The mare, Black Gold, lived up to her name. Lottie hadn’t known it was what people called oil, until she’d said it was odd and Billy had completed her education with a knowing smile. And she was proving to be a slippery customer. However, she was as pretty as they came, a perfect white stripe down the middle of her face and two white socks on her hind legs. Sitting on her was like being the oil rig on top of the geyser; you tried to draw out that little bit more and didn’t know if you were going to be rewarded with astonishing talent or an explosion. She was slick, slippery, mercurial. I wished they’d called you black treacle, at least I would have had a chance of sticking on, then, and without the risk of spontaneous combustion.
She tightened the mare’s girth and checked all the leatherwork of her bridle. Then she did it again, as the horse danced around her on tiptoes, eyes on stalks and nostrils flaring until she could see the blood-red linings. The last thing she wanted to think about. Blood. Hers.
Lottie glanced down at the boots. Bugger, bending down there could get her trampled, or she might actually be sick. But if one came undone mid-jump they might never come back down to earth again. ‘Stand still or I’ll put you on the naughty step. Okay?’ The mare rolled her eyes like a temperamental teenager, showing the whites. Then the second Lottie bent over, sharp teeth sank into her back and she just knew there’d be a perfect purple bruise. Horse hickeys were so not the in thing.
‘I’d have gone for the bum, if it had been me.’
Lottie shot up so quick that the blood rush to her brain nearly overshadowed the embarrassment. The sight of Mick sitting casually on a seventeen-hand hunter built like a brick shithouse made her absurdly jealous. He held the reins by the buckle ends in one hand, his head tipped to one side, feet dangling free of his stirrups, a fan of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a glass in the other hand. ‘You can ride with me if you need steadying.’
‘How did you get here?’ She frowned. Then she gave the horse another look as she tried to distract herself from the sex-in-a-saddle rider who could have given Heathcliff a run for his money.
‘I rode over. Gave him a warm-up. Maybe you should have done the same?’
‘Where’s Rory?’ She suddenly realised, as she dodged Black Gold’s teeth, that Rory had done a disappearing act.
***
Rory had decided that Elizabeth had been right, Lottie needed a swift tot to settle her nerves before they set off. It did, however, also mean that he got waylaid by the old dragon herself, but the prospect of watching her torment Tom and his black-eyed daughter was entertainment worth the risk. He had half-heartedly tried to dodge past with the drinks, but Elizabeth had nearly punctured his vitals swinging the shooting stick in his direction, never spilling a drop of the drink she held rock-steady in her other hand.
‘Robert, have you met Thomas and his young daughter?’ The fact that she always got his name wrong should have annoyed him, except the fact that she did it every single bloody time convinced him that she was doing it on purpose, and to rise to the bait would give her a moment of glee and satisfaction she didn’t deserve.
‘Robert?’ Tabatha’s young unlined brow creased in concentration. ‘But aren’t you, er,’ she paused, not wanting to risk embarrassment, but not wanting to miss an opportunity won out. ‘Aren’t you, Rory Steel?’
‘I am.’ He winked, and for the first time in as long as Tom could remember, he saw his daughter flush. ‘Old Lizzy here gets confused sometimes.’ Oh, boy, if looks could kill.
‘We met briefly at the funeral, I believe.’ Tom held out a hand, trying to break the awed silence.
‘You’re an eventer.’ His daughter unfortunately was not to be distracted. But Elizabeth was obviously used to this kind of behaviour.
‘Ignore him, dear. All horsemen do is swear, drink and fornicate. Believe me, I know from experience.’
Rory winked and leaned in. ‘That’s fuck, fornicate.’ His whisper, aimed at her ear, reached all of them. A smile twitched across Elizabeth’s fixed lips as the teenager turned an even closer shade to beetroot and Tom seemed to be debating whether to be rude or hold his tongue.
‘And who is that gorgeous man chatting up my little Charlotte?’
Rory dragged his attention from the uncomfortable duo and over to the wagon. ‘That, Elizabeth, as if you didn’t know, is Mick O’Neal, my farrier.’
