Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  A smile found its way across his face again as he pictured poor von Blücher at a recent celebration; he had little doubt that the Prussian field marshal who was one of the Allies' foremost heroes had suffered the recent round of toasting and speechmaking with as little enthusiasm as he. It was a shame that the world couldn't allow military men to remain where they were largely most comfortable—with their men. But of course, he mused, the populace must welcome its heroes, and perhaps it was just as well; for most Englishmen at home, as well as the civilians in the allied countries of Europe, the conflict had been going on for so long, they needed to cheer and touch the hems of the returning victors to feel it had at last come to an end and peace was truly here....

  At least, he hoped it was here.... Brett's thoughts turned momentarily dark as he contemplated the likelihood of a comeback by Napoleon. A lot depended on the stability of the new French government that was in the throes of being formed, on whether de Talleyrand could marshall the necessary strength to support the Bourbons and—

  Raven nickered, drawing Brett's attention away from such pessimistic musings; looking up, his gaze swept the placid surface of the lake, but could detect little to draw the stallion's attention. But for his grandfather's beloved swans serenely skimming its waters, all seemed quiet and devoid of movement.

  Then, off to his left, he heard an answering nicker; it appeared to come from the area beyond a small copse of trees that abutted the path. He knew a wide meadow lay in that direction, just out of sight from where he rode. Curious, he turned Raven's head toward the trees and began to thread his way through them.

  Ashleigh had been working with the filly she now knew as Irish Night since midday, and she'd begun to despair of ever making any headway with her plan. The problem was the little horse's skittishness, and in particular, the way it had become an obstacle when it came to taking her over fences.

  When Megan had implored Old Henry, as Mr. Busby was now known to them, to allow Ashleigh to ride Irish Night while at Ravensford Hall, the head groom had insisted he could not allow it until the filly was better schooled. Instead, he'd assigned Ashleigh a placid gelding by the name of Major who was safe enough for a baby to ride and ever so dull. But Megan had not allowed the matter to rest there. Pleading and cajoling, begging and wheedling, she'd at last gained Old Henry's consent to allow Ashleigh a few hours a day to work with the filly to try to correct her bad habits, providing Ashleigh promised to adhere to some very exacting safety standards the old man set forth.

  The most vexing of these was that she never mount Irish Night for the training; all effort must be accomplished with Ashleigh on foot and the filly at the other end of a lunge line, as the long training tether was called.

  Now, as she eyed the uprooted tree two of the grooms had located and set up for her in the meadow as a jumping barrier, Ashleigh heaved a sigh of disgust. She'd coaxed Irish Night over the barrier several dozen times this afternoon without any problems—as long as the scene remained tranquil and serene, with nothing interfering to alarm the little black. But during the intervening attempts when, at a signal from Ashleigh, Finn had darted out from a nearby clump of wildflowers, barking, the filly had consistently shied and refused the hurdle. The same was true when Ashleigh herself issued disturbance from her end of the lunge line, accomplished by banging together a pair of tin pie pans she'd "borrowed" from the kitchens, pierced with a nail and tied to her waist with a bit of string.

  "All right, Finn," she called, "back to your post. We'll try it again." Ashleigh watched as the big dog happily padded over to the gently waving clump of tall daisies and lay down behind them. To Finn this was all some kind of exciting game, and he eagerly pursued it, no matter how often the repetitions. As Ashleigh faced the filly, out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of pink and knew that Lady Dimples had ceased her investigation of a rabbit hole and was falling in beside Finn. Ashleigh grinned. The two animals were inseparable, and even during the tedious horse training, the pert little piglet had been stoutly behind the wolfhound on every venture. It hadn't taken the pig long to learn the routine; she only wished Irish Night were schooled as quickly!

  "Very well, Irish," she said to the filly. "Here we go!" Ashleigh gave a small yank on the lunge line and began to run toward the barrier. Understanding this much of what she was supposed to do, the filly pricked her ears forward and began to move, parallel with Ashleigh. Ashleigh kept her eye on the horse, and when she saw Irish Night's muscles begin to bunch to take the hurdle, she waved her free arm at Finn.

