Page 75 of His Duchess to Remember

Upon reaching the stables, Rogue flopped his head over the top of his stall door and snorted a welcome.

“Good morning to you too,” Malcolm said with a faint chuckle, his callused palm coming up to stroke the horse’s nose.

As if sensing his master’s dismay, Rogue bumped Malcolm in the chest and snorted again.

“Och, it’s nothing,” Malcolm murmured, resting his brow against the stallion’s for a moment. “I just made a mess of things, that’s all.”

The horse nudged him more gently, as if he understood.

Despite the morning fog and the fact that Octavia would probably kill him, a thought popped into Malcolm’s head: a promise that he had made to his son that he would very much like to keep before he left.

“Would ye like to ride with me for a while, before we set ye on Bessie?” he asked, turning to Simon.

Simon’s eyes widened. “On Rogue?”

“Aye, on Rogue.”

Millicent, standing a short distance away, seemed to pale. But what could she say? She could not protest, though Malcolm had no doubt that she would inform Octavia.

Simon nodded. “Let’s ride Rogue, Papa.”

At the word ‘ride,’ the stallion nickered his approval, and Malcolm walked down the central aisle of the stables to fetch the horse’s tack. Maybe this was another mistake, but his mind was made up.

Ye can be mad at me all ye like, Octavia, but I want my son to remember me. And I mean to keep my promise.

“Faster, Papa!” Simon cried in delight as the stallion raced across the lawns of Huntfield.

Malcolm laughed. “If we go any faster, we might start to fly.”

The wind whipped at their faces, the stallion enjoying the freedom of being able to run as he pleased, the green landscape a blur around them.

“I want to fly,” Simon insisted.

“Well, put out yer arms then,” Malcolm said, and held his son tighter to him.

The little boy did just that, his arms stretched out wide to either side of him, his face tilting up as his eyes closed.

“I’m doing it!” Simon shouted excitedly.

“Aye, laddie, ye are.” Malcolm smiled, a lump forming in his throat as he watched his son at total peace, with such joy on his face that Malcolm almost envied him.

All children deserved to have a childhood like this, free of worry and strife, absent all cruelty, where anything and everything was possible. Even flying.

As they reached the forest, Rogue slowed, and Malcolm turned the stallion around so they could make a slower return to the stables.

In Malcolm’s arms, Simon twisted around, his cheeks pink from the wind, his eyes bright, his smile so wide that it made the grey morning seem much brighter.

“This is the best day, Papa,” the boy said, breathless. “Again!”

Malcolm’s heart ached. “Again?”

The boy nodded.

“Very well.” Malcolm clicked his tongue and squeezed his thighs and, with a happy flick of his ears, Rogue took off once more, long legs stretching into a gallop.

As the horse raced toward the stables, both father and son closed their eyes and, just for a moment, Malcolm too felt like he was flying. A freedom and a happiness like no other, however temporary.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT