“Do you…?” His question hung, unfinished, in the sweet, hay-scented air of the stables.

“I have no grand ambitions,” she said. “Only small ones.”

“But you have them.”

“Hasn’t everyone?”

He made no reply. A long moment passed, during which she expected he would resume brushing the stallion. But he didn’t return to his work. He tossed the brush and currycomb into a wooden box nearby. And then he looked at her, his gaze so intent it lifted the fine hairs at the back of Clara’s neck.

“Would you like to see something?” he asked. “In the b-back of the barn?”

It was the sort of thing a budding Lothario might say. A means of luring a young maidservant away so he could kiss her—or worse.

But Mr. Cross wouldn’t do that, would he? He was too open. Too guileless. She knew somehow that he wouldn’t hurt her.

Nevertheless, she hesitated. Her feminine intuition had been wrong before, and she was still paying the price for it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “What is it? Can you not bring it here?”

“No. You have to c-come with me.”

Slowly, she rose to her feet. She seemed incapable of resisting. It was that slight, halting stutter of his. That vulnerability. It completely undid her. “Mr. Cross, I—”

“This way.” And, with that, he turned and disappeared down the aisle.

Clara glanced at the remaining groom and stable boy. They hadn’t batted an eye. Perhaps it was of no account? Mr. Cross wasn’t taking her anywhere private, after all. Not that she was aware. There was nothing untoward in walking with him through the stable, surely?

She paused to sweep Bertie up in her arms before following Mr. Cross down the aisle. He led her past the feed room, and around a corner to what looked to be a dead end. There was an empty loose box there.

Mr. Cross went to its door. “Here.”

Clara came to stand beside him. “What is it? A horse?”

“Not a horse.” Mr. Cross clucked to the creature within. There was a shuffling sound, and then a loud kick that shook the walls of the loose box.

Clara jumped back. “Heavens!”

“Here,” Mr. Cross said again. “It’s all right.”

She slowly stepped forward and peered over the door. Inside stood a stocky brown pony with a thick black mane and tail, and wild, wideset eyes. A mare, by the look of her. She was heavily pregnant.

“Oh,” Clara gasped softly. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s a Dartmoor pony,” Mr. Cross said.

Clara leaned against the door, Bertie squirming in her arms. The little mare had a thick bandage on her right foreleg. “Is she hurt?”

“Her leg…it’s… She’s lame.”

“How did she come to be here?”

“I rescued her.”

“Rescued her from what?”

“A man passing through the village. I…I bought her.” Mr. Cross reached inside the loose box, holding his hand out to the mare. “There aren’t many of them left.”

Clara didn’t know much about wild ponies, certainly not in this part of the world. “What do you mean to do with her?”