  The big dog pounced from the flowery thicket with an excited bark, Lady Dimples squealing behind him, and at the same moment, the filly, her eyes rolling in fright, swerved to her left and avoided the jump.

  Ashleigh groaned. Even the penetrating squeals of Lady Dimples sounded humdrum to her ears by now; why couldn't that skittish filly learn to ignore them? And if she still shied at familiar disruptions, what would she do at unfamiliar ones? Of course, she smiled to herself, she doubted that Irish Night would ever be likely to run into something as noisy and distracting as a giant barking dog followed by a squealing pig!

  Suddenly Ashleigh stopped and pondered. Maybe the problem was that there was too much of a distraction. "Finn!" she called. "That pig has got to go! She's enough to wake the dead. March her over here right now and see if you can't get her to stay. I want you working alone." She gestured for the dog to approach.

  As if he understood every word, Finn came to stand by his mistress with Lady Dimples in tow.

  Ashleigh patted the piglet, urging her to lie down in the grass. "Lady Dimples, stay!" she ordered, then signaled Finn to return to his post. She led the filly back to the starting point and prepared to repeat the procedure.

  Ashleigh gave Irish Night the signal to advance and began to run with her. At the appropriate moment, she raised her arm to communicate to Finn. She steeled herself for disappointment as she began to read the familiar signs of balking in the filly as Finn emerged from his hiding place when, all of a sudden, a shrill squealing and a blur of pink to her left told her Lady Dimples was on the move!

  What happened next occurred so fast, Ashleigh wasn't sure she was seeing right. Darting toward the filly's heels from either side, like a perfectly coordinated team, Finn and the pig urged the horse forward with a din of barking and squealing that rivaled the sounds of Bedlam. The filly, looking like all the demons of hell were after her, took the barrier with feet to spare!

  It was all over in seconds, and when she had time to slow down and realize what had happened, Ashleigh gave a howl of delight, plopped herself on the soft grass and burst into laughter. The filly, who had come to a stop at the other end of the lunge line, eyed her curiously, but Finn bounced to her side and began to lick her laughing face while Lady Dimples grunted contentedly at his side.

  "Oh, heavens! Who would have thought it?" Ashleigh chortled. "A horse-training pig!" And she launched into another peal of merriment.

  Brett sat quietly in his saddle and watched the strange little group. He had witnessed the entire scene, and he couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his features as he listened to the sounds of Ashleigh Sinclair's delight. His eyes took in the charming sight she made, blue eyes merry, cheeks flushed with laughter, raven hair tousled and spilling wildly over her shoulders.... He couldn't help thinking she resembled some wood sprite as she leaned back in the fragrant grasses and took such simple pleasure in her unexpected success with the horse.

  Suddenly Brett was doubly grateful to Brighton and its princely attractions for allowing him this visit home. Gone were his chafings at the restrictions imposed on him during recent weeks, his concerns over Napoleon, his boredom with life. Right now Kent, with its meadows and streams and the charm of midsummer, seemed to bid him stay, and at the center of that attraction, though he didn't stop to ponder it, lay an elfin beauty with midnight curls.

  Just then, Finn lifted his head and held it very still while he sniffed the air; his eyes fo
cused on the stand of trees across the meadow. With a sharp bark he suddenly bounded in Brett's direction.

  Knowing he'd been discovered, Brett didn't wait for the wolfhound to reach him, but urged Raven forward. "Hello, there, Finn," he said, recalling what Ashleigh had called the dog. "So you're to become a master of horses, rather than hounds. Not very true to your namesake, though."

  Ashleigh sat erect in the grass, her eyes wide with surprise at their intruder. Since no one at Ravensford Hall had been aware of when its master was expected back, Brett's appearance came as a shock; he'd been gone for many weeks, and she'd grown accustomed to a daily routine in which thoughts of him rarely entered her mind. Indeed, ever since the day he'd left, she'd been preoccupied with staying clear of Lady Margaret and her houseguest, Elizabeth Hastings. Since this had been accomplished through activities such as the horse training, she'd spent most of her waking hours with the animals and stable help and occasionally with Hettie Busby in the kitchens. Hettie and Old Henry had become fond of her and Megan, and, owing to the hostility of the gentry in the house, the two young women found what social life they had around the elderly couple and their friends.

