After a long moment’s stillness, he rolled onto his side and brought her against his front. His trembling hand caressed her in soothing strokes. Protective. Affectionate. Worshipping.
A tear of happiness slid silently down her cheek. No words needed to be said.
Shaw lay on his side in the bed and watched Frankie sleep. Her chestnut hair tumbled around her bare shoulders as her head rested lightly on the pillow beside his, her full lips parted delicately. Each soft breath of sleep came deep and even, and he resisted the urge to lean over and kiss her, not wanting to wake her.
Sweet heavens, she was wonderful. He knew no other woman with her spirit and determination, her fierce resolve to have the life she wanted even if it put her at odds with her father. The viscount loved her, certainly, and that was the problem. Her father knew that the best life for her was as the daughter-in-law to a duke.
He smiled a bit arrogantly. The old man would suffer apoplexy if he learned that she’d given her innocence to a horse trainer.
The most wonderful gift of his life, too. Utterly overwhelming. Complete bliss. And surprising, even to him. He hadn’t meant to tell her that he loved her—what good could come of it? Yet he’d gone and done just that, like some green lad with his first woman. But in a way, she was exactly that. The first woman he’d ever loved. The only one.
“I do love you, you know,” he breathed into the darkness, barely a whisper. “You outspoken, reckless, clever woman.”
Impossible woman. That’s what his heart had repeated to him since the day he met her. Even now, she was beyond his reach. The woman he loved was finally with him, but she might as well have been on the moon.
Careful not to wake her, he slid out of bed and pulled on the breeches he’d tossed onto the floor in his hurry to undress. Good Lord, the way she’d gazed at him…beyond pleasing. Even now the thought of it tingled the tip of his cock and threatened to make him hard again.
He buttoned up his fall and glanced out the window at the darkness. Dawn was still several hours away, but there would be no sleep for him tonight, and only partly due to the utterly delectable creature warming his bed.
The race would run in less than ten hours. Then, three minutes later, one way or another, their lives would change forever. He hadn’t lied to her when he’d agree to help her train Midnight to the best of his ability. He would give this race everything he had with the full intent of winning himself, and he expected no less from her. Now it was simply a matter of which of their two colts would cross the finish line first.
He made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to survey the room that was lit only by the banked coals in the hearth. Frankie had looked perfectly at home here during the past fortnight, as if she belonged within these stone walls. Her cooking skills, on the other hand…He grimaced. But what else did he expect? The woman had spent her life with servants who waited on her for every little need, and she most likely hadn’t been in the kitchens at Willow Wood more than a handful of times in her entire life. She might have looked at home here, but she’d also looked like a male jockey when she’d been on the colt.
Underneath, she was still a society miss.
He snatched up the pot of cold coffee from the table, flipped open the lid, and glanced inside, then carried it to the heath and nestled it into the bed of glowing coals to reheat it.
Turning around, he saw the sheets of paper that covered the table, those records they’d put together to grab an advantage on the rest of the field. A worthless task because the only real competition was each other; all the rest would be racing for third. Still he’d gone through the exercise, for no other reason than to have an excuse for keeping Frankie with him beyond their morning exercise sessions.
He picked up one of the sheets, and his chest tightened at the sight of her handwriting. None of that looping, flowery script other society ladies used. No, Frankie’s reflected exactly the woman she was—bold, strong, decisive.
His mouth twisted with irony. “Impossible to read.”
Blowing out a harsh breath, he tossed the sheet onto the table and raked fingers through his disheveled hair.
Christ…He’d told her that he’d loved her. He’d been mad as a bedlamite to admit it.
Worse—the little minx hadn’t said it back. Oh, he’d seen the tears that she’d tried to hide when they’d made love. But she was an innocent, and they might have been nothing more than tears of emotion over the intimate act itself, not a show of affection for him.
Damnation, it mattered! Because he was the first man she’d ever been with. Because he’d loved her for years. Because now she finally had the chance to shape her own future…one with the possibility of being with him.
If her father would rather have a horse trainer for a son-in-law than a spinster for a daughter, that is. If she wanted to be with him rather than claim the relative freedom of an unmarried life. If she won tomorrow’s race. Because if she didn’t—
Ashes. He snatched up the sheets of paper and threw them into the hearth where the glow of the coals bit into their edges and sparked little flames that greedily devoured them.
His bare shoulders sagged as the flames faded.
If he didn’t win the race, there would be no farm, no horses, no stone kitchen in which Frankie could burn pots of stew to her heart’s content. She would have the freedom to marry him, true, but he’d be nothing more than an indebted trainer who would have to go back to caring for someone else’s horses. A man still no better than the groom who’d mucked out her father’s stables.
Win the race, save his farm…send the woman he loved into the arms of another man.
Lose the race, lose his farm…give Frankie the freedom to choose her own path, one that could never include a penniless groom.
He laughed bitterly. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Either way, he’d lose Frankie.
All he could ever have of her was tonight.
Needing to be with her to soothe his heart, he returned to his room. She was still sound asleep, the blanket pulled up tight to her chin. But he knew what was hidden beneath, the vivacious and beautiful woman who had him longing for all kinds of things he had no business wishing for yet still desperately wanted.
