by Jane Feather
The earl agreed with alacrity and invited her to ride with him to the outskirts of the group, where he would loose his bird.
“My congratulations, Nick,” De Winter said, watching them go off. “’Twas pure inspiration to mount her on that gray. They make the most enchanting pair, do they not?”
Nick grunted, looking a little sick. Richard glanced at him sharply, then whistled as comprehension dawned. “Did you not give her leave?”
“No, dammit, I did not!” Nick said savagely. “At least, not for the moment. I did not consider her sufficiently skilled.”
Richard continued to watch Polly. “I think you may have been mistaken,” he observed. “She has a good seat, and the mare is clearly responsive. They appear made for each other.”
The hunt moved off along the riverbank, and Polly kept herself out of Kincaid’s vicinity. The covert glances she directed at him were not encouraging. There appeared to be no softening of his countenance. However, she was receiving her usual quantity of admiring attention elsewhere, so put up her chin and set out to play the coquette-on-horseback.
All went well for about an hour, during which falcons hovered and swooped, returning to the master’s arm with their catch, yielding it up against all nature’s instinct, accepting the hood and jesses again until given permission for another foray. Nick had just tossed his gerfalcon into freedom when disaster struck.
Polly, on Tiny, had fallen back a little to watch the elegance of the Earl of Pembroke’s merlin as it swooped upon an unwary sparrow. The sparrow, suddenly alerted to the danger, twisted in the air to fly in blind panic toward the hunters. The merlin, hot in pursuit, swooped low over Tiny’s head, clawed feet poised for the kill, the vicious beak curved in deadly intent, the small black eye gleaming malevolence. The mare reared up in fright and took off across the field in the direction of the spinney.
Polly had no time to feel fear. Her first instinct was to yank back on the reins, but she remembered Nick’s warning that the mare had a delicate mouth, which would be ruined by a heavy hand. So she concentrated on keeping her seat, leaning instinctively forward over the horse’s neck, making her body follow the lines of the bolting mare, offering no unbalanced resistance, trusting that Tiny would run herself to a standstill eventually.
Nick, seeing the merlin’s swoop, tensed in anticipation of Tiny’s reaction. “Sweet Jesus!” The color ebbed from his face as the mare bolted. Why in hell was Polly not using the rein? But it would not help, he knew that; Tiny had gone beyond mastery. There had been but a moment when an experienced rider could have forestalled the bolt. Forgetting the public arena, he cursed Polly’s obstinacy, offered a prayer to the heavens in the same breath as threatening most fearful reprisals, and put Sulayman to the gallop after the runaway…
George Villiers, newly joining the hunt, witnessed this extraordinary display of emotion, the violence of Kincaid’s alarm. Kincaid had not reacted with ordinary consternation. He had gone as white as whey, had spoken in unbridled passion, and was now hurtling in pursuit as if it were a matter of life and death; yet the wench was still in the saddle and looked little likely to be unseated.
An unpleasant smile played over the meager lips as the duke was reminded of another moment when a dropped guard had hinted at a new perspective on the affairs of Lord Kincaid and Mistress Wyat. If what he suspected was, indeed, the case, then maybe he could make use of it. The Duke of Buckingham turned his own horse to follow the flying hooves of Sulayman.
Nick’s heart was in his throat as he saw Tiny veer toward the spinney. Would Polly have the sense to imagine what could happen if the mare left the paths, plunging into the trees, heedless of low-hanging branches? At that speed, Polly would lose her head … break her neck … God’s death! “Keep your head down!” he bellowed, with little hope that she would hear him. Sulayman was closing on the mare, but Tiny was still galloping ventre á terre} and he would not catch them before they entered the spinney.
Polly heard the shout but not the words. All her energies were concentrated now on keeping in the saddle. She maintained a nonstop flow of soothing words as she clung to Tiny’s neck, hoping that her reassurance would communicate itself to the petrified animal, locked in its own world of pure instinctual response. Polly saw the danger from the tree branches just in time. She ducked her head below the level of Tiny’s neck as the branch snapped overhead. A nut of nausea lodged in her throat at the thought of what could have happened; she clung grimly to the mare’s mane, deciding that the fun had gone out of this adventure. But she could sense that the horse was beginning to lose the spurt. Her neck was lathered, her breath coming in great tortured sobs.