  Now, as she beheld him sitting astride his big black stallion, just a few yards away from her, she was assailed by a host of unpleasant, confusing feelings. Here was the man responsible for the most harrowing experience of her life, but also the one responsible for her welfare and, she could only hope, an upward swing in her fortunes. He was arrogant, a callous rogue; he was also devastatingly handsome, rich, titled and powerful. And he held her future in his hands. Worst of all, appearing so suddenly on the scene, as now, he had the power to make her heart race and moisture gather on the palms of her hands. She was afraid of Brett Westmont; of that there was no doubt. It mattered little that he'd faded from her daily thoughts, when here, all at once, at his sudden appearance, he had the power to reduce her to a trembling weakling. Also, there was no Megan nearby to lend her courage. It was one thing to deal with him under the watchful eye of others, including her strong and supportive friend; it was another to face him in the middle of an open meadow, a good distance from the nearest place where cries for help might be heard and heeded.

  Wishing at all costs to hide the effect he had on her, Ashleigh sought to deflect his scrutinizing gaze by commenting on what he'd said to Finn. "I wasn't aware you knew Irish history, Your Grace."

  Brett laughed, white teeth flashing in a bronze face. "Not as well as the history I read at Cambridge, but I've a friend with an Irish heritage who drinks deeply of the heady stuff and never lets an evening's companionship go by without regaling me with a tale or two. Cormac's Finn is one of his favorites."

  Ashleigh nodded. "I should like to meet your friend sometime, then, though 'Ashleigh's Finn' is my favorite!" She reached out and gave a pat to the dog who had returned to her side as soon as Brett began speaking. The gesture was meant to appear casual, but at the back of Ashleigh's mind was the sudden notion that she was not truly alone with Brett, after all. Finn was here and, if need be, would protect her with his life. The knowledge was immensely comforting, and she began to relax.

  "Perhaps you will," Brett told her as he began to dismount. "And soon. He's promised to follow me down from London shortly." He took Raven's reins and looped them over his head so they trailed on the ground; it was a signal to stay, and the big horse obeyed. Then Brett walked the few remaining paces that separated him from Ashleigh and offered his hand to help her up.

  Hesitating but a second, Ashleigh placed her small hand in his, then felt his strength as he pulled her upright.

  Turquoise eyes met hers as he asked, "How are you, little one? Have things gone smoothly for you since I left?"

  He continued to hold on to her hand as he spoke, and Ashleigh felt her heart thudding in her chest. "Well enough, Your Grace," she murmured softly.

  "No tedious country days? No nasty run-ins with the Lady Margaret?"

  At the mention of Brett's great-aunt, Ashleigh's eyes grew dark, but she quickly averted her gaze. It would hardly do to complain to her employer about his nearest relative, she reasoned; what if he thought her peevish and decided to sack her? She shook her head.

  Brett caught the look in her eyes before she turned away, thought momentarily to pursue it, then decided he could better do so later, perhaps after he'd encountered Margaret and saw how the wind was blowing there.

  Releasing her hand, he gestured toward Irish Night. "So you've been working with my prized import. I ought to take Old Henry to task for that. I told him to see to your safety in assigning you a mount."

  Ashleigh's eyes widened with apprehension. "Oh, he did, Your Grace! I'm only allowed a few hours a day with Irish, and I'm not allowed to mount her! Major's the one I ride. Oh, please, Your Grace, don't be blaming Old Henry. He merely—"

  Brett's laughter cut in. "Major! My God! He's twenty-two years old! No wonder you needed time with this spirited little devil! Old Henry must have taken my admonitions seriously, indeed!" He smiled, looking down at her anxious face. "No, little one, I'm not about to blame anyone."

  "Ohh," Ashleigh murmured, relieved. "Thank Heaven, Your Grace, I—"

  Brett raised his hand to cup her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. "It's Brett, remember?"

  The thudding in Ashleigh's chest grew so, she was afraid he could hear it. "I—" Her lashes fluttered under the directness of his gaze. "Brett," she said at last.

