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urged.
    He hesitated. “What do I say?”
    “Just call his name.”
    When he said nothing, she glanced at him. The man looked surprisingly nervous. Was he actually afraid of his own horse?
    “I don’t recall his name,” he said, sheepish. “I have only just acquired him.”
    Sighing, Mariah handed him the lantern and approached the horse gingerly, reaching into her pocket as she walked.
    He called after her in a loud whisper, “Have you brought a rope?”
    “No, have you?” she shot back. It was his horse after all.
    She had brought two things far better. Sugar cubes and a carrot. With slow steps, soothing words, and the lure of an extended carrot, the horse allowed her near. She deftly took hold of one loose rein while his whiskered muzzle shuddered and sniffed the carrot. She let him eat the tip before taking the second rein and allowing him to perceive he had been caught. If anything, the horse seemed relieved to be captive once more. Realizing it might be difficult for him to eat the whole carrot with his bit in place, she offered him a sugar cube as reward instead.
    Thunder rumbled once more, and the horse shied, but Mariah kept hold of him, murmuring soothing words. “Shh . . . it is all right. You are safe now.”
    Beside her, the man said, “I have just recalled his name. It is Storm.”
    How fitting, Mariah thought.
    Together they led the horse across the meadow and up the road to the gatehouse, the rain lessening as they went. How Mariah wished she might unlock the gate and usher the weary horse into the stable. But she doubted that this qualified as a “dire emergency.”
    “We should look him over by lamplight. Make certain he is not injured.”
    The man nodded.
    She tied the horse to the gate, then held the lamp near as she ran ink-stained fingers over the horse’s pure white legs and checked his hooves. Leaning over, she happened to see that the stranger’s white pantaloons – beneath his coat and above his boots – were stained with mud and blood.
    “He seems fine,” Mariah said. “Which is more than I can say for you. How is the leg? Shall I ride in for the apothecary?”
    “Don’t trouble yourself. It is merely a scratch.”
    She doubted it but had no desire to go riding into the village at night. And certainly not astride a stranger’s horse, soaked to the skin. She didn’t want to add fodder to the gossip mill.
    “The rain has let up,” she pointed out. “Still, you might let him rest awhile before continuing on to Bourton.”
    The front door opened, and Dixon appeared in the threshold holding a candle, which guttered in the wet wind.
    “There you are, miss. I was frantic to find the house empty. Oh.” She paused, eyes widening. “Who is this, pray?”
    Mariah followed Dixon’s startled gaze to the tall man on the other side of the horse.
    “Oh. This is . . . Actually, I have no idea.”
    “Forgive me.” The man swept off his high, narrow hat, which she only now realized was the cocked hat of a naval officer, and gave a brief bow, wavy dark hair falling across his brow. “Captain Matthew Bryant. At your service. And in your debt.”
    Dixon’s thin eyebrows rose.
    Mariah explained, “I have merely helped Captain Bryant find his horse, which ran off in the storm.”
    She turned back to the man, noticing his handsome face, with a straight nose and defined cheekbones. “Would you care to come inside, Captain, and warm yourself by the fire? We haven’t much to offer you by way of refreshment, I am afraid, but – ”
    Dixon frowned. “There is plenty of fish stew.”
    To Mariah’s relief, he quickly declined. “Thank you, but I shan’t trespass on your time any longer. I cannot imagine Bourton is too much farther?”
    “No. Less than a mile down this road.”
    “Excellent. Again, thank you for your help. Perhaps I shall be able to return the kindness one day.”

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.
    – Matthew Arnold
    chapter 5
    When another knock shook the