‘Looks Irish to me.’
‘He sounds it too, though I’m sure you’ve sneaked up on him and know that already.’
She sniffed. ‘I don’t sneak. Now I bet he knows a thing or two about horses. He’s got a proper hunter type there, not like your flimsy creature.’
‘Oh, God, I do love you, Elizabeth.’ He smacked a noisy kiss on her cheek and ignored the shudder of apparent distaste.
‘It looks like he knows a thing or two about women as well.’
Lottie was grinning, no sign of the earlier nerves, and Rory felt slight irritation, both at her recovery when he’d gone to get her a drink, and the hand that Mick had briefly placed proprietorially on her shoulder. It wasn’t that he and Lottie were seriously involved, was it? But the last thing she needed was a man like Mick.
***
Mick rested one hand on the pommel of the saddle, and the other on his thigh, and the Irishman in him emerged as he couldn’t help but think poetic thoughts at the sight of the blushing Lottie and the dancing black mare. They were a perfect picture, dark energy against the soft green and gold of the countryside. Old England as a great artist would like to depict it. If he’d have been a less principled man, he would have suggested something far more carnal than a day out following the scent of something not even remotely resembling a fox.
It was a perfect day for the chase, though. Soft sunlight danced across the ground, broken and dappled as it weaved its way through the slowly unfurling canopy of new leaves. Under the hedgerows the last of the crocus shouted out, garish and unashamed, and the daffodils towering between them glowed, small rays far brighter than the morning sun.
The whinnies of excited horses broke across the babble of voices, hooves clattering across the car park, the smell of leather lingering in the air, mixed with the familiar tang of warm horse and the odd whiff of whiskey-tinged breath.
Mick’s gaze drifted over the crowd, the horses groomed to within an inch of their lives, the riders smart in hunting red or dark jackets, shirts and cravats still gleaming white, jodhpurs light, boots mud-free. For now. Around them hovered the supporters, some here for the vicarious thrill, some for the drink, some to catch up with friends, and farmers who were keen to study the damage inflicted on their fields and hedges. In return for not-so-small favours.
And then there were the others, out on the road. Lurking, waiting, ready to cause what chaos they could when the hunt set off.
‘If I were an artistic man, I’d say you make a grand picture.’
‘If I were a betting woman, I’d bet I’m about to make a grand fool of myself.’
Mick laughed. From what he could see, Billy had known what he was doing when he’d matched these two together. There was a certain synchronicity. The horse was a bundle of barely contained energy, with a wilful streak, just like the girl. And they both needed a calming hand. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rory glance their way, deep in conversation with Elizabeth and Tom, a motley crew of troublemakers if ever he’d seen one.
Lottie, he’d heard from Pip, had wanted out. Wanted more than this place could offer, but instinct told him that what she really wanted was to be held long and hard until she realised that she’d found what she was looking for and should stop struggling. That home wasn’t so bad after all. Which was why she’d come back.
The horse threw its head up as Lottie hiked the girth up another hole.
‘Would a martingale help?’
‘You haven’t got one, have you? Rory forget to put mine in the lorry.’ A wave of relief rushed over her face. Mick grinned, jumped off the horse and started to take his off.
‘But I thought you meant a spare.’ She looked downcast.
‘Don’t you be worrying, this old man doesn’t need all the paraphernalia they’ve thrown on him; it’s all for show.’ The mare thought about taking a nip as he adjusted the tack, then changed her mind, rubbing her nose down his sleeve.
‘She doesn’t do that to me.’
‘I’m the nice guy; you’re the one who’s making her work for her oats. Here.’ She was legged up into the saddle before she could object.
Rory left it as late as he could before getting on Flash. Partly because it gave him time to grab another drink and partly because it gave the horse less time to wonder what was about to happen.
‘Wondered when you were going to appear.’ Gold was persistently pirouetting in one direction and Lottie was getting dizzy. She tried to haul her around the other way, to unwind her confused brain.
‘I went to get you a tot to settle your nerves.’ He grinned. ‘But I drank it to try and drown out your gran.’
‘What was she on about?’
Mick watched as Lottie spun in ever-decreasing circles, and Rory ignored the fact that Flash was doing mini rears. ‘Can’t you two just ride normal horses?’
‘What? Like your boring Irish carthorse? Now where’s the fun in that, man? Where did you get that thing, anyhow?’ Rory took his chance, while all four of his horse’s hooves were briefly on terra firma, and leapt into the saddle.
‘Ed Flint.’ Mick named a local farmer who was a regular hunt supporter, but on his last outing had parted company with his horse when it had decided that a ditch harboured aliens and thrown in a quick stop. Ed hadn’t and had landed in the ditch, which contained no aliens, but had unfortunately contained more stones than water. He was currently the proud owner of a neck brace. His wife had put a hunt ban in place until the doctor had declared him fit. Knowing her stubborn husband was as likely to forgo a day out as he was to get a sudden urge to take up housework or knitting, she’d insisted he loan out his horse to Mick for the day.
‘Still isn’t up to it then?’
‘Not according to Molly.’
‘I think we’re ready for the off.’ Lottie looked nervously in the direction of the Field Master and the assorted hounds who were already in fine voice.
Rory grinned with anticipation. ‘I’m going to take her to the front; she likes to see what’s coming.’
‘We’ll settle this pair.’
Rory grinned. ‘Wimps.’ Then, with a wave and a clatter of hooves, he set off after the hounds, ploughing through the hunt protestors who were foolish enough to loiter in the gateway.
‘I hope he doesn’t go past the master again; they got so cross last time.’ Lottie sighed. Rory didn’t believe in rules, which didn’t always go down well, and unfortunately his grin more often than not got him out of trouble. Not that this master was the type to fall for that, he’d probably ordered the whippers-in to keep an eye out and head Rory off if he looked like he was about to disrupt the order of the day.
‘She’s a promising mare that one. Think he’ll manage to sort her?’
‘I was thinking of talking to Uncle Dom, but you know Rory, he’s not going to go and talk to a poncy dressage rider, is he?’
Mick laughed. ‘He’s lucky he’s got you.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that he hadn’t actually got her, but she just smiled inanely instead.
‘He’s a good, quiet rider is your uncle.’
They trotted out of the car park side by side and it felt strangely harmonious. As Gold settled into her stride, looking around with interest, her ears flicking one way then the other, Lottie suddenly realised she didn’t feel sick any more.
By the time they entered the first field and broke into a steady loping canter, the mass of horses had thinned out, some following the direct route of the hounds, others heading down the sides looking for gates and lower hedges.
Lottie and Mick cantered on, neck to neck, Gold fighting for her head as they neared the first hurdle, the large hunter never altering his stride, and his steadiness giving Lottie a weird confidence. As though they had an invisible bond and all she had to do was keep contact. She tightened her grips on the reins, determined to keep the rhythm, to let the jump come to them, concentrating on nothing but the sound of the horse’s pounding hooves, the surge of power underneath the saddle, the rush of cold air that was making her skin smart and her eyes water.
The two horses took off together, almost in perfect stride, rising high at the first hedge, and as she gave with her hands and the horse grew beneath her, Lottie felt the grin spread across her face. Clods of earth scattered from beneath their hooves on landing, and she glanced across triumphantly at Mick, his dirty grin sending an extra whizz of adrenalin coursing through her veins. She tore her gaze from his, cool air still fanning over her burning cheeks. And all she wanted was to do it again, and again, together.
Ahead, she could make out the vivid chestnut streak of Flash, her athletic lines a sharp contrast to the heavier horses of the Field Master, his huntsman and other hunt staff. The mare was clearing the high hedges effortlessly. Settle in the dressage and you could be a star, Lottie thought, the star Rory needs so desperately in his yard. The reward for years of hard work and horses that were never quite good enough.
