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“Some kind of penance? He was at my bedside while I was in the coma, and he was there with me through every step of my recovery. Where were you?”
Malachi rubs his hand over his beard. “I was at work, running the family business, where I needed to be.”
“My point exactly.” I’m about to turn my back on him when he clears his throat.
“By day I was working, and by night I was sat at your bedside while Josh went home to get some rest. I lived on coffee and stayed awake for the three days solid while you were in the coma, only grabbing the odd nap between meetings.”
A lump forms in my throat, because I know how hard Malachi worked in the offices. He would be the first to arrive and the last to leave, often taking paperwork home with him that he would be sifting through well into the evening.
“I admit I wasn’t there during your recovery, but that was only because Father sent me to Inverness to view a potential plot of land.”
My being in a coma would have been an inconvenience to my father, who has always been a stiff-upper-lip and business-as-usual type of man. But despite his lack of emotion, he didn’t send Malachi to Inverness until I had woken from the coma. I would like to think that this was no mere coincidence because as uncaring as Father portrays himself to be, I know he cares in his own way.
My father’s true motives will remain a mystery, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that Malachi was there for me, he was sitting at my bedside when I needed him. I walk down a few steps and attempt to close the distance between us, at which my brother steps back. That’s right, we’re Calloways, we don’t express emotion. I stop walking and keep my feet firmly rooted to the spot.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let Josh take all the glory?”
Malachi shrugs. “Because glory was what Josh was seeking. Whereas I? I never wanted a thank you or any credit. I just wanted my little brother to wake up from his coma. That was all that mattered to me.”
My eyes burn with emotion. I want nothing more than to charge toward my brother and pull him into a bear hug the way Josh did previously. The problem is years of expectation and conformity have cast an invisible forcefield around us and all I’m able to do in this moment is to meet his gaze. My eyes are saying all the words that I will never say aloud.
“Malachi,” I say, and rub my hand over the sleeve of my suit jacket. “I—”
“I know,” is his curt reply, and by that the subject matter is closed. Although we will never speak of this again, I shall certainly never forget.
“Is that all?” I ask, knowing the conversation is over, but feeling like there is more my brother wants to say.
“I was wrong.” He grits out the words. I’m about to ask him to repeat his admission when he carries on. “Wrong about Chelsea. I watched you both today, the way you looked at each other. I see now that you do have something special. And, despite my initial reservations, you have my approval.”
Although his approval is unneeded, it feels good to have it. “Thanks, Mal.”
He rocks on his heels several times before jerking his head back in the direction from which he came. “I better go. I can’t very well expect Josh and Gage to remain in the study without the host.”
I smile at Malachi, and nearly fall down the stairs when he smiles back—a big, open-mouthed smile. Just like that his smile dissolves into nothing. He takes his leave, and I take mine.
I take the stairs two at a time, pull my phone from my pocket and write Chelsea a text that would have any girl blushing. I reread the text one final time, then finish the message with a promise. A promise that at the end of the month, she will be mine.
Chelsea
My head is throbbing when I wake up the next morning. I partly have Farrah to blame for taking me to the fair last night. It was last night I discovered I get terrible vertigo from spinning. It was a pity I didn’t discover this fact about myselfbeforeFarrah dragged me onto the waltzers. Needless to say, the ground was still moving long after the ride had stopped, and Dante had to carry me to the car.
I woke up around three am to a ream of naughty texts from Lucian. By that time I was wide awake and began texting him back. We sent texts back and forth well into the early hours and I didn’t get back to sleep until after six am.
Stretching, I let out an exaggerated yawn. I side-eye the digital clock on the nightstand. Ten-thirty flashes in bold red. I sit up with a start and jump out of bed. Not because I have anything I need to do, but I asked Tim to have Jupiter in the paddock ready for an early start. My hope is that we can get her saddle on today—it’s a little ambitious, I know. If we don’t get the saddle on, we can at least get her used to seeing me wearing the riding gear and the riding equipment lying around.
After a shower, I get changed into a pair of navy breeches, matching hunt coat, and tall black boots. I sure look the part of a confident rider. Now I just have to convince Jupiter and gain her trust. After looking myself over in the mirror, I make my way downstairs.
The smell of freshly baked bread fills my senses as I walk down the corridor, and I will myself to continue toward the orangery to the gardens. It would seem my legs have other ideas and take me straight to the kitchen. My stomach rumbles loudly as I enter. Mrs Collins is standing behind a large oak table. She smiles in acknowledgement as she kneads dough.
“Go sit down. I’ll bring you something to eat shortly,” she says, rolling the dough into a ball.
I still can’t get used to having people wait on me hand and foot. “It’s okay, I can make myself a sandwich.” I head toward the pantry. The doors are open, displaying the many shelves of preserves, spices, pasta and vegetables.
Heavy footfalls follow me, and fingers covered in flour wrap around my wrist. “You will do no such thing. The master will have my guts for garters.”
I smile at Mrs Collins, who has a kind grandmother vibe about her. She is a small, well-built lady with bright rosy cheeks. Her grey hair is secured in a hair net, though a few strands are loose and fall around her face in tight spirals.
“Honestly, I don’t mind,” I say, but she refuses to listen and insists on making me something to eat. She butters two thick slices of granary bread and I sit on a rickety stool and listen intently as she tells me about her dear grandchildren: Mildred, who’s eight, and Paisley, who’s nine. Although I smile, I can’t help the sadness that runs through me thinking about my niece, Freja, and Lizzie’s young children. I’m only here for a month, but I’ll be missing out on so much during that time.