He shed his breeches and crawled into bed. The movement of the mattress beneath his weight jostled her awake, and her eyes opened, blinking slowly to clear the confusion from her sleep-fogged head as she remembered where she was and how she’d gotten there. With him. A sleepy smile of happiness lit her face as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. As he took her bottom lip between his, he felt her desire stir once more, and her heartbeat hammered against his lips as he dipped his head to brush his mouth down her neck.
He rolled her beneath him. When her warm and welcoming body wrapped around his, guilt swept over him. He rested his forehead against hers, squeezing his eyes shut against the unbearable choice he’d been given. He couldn’t leave their future to tomorrow’s race and the whims of fickle fate.
“Jack,” she whispered, her voice thick with equal parts arousal and concern. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. Yet he shook his head, his forehead rubbing gently against hers. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, couldn’t bear to see the emotion in hers. Instead, he pulled in a deep breath. “Do you love me, Francesca?”
Her fingers stilled as they brushed through the hair at his nape. “Do you really have to ask?”
“Yes.” The most important question he’d ever posed in his life.
She turned her head to slide her lips back to his ear and whispered, as if sharing a secret, “I’ve loved you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.”
A scoffing sound escaped past the tightening knot of emotion in his throat. “The first time you saw me I was mucking out your father’s horse stalls, standing in shit up to my ankles.”
“The first time I saw you,” she corrected, “you were working hard at what you love—caring for horses.” She kissed h
is cheek, softly cajoling him to open his eyes and look at her. “Even then I knew you were a man who wasn’t afraid of hard work, who was capable of achieving anything he set his mind to.” She lay back on the pillow, and her silky hair spilled around her. “How could I not love a man like that?” Certainty glowed in her eyes as brightly as the moonlight that slanted through the window and polished her bare skin with a silver sheen. “I still do.”
His heart tore. Emotion ripped through him like a ball from a pistol. And just as deadly.
“I want to make love to you again,” he told her in an aching rasp, desperate to lose himself in her and let her ease away his pain. “Will you let me?”
A teasing smile played at her lips as she repeated, “Do you really have to ask?”
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers, couldn’t stop the yearning from coiling in his gut and knotting there in a tightening fist that made his breath come hard. It was the exact same sensation that always gripped him when he raced, whenever his horse was only half a length behind and pressing toward the finish, when he would push his mount for all it was worth. Riding for a fall, the jockeys called it, when the desperation to win drove a man to risk everything. Even his own destruction. Just one wrong move, one small stumble, and it would all be over…
He lowered his head to kiss her. The instant his lips touched hers he knew—he was tumbling into the darkness, the hard ground rushing up to meet him as he fell.
Chapter Seven
Frankie frowned at the overcast sky.
“Any sign of rain?” Uncle Jonas squinted upward as he took her arm and led her through the saddling paddock where all the Derby entries had gathered.
Around them, thousands of spectators had crammed into the grandstand and infield in anticipation of the race, most of them already foxed on the ale and punch being sold by helpful market wenches and boys who carried mug-filled trays through the crowd. The nearby fair had finally closed after a week of revelries, but most of its festivities had simply relocated during the early morning hours to the infield. Odds-makers shouted above the noise of the crowd to entice everyone to place their bets, echoed by the calls of race officials from their high-perched box as they gave last minute orders to the jockeys and trainers. Over it all, excitement buzzed as everyone anxiously awaited the call to the post.
Everyone but her father and Lord Charles.
After Jonas told the viscount what had happened at the bonfire, Charles had immediately been sent packing and deposited unceremoniously at the nearest posting inn to catch the mail coach home. Then Papa had surprised the daylights out of her by apologizing and admitting that he’d been wrong about Charles, if not about finding her a husband. His apology had been grudging, although a small step in the right direction, yet she couldn’t persuade him to join her and Jonas at the track for the race. In his humiliation over events at the bonfire, he preferred to remain at her uncle’s and learn of the race’s outcome when she returned.
“No rain yet.” Inwardly, she cursed rain, drizzle, dew, a freakish snowstorm, and anything else that Mother Nature might hurl at her that would cause Midnight to run a poor race. She had to win. After last night, she absolutely had to win! She couldn’t imagine marrying anyone now except Jack, could never let another man do to her all the wonderful and delicious things he had.
Winning was her only chance of marrying him.
Of course, he hadn’t asked her to marry him, which bothered her more than she wanted to admit. Yet when she’d awoken this morning, deliciously sore in all kinds of unmentionable places, she knew that he’d claimed her completely, body and heart and soul. But he was gone. A note left for her on the kitchen table explained that he’d left early for the track to see to the horses and that they’d talk once the race was over. Not a marriage proposal either, that note. Still, her heart had panged wildly with hope. After all, Jack loved her, and not even fate could be cruel enough to cheat them out of a future together a second time.