They broke out of the spinney into the meadow beyond. Sulayman drew level with the mare; Nicholas swung sideways, catching the bolter’s rein above the bit. Hauled thus unceremoniously to a stop, Tiny reared up; Polly, her precarious balance finally overset, flew from the mare’s back to land with an agonizing, jarring thud on the base of her spine.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded on an angry sob, tears of pain and frustration welling in her hazel eyes. “Everything was all right until you did that!” Her hat had shot from her head under the force of her fall. Her skirts were heaped about her as she sat upon the hard ground, every bone in her body groaning in complaint under the jarring that made her head ache and her behind throb with the bruising. She glared up at him, tears running down her face, weeping with pure anger that Nick should have caused this fall, and so proved her incapable of managing anything more lively than the sluggish piebald.
“She was going to stop in a minute, anyway,” she wailed, dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I knew exactly what I was doing—”
But Nicholas had swung himself from Sulayman in the midst of this impassioned tirade and put a stop to it by seizing her upper arms, yanking her to her feet. “How dare you frighten me like that!” he raged. “Those trees would have broken your neck!” He shook her with all the frenzy of a terrier with a rat, giving vent to the pent-up anguish of the last minutes. “You are my life, Goddamn it! Never have I been so afeard!”
“P-please stop!” Polly begged, when it seemed as if her head would leave her shoulders, and her body, already shaken to its core by the fall, screamed its protest at this further assault.
Nick pulled her against him, wrapping her in his arms in a convulsive hug that was as violently expressive of fear and relief as the shaking. “God’s grace, Polly. How could you do that to me?” he whispered into the fragrance of her hair.
“But it was all right, love,” Polly cried against his shirt-front. “There was nothing to be afeard of. It would have been perfectly all right if you had left well alone. Tiny was tiring; she would have stopped soon enough. I did not want to draw back roughly on the rein in case I hurt her mouth.”
Nicholas paused as the world settled again on its axis. The sun still shone, the river still flowed, hawks flew, and the earth continued on its accustomed circuit. Tiny was windblown, catching her breath in sobbing gasps, but she would recover. Polly was whole, pliant, and warm beneath his hands. She had given him the fright of his life, but he, too, would recover.
He drew back to look at her, her hair tousled, eyes wide, glistening, tears streaked on that flawless complexion, mouth opened to continue her indignant defense and accusations. “Are you hurt?” he asked in his customary calm tones. “That was quite a tumble.”
“My arse,” Polly muttered with a sniff, rubbing her aching rear. “It is all your fault.”
“It seems that there is natural justice in this world, after all,” Nick said, a tremor of laughter in his voice. “You’ll not be up to sitting a horse again for a while, in that case.” He turned from her to remount Sulayman. Reaching over, he took Tiny’s bridle, drawing it over her head to hold it loosely with his own. “’Tis to be hoped your injuries do not preclude your walking,” he observed. “It cannot be above four miles to the house.”
Polly stared, for the mom
ent speechless, as he turned both horses and set off homeward. “You bastard!” she yelled, then followed the insult with the more colorful examples of the vocabulary that had informed her growing. Nick’s only response was to doff his hat, waving it in cheerful salute as he rode way. She picked up her own hat from its resting place on a spiky thornbush, dusting it off vigorously against her skirt, before cramming it back on her head. Then she limped after the fast-disappearing rider and horses, muttering curses and imprecations with all the vituperative malice of an entire coven of witches.
George Villiers, motionless within earshot, hidden by the screen of trees at the edge of the spinney, remained in seclusion for a good five minutes after the close of that fascinating and enlightening confrontation. It was always pleasing to have one’s suspicions confirmed. It was with a most satisfied smile that he rode back to join the hunt.
The morning was far advanced by the time Polly arrived back at Wilton House. She was hot, and the walk had done nothing to improve her bruised muscles and spine, and even less for her temper. Unwilling to be seen in her bedraggled, dusty state by any guests, she used the back stairs to reach the peace and privacy of her chamber.
“Lor’, Polly! Whatever’s amiss?” exclaimed Susan. “Ye looks as if ye’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”
“Just as I feel,” Polly groaned, sitting gingerly on the bed to pull off her boots. “If you love me, Sue, contrive some hot water and a tub. I am one enormous bruise.”
“Whatever’ve you gone and done?” Susan, consternation wrinkling her round, placid countenance, bent to help with the boots.
“Oh, everything has gone awry!” Polly sighed. “And what is so infuriating is that it was not my fault.” Thoughts of Nicholas brought an alarmingly ferocious glint to her eye. “I need a bath, Sue. Can ye contrive it?”
