The Captain's Cornish Christmas Read online

  All three of them turned at the sound of feet hammering across the floorboards. A breathless groom ran into the attic.

  “Just heard—the officers are nearly back! They rang in from the village.”

  “Don’t forget, Jacky,” Queenie twirled the end of his scarf, whirling it before Jack’s eyes, “Thorny is sweet as cherries, and Apollo is a donkey at heart!”

  Jack followed Wilfred back down the stairs and into the yard. Hoofbeats were approaching, drumming down the avenue like a distant storm drawing nearer. Jack fidgeted with his buttons, his cuffs, straightening his collar to look smart for his captain.

  A voice could be heard in the distance, raised in a furious bark. It was the voice of an officer, a voice that could never belong to a trooper.

  “Get out of the bloody way!” Those plummy vowels sang of Sandhurst and swagger sticks, of punting down the river on a balmy afternoon while other men toiled in the fields. It was the voice of rank.

  “Next time, Trooper, next time!” The owner of the voice clattered into the yard at a canter, mounted on a perfect gray stallion, its snow-white mane flying with each movement of its muscular neck. The captain sat tall in his saddle, still looking back over one shoulder at whoever had come close to falling beneath those pounding, powerful hooves. His whip was raised in a warning to the unfortunate soldier, brandished high in the air, dark against a clear blue sky.

  The horse pulled itself back with the barest twitch of the rider’s gloved hand on its reins. It was something that Jack had rarely seen, a suggestion of a man and animal in perfect harmony.

  “You’re a damned fool!” The officer gave one last bellow then, with a creak of the leather saddle on which he sat, he turned to survey the yard.

  None of the grooms approached. Jack was still listening for other hooves on the avenue, because this couldn’t be Captain Thorne. The officer’s dark eyes blazed their way around the grooms in the yard and finally alighted on Jack.

  “Oh, Lord.” The captain heaved a theatrical sigh at the sight of him. He leaned forward to tuck his whip down the side of one highly polished boot. “Are you the chap they’ve sent Apollo for supper? Woodvine, is it?”

  Could this really be Captain Thorne, after what Queenie and Wilfred had just told him? Jack felt the eyes of the other grooms on him as he tentatively crossed toward the officer and his horse. He saluted and dropped his arm to his side.

  “Yes, sir, Trooper Woodvine, sir… Captain…? You have a very fine horse, sir.”

  “Thorne!” Captain Thorne snapped his gloved hand to his brow in a sharp salute. “I hope you’ve a firm hand, Trooper, you’re going to need it.”

  Brusque. That described his new captain after all.

  Jack approached the horse. Its round black eye twitched at him as he came nearer. Jack made a soft clicking sound in his throat as he lightly stroked the back of his hand to the side of Apollo’s face.

  “Handsome fellow, aren’t you?” he whispered.

  The horse flinched back a step, eyes growing wide then it bowed its head to accept the touch. From his place in the saddle Thorne murmured, the words indistinguishable, his fingers working softly at the nape of Apollo’s neck.

  “A firm hand, Captain? But a gentle touch will do as well, sir.”

  Jack looked up at the man in the saddle. He struggled to see his face with the sky so bright behind him, his face thrown into shadow. Jack had an impression of those blazing dark eyes, a strong jaw and a mouth set into a straight line. Which, as Jack continued to smile up at him, showed the slightest sign of an amused quirk at its corners.

  “Forgive me, Trooper, because I may have misheard.” The captain shifted in his saddle and asked, “Did you just presume to tell me how best to handle my mount?”

  “Gosh, sir…no, I would never… I only… It’s my way, sir. See? I think Apollo likes me.”

  Jack looked away from the captain, conscious of his faux pas, and continued to stroke the horse, running his hand along its nose but careful to avoid Apollo’s impressive teeth.

  “Fear not, soldier!” Thorne dropped his feet from the stirrups and, in one fluid movement, swung his leg round and hopped down to stand beside Jack. “I’d sooner thrash you than thrash Apollo, he’s far less trouble!”

  Jack’s glance fell to the whip that poked over the top of the captain’s boot. He bit his lip and met the captain’s eye, then returned his attention to the horse.

