded. “It is clean, I promise you. This stall and two others were scrubbed just today, with fresh hay put down. We are preparing to bring on more horses Monday.”
Curiosity stronger than caution, Clara entered the stall. Michael, scooped up his top hat, stepped in, and closed the door. He balanced the hat upside down on the narrow edge of the door then looked at her. “Slip off your pelisse.” She did, watching as he draped it over the door next to his hat. “Now turn around. Face away from me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Michael?”
“I’m going to loosen that blasted dress.”
She stepped backward, staring at him, a tinge of fear spiking in her gut. “You cannot! You cannot undress me! Not here.”
“I do not intend to undress you—as much as I would like to. I do want to see you take one good deep breath. Why is it so tight anyway?”
She shook her head. “It was supposed to be even tighter—”