Gold, in contrast, was a careless show-jumper. She was used to poles that fell if she clipped them with lazy hooves. The outing was to teach her to respect the fences and Lottie crossed her fingers, hoping that one lackadaisical jump wouldn’t wipe them both out. The horse’s concentration wavered, her keen brain diverting her to sights and sounds, and Lottie gave her an abrupt kick as another hedge loomed close. The mare put in a quick stride, skewed her body as she took off, so that they nearly crashed into Mick and his solid hunter. For a moment Lottie shut her eyes and sent a silent prayer, opening them abruptly as the mare pecked on landing. With an effort, she forced her body weight backwards, knowing that otherwise she was out of the front door, and the little horse, agile from all her play-acting, sorted her feet out, like a cat on hot coals, and launched herself forward again.
Mick knew that if his horse had been stupid enough to make an error like that, the sheer weight of the animal would have been his downfall. But Lottie and her little black devil righted themselves in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. Those green cat’s eyes glanced his way again briefly, her cheeks now mud-spattered, her face pure mischief, and he knew the fear had gone. Give the girl a hefty dose of adrenalin and the thrill of the chase and she rose to the challenge. This wasn’t the luck of the Irish that she had, but she made him think of a fiery colleen, a green-eyed, dark-haired devil of a girl who loved life and had a spirit that should never be squashed. A girl who would always run away when she sensed the trap closing in. A girl who needed a man who understood. They were galloping side by side, perfectly paced. She was near enough to touch, to kiss. Her generous mouth curved into a perfect smile.
Lottie felt, rather than saw, the change in Mick. One second he was smiling back, a toe-curling look that would have made her heart beat faster, if it hadn’t already been hammering from the exhilaration that was coursing through her body. Then it changed. A drop in temperature, a more fixed look.
‘Steady her down, give her time. She’s running away from you.’ The soft Irish brogue had a hard edge to it, and Lottie hated to be lectured, judged.
‘She’s fine.’
‘She’s a baby. Ruin her confidence now and you’ve lost it forever.’
She half-wanted to tell him to sod off, to stop trying to spoil the fun, she wanted to kick on and leave him behind. But that would be childish. And, she admitted reluctantly, he might have a point. The mare was pulling for her head now. Excited. And Lottie could feel the heat of her body rising through the saddle, nervous energy the only thing keeping her fired up.
She settled her weight back, matched the slower canter of Mick’s horse and avoided looking at him. Christ, it was like riding o
ut with her dad. Well, not her dad, he would have been at the front like Rory, telling them all they were riding like a bunch of pansies.
***
By the time they got back to the horsebox, Rory had already untacked and watered his horse and was sittting on the ramp having a cigarette.
‘What happened to you two? They’ll be calling last orders if you don’t shift your arses.’
‘Bollocks.’ Mick took his hat off and brushed a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve got to ride this one back, so I’ll give it a miss.’
‘Shove him in the box; there’s room for another.’
‘No, I’ll leave you two on your own for once.’
‘We get plenty of that. Come on! Just have one.’
‘A quick one, then I’m hitting the road.’ This delighted Flash no end, when the big gelding joined her in the box.
‘What’s up with him, then?’
Lottie shrugged as she watched Mick slip a headcollar over the horse’s bridle and run the stirrups up. She hadn’t got a clue what had happened out there. One minute he’d been looking at her like he wanted more than a day’s hunting. Then he was lecturing her like she was a stupid teenager, which had made her feel like one; cross and frustrated. ‘I think he got fed up of babysitting me.’ Bossy bugger.
Rory laughed. ‘Babysit you? Now it would take a brave man to do that.’ He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘Come on muddy face, I need a drink.’
‘Am I really?’ She tried to peer into the wing mirror, which involved balancing on the step and hanging on to the bracket.
‘Like you’ve been riding through the ditches. Not that I’m complaining.’ He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, then pulled a face. ‘Eau de smelly ditch water.’ Hs strong arm encircled her waist and he pulled her down so that she was pressed against his firm, hard body. And for a brief, unforgiveable moment she wondered how it would have felt if that had been Mick.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 105