  “I’ll…I’ll gladly take him off you now, sir.”

  “Apollo has his routine, Trooper, you’re on his watch now.” Thorne drew the whip from his boot and gestured as he spoke. “Saddle off first—he won’t like you fumbling his girth, so I hope you’re sure-fingered. Then brush, water, down to the paddock, bridle off and let my boy have his pasture.”

  He swept the whip down, cracking it against his boot, and commanded, “Jump to it!”

  Jack shuddered at the snap of the whip then took the reins. As his eyes met the captain’s glittering gaze, his heart began to beat just a little faster.

  “You must excuse me, sir, I have only just arrived. Would you show me where Apollo’s stable is?”

  Thorne, however, was preoccupied with lifting the horse’s hooves. He held out one hand and clicked his fingers without looking to Jack. He commanded, “Pick!”

  “Sir, I haven’t one to hand.”

  The fingers clicked again.

  “Captain Thorne, sir… I’m—I’m new.”

  Something in those words or perhaps what Jack knew was a gently imploring tone appeared to reach through the officer’s concentration and Thorne set Apollo’s hoof on the ground once more. He returned the whip to his boot and straightened, cocking his head to one side as he peered at Jack through brown eyes so dark that they were almost black.

  “Of course you are, yet you’ve survived two minutes with Apollo, so the signs are good.” He nodded once and moved to roll up one stirrup, calling to Jack, “Deal with the other stirrup, Trooper, and Apollo and I will show you the lie of the land!”

  Jack went around to the other side of the horse, nimbly working the leather straps. He secured it and patted Apollo’s flank.

  “Good boy.”

  There was so much power in the creature. It was in perfect condition, its muscles firm. The captain seemed to have ridden it hard—or at least, the last couple of hundred yards as he knocked grooms flying—and yet Apollo didn’t seem tired at all. Thorne was watching him all the time and when Jack’s hand touched the horse’s flank, the captain visibly tensed, as though he thought he might need to leap forward and intervene. Apollo, however, gave a snort of approval and lowered his head a little farther, glowering from beneath long eyelashes at the grooms who moved this way and that across the yard.

  With a soft murmur to comfort his steed’s dark expression, Thorne swept his cap off and tucked it beneath his arm. He smoothed his hand over his already immaculate black hair and told Jack, “Come along then, soldier!”

  They walked on either side of Apollo as Thorne led the horse across the yard to the stable which had earlier played host to Trooper Charles’ command performance. It really wouldn’t do for Jack to say anything to the captain about Queenie smoking in Apollo’s stable. But there was a pang in Jack’s belly. What if a spark had fallen from the cigarette? What if there had been a fire and Apollo—

  Jack dismissed the thoughts, because he knew his face would betray him. In fact, he was worried that it already had.

  Jack’s breath hitched as he looked over at the captain and remembered his words.

  ‘I’d sooner thrash you than thrash Apollo.’

  It had been in jest, of course.

  Thorne twitched his nostrils and grimaced, setting his cap firmly back on his head. “You’ve been smoking again, Apollo.” Then he snatched up a bucket crammed with brushes and combs abandoned by one of the grooms who had been enjoying Queenie’s show and told Jack, “Your fellow grooms are a slovenly bunch, soldier. I hope you’ll prove to be stronger meat
!”

  He pulled a currycomb from the bucket and tossed it across to Jack. “Saddle off, give him a good rub-down and I’ll see to the hooves!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If Thorne heard, he didn’t acknowledge, already occupied with scraping at the bottom of Apollo’s hooves. All the time Jack could hear him murmuring to the horse in a soft coo, a world away from the furious character who had ridden into the yard as though charging up from hell itself.

  Jack reached under Apollo to unfasten the girth then lifted the supple, well-cared-for saddle. He strode past the captain, almost brushing his knee against his bowed head as he passed in the cramped space, and hung the saddle over the stable door.

  He unbuttoned his jacket, threw it onto a hook on the wall and rolled up his sleeves to comb the horse. He was aware of the amused quirk of the captain’s mouth again but went on with his work, picking loose hair and bits of mud out of the comb as he went.

  “That’s it, Apollo, aren’t you a good boy… You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Yes, you are!”

