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brother to fund their drinking and gaming.
    But he would rebuild the line. All Rogan’s hopes for restoring his family’s legacy lay with the stallion and this tiny patch of land. All he needed was a mare worthy of Hephaestus.
    “And I know just where to find her,” he murmured, resting his forehead against the horse’s neck. “Now all I have to do is convince her owner to sell her to me for a pittance…”
    “This one’s full.”
    Rogan glanced up as Tallow dropped a few more pieces of soiled straw onto the pile that filled the wheelbarrow. “I’ll dump this,” Rogan said, stepping forward to grasp the handles. “Then I’ll be back to move Hephaestus outside so you can do his stall.”
    “Better you than me.” Tallow cast a nervous glance at the stallion.
    “He won’t eat you, Tallow.”
    “But does he know that? Captain, that black devil loves two things—you and his oats. And I’m not getting in his way of either.” Pitchfork in hand, Tallow turned back to picking soiled straw out of the empty stall. Chuckling, Rogan hefted the wheelbarrow and easily steered his heavy load toward the stable doors.
    The sun shone warmly on his face as he wheeled his burden away. The clear blue sky and mild morning air made him feel almost cheerful, despite how far away his goal appeared. Then the sound of hoofbeats on the drive carried to him, and he paused halfway to the manure pile, setting down his load and shading his eyes to see who approached.
    Pray God it was not yet another recently returned soldier looking for work. Then again, a jobless soldier would hardly be able to afford thefine mount that approached. Squinting, Rogan made out the black and gold livery of the Duke of Belvingham.
    Well, well.
    He waited as the rider stopped before him.
    “You there.” The servant cast a disdainful glance over Rogan, then at the load of manure, his lips twisting with distaste. “Where is Mr. Hunt?”
    Rogan folded his arms and glowered at the impertinent messenger. “I am he.”
    The man’s eyes bugged with surprise. “Apologies, sir. I have a message for you from the Duke of Belvingham.” He slid off his horse and handed over a crisp, folded piece of heavy paper.
    Rogan took the missive and broke open the seal, scanning the contents. A triumphant smile tugged at his lips, but he wiped it away before he looked at the messenger.
    “Tell the duke I’ll be there.”
     
    The stables were Caroline’s world. Comfortably clad in an old riding habit, she worked alongside the grooms and trainers and personally saw to certain horses herself. The horses had been her salvation five years ago after her terrible ordeal; it had been these gentle creatures that had given Caroline a reason to live again.
    Humming softly, she carried a bucket of hot mash to Destiny, her favorite, and dumped it into her trough. As the mare eagerly slurped up the food, Caroline stroked her pretty bay-coloredneck and whispered compliments. The horse’s ears flickered as if she understood.
    Caroline often suspected that she did.
    Suddenly Destiny gave a whinny of welcome and jerked forward, nearly knocking the empty bucket out of her hands. Closing her eyes, Caroline took a deep breath and turned around, already knowing whom she would see.
    Rogan Hunt leaned in the doorway of the stables. The sun shone behind his tall frame, creating a nimbus of light around his head and casting his rough, masculine features into shadow.
    “Good morning, Lady Caroline.” He stepped out of the sunlight into the building, arching a brow as he noted her shabby attire.
    She stiffened. Last night Rogan Hunt had appeared the dark and daring savior, and she had gravitated toward him because he made her feel safe in a time of terror. In the bright light of day, however, and with that intolerable glint of amusement in his storm-gray eyes, he didn’t seem quite so romantic.
    Or quite so safe.
    She gave him a polite nod. “Mr. Hunt.”
    He took another step closer, and she