As she walked on Uncle Jonas’s arm past the line of horses, she assessed the competition one last time. Just as she and Shaw had predicted, the horses who possessed a nervous and antsy disposition couldn’t be convinced to remain still; they were unwittingly using up a good portion of their race energy in the paddock before the ribbon had even been raised. Then there were the ones who seemed asleep, as if they wouldn’t jump if someone set gunpowder off beneath them; these could be dismissed outright because they lacked the racing spirit required to win the Derby. Three had been scratched. Only two gave her pause. Both large bays, both alert to all that was happening around them and knowing fully well that today was special. Today was their chance to shine.
But even they were no match for Midnight and Ghost.
Her eyes landed on the end of the line where their two horses waited with their jockeys, along with Paddy and Shaw. Her heart skipped when she saw him. She couldn’t help the small whisper that fell from her lips, “Jack, marry me.”
Uncle Jonas leaned down to catch her voice over the noise of the crowd. “Eh?”
“Black will run free,” she blurted out to cover her slip and waved a gloved hand toward Midnight at the end of the paddock to distract him from her embarrassed blush. “And Mr. Shaw’s gray Ghost beside him.”
“Ah, yes! Very good. Very good indeed.” With pride, Jonas threw out his chest—and his belly along with it. “The cup will be yours, my dear. Count on it!”
No. Jackson Shaw would be hers. And she didn’t count on it. She prayed for it.
Nodding and waving politely to the other owners as she passed, she felt like a silly goose dressed in muslin with kid gloves and a parasol raised over her bonneted head. She was dressed for a Mayfair outing, just like all the wives and daughters, when she should have been dressed as a jockey in the race. If only she could have seen the looks on their faces when they realized that a woman was riding to victory in the Derby!
But that dream wasn’t to be. Instead, she’d settle for seeing their surprised looks when Midnight won, proving her to be a breeder capable of holding her own against any man on any track in England.
As she approached Midnight, the colt nickered in recognition and stepped forward to greet her. She removed her glove and ran her hand over his velvet-soft muzzle and across the broad stretch of forehead between his large eyes. He closed them gently beneath her touch, for a moment oblivious to the noise and activity around them.
If only she could relax like that. Perhaps the butterflies churching in her belly would settle down and she could—
“He’s ready to race and win,” a deep voice said behind her. The familiar timbre twirled its way down her spine and conjured up all kinds of wicked memories from last night.
“Jack.” Her cheeks heated, but she didn’t dare glance over her shoulder at him for fear that everyone who glanced their way would see her feelings for him exposed on her face. She gestured at his gray who stood only a few yards from Midnight; the colt laid back his ears in irritation as Paddy fussed with his saddle. “Of course, Ghost is capable of winning, as well.”
He leaned as close to her as he dared and lowered his voice to a private murmur. “But not as capable as yours?”
She prayed not, because Midnight absolutely had to finish first. But how would he react if she told him that? Instead, she offered, “May the best horse win.”
Not acknowledging that dodge, he stepped past her to check Midnight’s saddle and the mandatory weights placed there by the race officials. The horses would be going to the starting post soon, and all had to be ready to race.
“Time to give any last instructions to your jockey,” Shaw told her as he gestured at Sam, the small man dressed hat to boots in all black except for a white diamond on the right side of his chest. Midnight black. The color she’d picked for the silks so that anyone who saw her horse race would never forget who’d won the Derby.
She nodded and fixed Sam with a determined look. “My last instructions…win.”
The jockey
grinned and tugged at the brim of his cap. “Aye, miss.” Then he went to the colt’s side. The horse immediately came alert, the firm muscles quivering beneath his gleaming ebony hide in anticipation.
Instead of waiting for Paddy to come over and assist, Shaw held down his cupped hands for Sam, who stepped into them and landed on the saddle with a small bounce. Then Shaw held onto the bridle until the jockey settled into his seat and stirrups, the reins firmly in his gloved hands, and his crop tucked beneath his left arm. As soon as he felt the weight of the jockey on his back, Midnight danced in eagerness to run, but Sam expertly stilled him with a firm hold of the reins and a reassuring pat to his neck.
From the top of the grandstand, a trumpet blared out the call to the post, and a cheer went up from the crowd.
Shaw took her arm and gently drew her back to safely keep her out of the way of the colt and the other horses in the paddock around them, who were now as eager to race as Midnight. Her arm tingled at his touch, and he released her far sooner than she would have liked.
“Time to settle in for the race.” Not looking at her, he squinted instead toward the track. “I’m down at the rail with the other trainers. Enjoy your seat in the owner’s box.” He nodded toward the grandstand, then added quietly, “We’ll talk when it’s over.”
“Yes,” she answered breathlessly as bright anticipation sparked in her belly. To keep from reaching for him, she stepped away and placed her hand back on Uncle Jonas’s arm. “We will.”
As she walked away, she couldn’t resist casting one more look over her shoulder at Shaw, who had approached Ghost to give his jockey Benny his own last bit of race advice. Whatever he said to the man made the jockey jerk his attention to Midnight. He asked a single question; Shaw answered. Then Benny nodded, and all further talk between them ceased as the horses began to parade out to the track, to take their positions at the starting line.
Winner Takes All Page 7