  “You’re our third chap in the last twelve months,” Thorne told Jack, his voice growing more stern with every word. “First one got his foot smashed by this cheeky lad. Second couldn’t get anywhere near him to begin with. I don’t know what magic you’re working, Trooper, but do it with your jacket on, or ask an officer’s permission to remove it.”

  Jack’s cheeks flamed and he tugged awkwardly at his shirt.

  “Sorry, Captain. May I ask your permission now, please?”

  “You may, soldier.” Thorne fell silent at a soft whinny from Apollo. He furrowed his brow as though listening and said, “Apollo has his doubts, Trooper. He’s finding the baby-talk disconcerting.”

  Jack met the captain’s eye. There was a flash of humor there, he was sure. But he wasn’t going to laugh, even if he started to grin.

  “What a big, brave, handsome chap you are, Apollo! There, is that better, Captain?”

  “Are you patronizing my horse, Woodvine?” Thorne returned to his task, his head bowed. “He’ll have your guts if you don’t watch out.”

  After a pause, Jack said, “He’s a very fine horse, sir. Have you had him long?”

  “From his first months.” The captain straightened and threw the hoof pick into the bucket with a clatter. “Gather up the reins, Trooper. I’ll show you the tack and feed, we can pick up some water and get him into the grass.”

  Jack shrugged himself back into his jacket but didn’t button it up. He had to draw near to the captain in order to take the reins, but he found himself distracted by an extraordinary smell—the spicy scent of expensive pomade, blended with warm leather and saddle soap. He tightened his grip on the reins, aware of a slight tremble in his hands. What a contrast that masculine scent was to Jack, who used only carbolic soap and cheap peppermint shaving cream.

  “Right you are, Captain.”

  Jack smiled at his officer, but when the captain’s gaze swept over him, Jack avoided his eyes and closely examined the reins instead. He was relieved when they stepped back into the sunlight, then there was no time to think of anything as Thorne toured him around the yard, pointing out tack rooms and feed stores, and listing the names of horses and their riders that Jack couldn’t hope to remember. All the time he was issuing those barked orders and criticisms to the grooms who were laden with saddles and sacks and they jumped at the officer’s say-so. This was clearly not a man to be trifled with.

  A bark of the word bucket to one slight red-haired lad resulted in the sudden appearance of the requested item and Thorne drew the whip. He flourished it and Jack interpreted the gesture as a command to take the bucket from his fellow groom. Then they were off again, Captain Thorne striding out ahead like a king surveying his court.

  Jack followed obediently behind. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the captain. He knew he really shouldn’t, but he stole glances at him, at the breadth of his shoulders in his tailored tunic, at the suggestion of his firm thighs inside his spotless breeches, at his thick sweep of dark hair tapering down to the nape of his neck.

  He had to stop. He couldn’t afford to moon after officers. Last time it had been one touch, a stray hand on a knee as he passed a captain a whip. Just a brush of his fingertips, but it had been enough, because the look in his eyes had given him away.

  And now he had been sent here, to work for this man. The universe was taunting him for his unnatural desires.

  As they moved through the yard and its bustle Apollo grew more fractious, a little less willing to go along with his new groom and a little more agitated with each passing second. Eventually they passed through a narrow avenue between two stable blocks and there, in the shade of the structures, was a water pump. The ground around it was saturated and Thorne reached to take the reins from Jack. He placed the tip of his right ring finger between his teeth and plucked off his brown leather glove before placing his bare palm against the horse’s muzzle in a gesture of calm.

  “Fill the bucket, soldier, then put it down for Apollo.” Thorne tucked the glove into his pocket and removed the other, slipping that into his pocket too. “You and I need a quick parley.”

  Jack swallowed and stepped into the mud to reach the pump. Water spilled out as Jack worked the handle. He kept his back to the captain, drawing out the moment until the captain told him what he had to say. I saw how you looked at me, you ought to be court martialed. That would be it. He’d barely been at Chateau de Desgravier an hour and his card would already be marked.

  “The bucket, sir.” Jack paused, running his wet hand through his too-long chestnut locks.

  “I’m not going to drink out of it, Trooper.” He sighed deeply. “Put it down for Apollo, he’s parched!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Apollo tried to push his muzzle into the bucket before it was on the ground, and Jack stroked the horse. Feeling the captain’s gaze on him again, he came forward and stood to attention.