  He smiled, releasing her chin, but his fingers stretched and lightly brushed the mole that rested high on her cheekbone. "Women have been known to paste patches on their faces to enhance their beauty. Yours is God-given," he told her, "along with a beauty that needs no enhancing."

  Ashleigh blushed, then dimpled as she recollected the morning they'd left for the dressmaker's. "I seem to recall, Your Gr—Brett... a time you were eager to see it helped along with finer clothes." She watched him with her head cocked slightly to one side to gauge his reaction, but knowing somehow he would not anger with her retort. She sensed his lighter mood, different from those she'd seen him in before, and it both pleased and intrigued her. What a complicated man he was! And whereas before she'd found this realization intimidating, now she was drawn by it and not at all frightened.

  Brett smiled. "There was, in my actions that morning, not even the slightest sense of 'helping' your beauty along. If a man has an exquisite gem, a sapphire, let us say—" he was looking directly into her blue, blue eyes as he spoke "—and he takes it to a goldsmith to have it mounted into a ring, perhaps, or worked into a pendant, is the value of the stone diminished or enhanced by the setting? The answer is no, for the stone will always be the stone it is, beautiful in its own right. The setting merely makes it possible for others to admire it, something which would not happen if it were locked away in a box or drawer somewhere, where it could not catch the light and dazzle the onlooker with its loveliness." His eyes flickered wonderingly over her upturned face. "No, Ashleigh, I was helping nothing along that day, but merely playing humble goldsmith to your beauty's jewels."

  She stood, rapt, looking up at him. This was a different Brett Westmont indeed! It wasn't that he hadn't remarked upon her appearance before—their first encounter, she knew, though the specifics were hazy, had been full of his comments on the attractions of her... flesh....

  But right now something quite different was at work. There was nothing passionate or lustful in his words. Rather, it was as if he uttered them with the emotional detachment of an artist—a painter, or a writer, perhaps.... At last Ashleigh broke the lengthening silence. "You... are a poet, I think... and perhaps a philosopher?"

  Brett laughed, shaking his head. "Hardly! Though I know a few—real poets, that is—and, yes, they are philosophers, too. As a matter of fact, you'll be meeting one or two of them soon. They're among some friends I've invited down from London." He paused for a moment, as if considering something he'd just said. "I doubt that Byron will be with them, however. He's too busy broodi
ng about some private devils, as usual, to want to socialize down here in the country. A pity, too. I'd thought he and Percy Shelley would get on well together."

  Ashleigh's delicate eyebrows lifted with her recognition of a name she'd often heard. "Did you say Byron, Your Gr— Brett? Lord Byron?"

  "The same." Brett's grin went roguish. "I take it you've heard of him."

  Ashleigh's cheeks pinkened. Who in England hadn't heard of the dashing, romantic poet who'd taken the country by storm with the publication of his Childe Harold a couple of years before and then gone on to cap it by having a notorious affair with Lady Caroline Lamb?

  But the real reason behind Ashleigh's blush was Brett's remark that the poet was brooding about "some private devils." It was the very phrase Megan had used about Brett, and the irony of this struck her at once. To cover the cause of her reaction, however, she seized on the public image of Lord Byron. "His lordship enjoys a... remarkable reputation."

  Brett chuckled as he reached to pet Finn's shaggy coat. "Indeed, he does, though I suspect it's not knowledge of the one he gained by his pen that tints your cheeks!"

  Realizing her ploy had worked, Ashleigh's hue deepened. She was not accustomed to using such tactics, and it made her uncomfortable, but it would never do to let him suspect the nature of her private conversations with Megan wherein he was the primary topic!

  Brett's chuckle deepened into a low rumble of laughter. "Poor Byron! He awoke one morning to find himself famous for his literary genius, and that was well enough; then, along came Caroline Lamb, and the famous became infamous!"

  Ashleigh's confusion registered in a mild frown. "Poor Byron?"

  Brett nodded. "It may surprise you, but the entire business with Lady Caroline is anathema to him. From its very inception, he was the pursued, not the pursuer, and to this day, he regrets the whole involvement. He'd give anything to free himself of the lady's, ah, affections."

  "Oh," said Ashleigh, "I see...."