  “Sir?”

  “Your hair is—” The captain seemed to reconsider whatever he was going to say, instead withdrawing the whip once more. He held it out, touching the tip to Jack’s face. “You’re muddy, Trooper Woodvine.”

  Jack brought his fingertip to his cheek, the whip whispering against the slender digit.

  “Golly, sir… I am sorry. The roads were very muddy. Unless you mean my freckles, sir? I-I hadn’t… I’d only just got here when you arrived, sir, or I’d have scrubbed properly before I ever… You must think me a terrible slob, Captain Thorne. I’m sorry.” Jack braved himself to meet the officer’s eye. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Thorne didn’t speak, but reached into his pocket and produced a white handkerchief. It was pristine, and he unfolded it with a flick of his wrist then held it beneath the pump to catch a few of the drips of water that fell from it. Then, like a father with an insolent boy, Captain Thorne pressed the wet handkerchief to Jack’s cheekbone and began to gently scrub at the mud.

  Jack, still standing to attention, tried to distract himself by watching Apollo with the bucket, but the captain was so close to him that he was overwhelmed once more by the scent of the man. He felt the captain’s warm breath on his neck and, as if in answer, a blush broke over his face again.

  “At ease, soldier.” It seemed like a low purr, the captain’s hand on his cheek more of a caress than— Jack pushed the thought aside as soon as it occurred to him.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  It was a whisper, and Jack glanced at the captain. He saw something, then, in the captain’s eyes. Something that he—

  “Thorne!”

  The voice was a parade-ground bark. Jack flinched away from his captain. Whatever connection he had thought—imagined—for a moment, snapped.

  Thorne pressed the handkerchief into Jack’s hand and winked, whispering, “Our secret, Woodvine. One can’t put a wet hanky back in one’s uniform.”

  Then he stepped back and snatched up Apollo’s reins a moment before the
horse began to pull against him, its nostrils flaring and dark eyes rolling to reveal white at the edges.

  The officer was fastening his flies as he approached, with a glare for Captain Thorne and an interested stare for Jack.

  “This the new boy, eh? Is it?”

  He leaned in toward Jack, his lips slightly parted, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and booze.

  Jack wasn’t sure if he was supposed to speak, and waited for his captain to say something. Still Apollo pulled, shying back from the new arrival, and Thorne’s arm visibly tensed inside his uniform, one strong shoulder setting firm with the effort of holding the reins that he now wrapped around his knuckles.

  “This is Trooper Woodvine. Woodvine, Captain Marsh.” Thorne made a gesture with his eyebrows that was clearly intended to suggest the younger man should salute. Yet Marsh was peering ever closer at Jack, freezing him with that rheumy, pale stare, and Thorne thrust the reins toward his new groom, filling Jack’s hands with the leather and saving him the awkwardness of that missed salute.

  “Excuse the lack of ceremony, Marsh, you know what a two-hander Apollo can be.” Thorne patted the horse’s snow-white shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse us, Captain, I’m just showing our new arrival the ropes.”

  “The ropes, eh? Yes…the ropes.” Marsh cleared his throat and stood to his full height, aided, Jack noticed, by strategically stacked heels to his boots.

  “Sure this isn’t a girl, Thorne? Eh?” Marsh’s gloved hand slid toward Jack’s chin but stopped an inch away. “Ought to be a milkmaid with a face like that, what? You smell of the country, boy…”

  Jack saluted at last, hammering out the words in basic training staccato.

  “Captain Marsh, sir. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Ha! Very good. Got manners after all, boy, haven’t you?”

  Thorne’s hand pressed into the small of Jack’s back, urging him to move even as he told Marsh in those same withering public school tones, “We can but hope, Marsh. Excuse us, old man?”

  Jack moved forward, guided by the captain’s touch.

  Marsh leaned against the pump, mud seeping around his boots, his oppressive stare not leaving Jack even after they had rounded the corner and were out of his sight. Thorne’s hand, however, pulled away and he walked ahead once more as Apollo relaxed, the tugging at the end of the rein ebbing to a gentle amble.