“Aye.” Susan bustled to the door. “There’s a footman who’s monstrous willing to oblige.” A flush deepened the already healthy coloring, and Polly forgot her own ills for a minute.
“Willing to oblige you, is it, Sue?”
“Well, I dunno about that,” the other girl mumbled, and whisked herself out of the room.
Polly took off her habit; mindful of the imminent arrival of Sue’s swain with hot water and a tub, she put on a wrapper. She went to the door connecting her chamber with Kincaid’s, pressing her ear to the keyhole. No sound came from within. He had probably returned to the hunt, sending his groom back to the stable with Tiny, thus advertising to all and sundry that the filly’s rider had been unhorsed. She blinked away angry tears at the injustice.
Susan and the footman appeared, laboring under the weight of a round wooden tub and steaming brass kettles. Polly observed the two with interest, looking for the signs of an understanding between them. Nick, she knew, would be more than generous with his wedding gift, if such an understanding existed and could be brought to fruition. Sue’s heightened color and a certain complacent air of the footman’s seemed to lend credence to the idea. She would sound out Nick, Polly decided, before remembering that she had no intention of ever again exchanging as much as two words with the odious man!
“Thank ’ee, Oliver,” Susan said with another fiery blush, holding the door for him. The footman grinned and chucked her beneath the chin as he went out.
“So that’s the way the land lies,” Polly commented with a teasing chuckle.
“Oh, give over,” Sue said, still blushing. She hefted one of the jugs, pouring its contents into the tub. “Are ye gettin’ in ’ere or not?”
“I am.” Polly tossed aside her wrapper and stepped into the tub.
“Lawks!” squeaked Susan. “Ow d’ye get that bruise? ’Tis bigger than a saucer!”
“It feels as big as a serving platter.” Polly groaned, sinking into the hot water, arranging herself delicately on the bottom of the tub. “I fell off a horse with some considerable force onto very hard ground. Actually, I did not exactly fall; I was practically pushed,” she amended with a resurgence of indignation, hugging her drawn-up knees, resting her chin upon them. “And if I had my way—”
“You would see me drawn and quartered!” Nick’s voice came laughing from the connecting door behind the occupant of the tub and her attendant. He lounged against the jamb, arms folded.
“How long have you been there?” demanded Polly crossly, without turning her head.
“Oh, long enough,” he said cheerfully. “You were both far too busy complaining and exclaiming to notice me. However, Susan has the right of it. That is an enormous bruise.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Susan, I think you had better find something to do elsewhere. See if you cannot procure some witch hazel from the stillroom,” suggested his lordship, pushing himself away from the door.
Susan bobbed a curtsy, disappearing in short order. Nick crossed to the window seat, where he sat facing Polly in her bath. “And whose fault is it?” A red-gold eyebrow lifted in punctuation.
“I would never have fallen if you had not pulled on the rein in that manner. It was quite unnecessary; I had matters well in hand. And then, to ride off and leave me … !” She glared at him over her knees, shifting slightly to take the weight off her bruise. “It was unkind and unjust—”
“Now, there I take issue with you,” Nick interrupted, raising a forefinger to halt the tirade that was bidding fair to assume majestic proportions. “You took my horse—a blood Arabian. You took her not only without my permission, but also in direct contravention of my wishes, intending to force me into a corner; and, I might add, succeeding. It was for that, that you had your walk.”
Polly was silent for a minute, gazing beyond Nick, out of the window. Then she sighed, yielding with customary grace. “Indeed, it was wrong of me to take your property without leave, and I ask your pardon. But I-could think of no other way to prove my point.” The slender shoulders shrugged, the gesture accentuating their bare, rounded perfection. “However, you need have no further qualms. I’ll not be riding again.”
“That bruise will not last forever,” Nick pointed out, rising to his feet, tossing his coat onto the bed.
“I was not referring to that,” Polly said, attempting a dignified note, but Nick was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, and it was hard to sound stiff and distant when images of what his action might presage ran rampant in her head.
“To what were you referring?” He knelt beside the tub, reaching a lazy hand over the edge to flick playfully at the water before delving beneath. “’Tis to be assumed there’s soap in here—”
“Here!” Polly picked up the soap from the floor beside the tub, grabbed his questing hand, and slapped the precious cake into it. “I would not leave it in the water; t’would melt.”
“Such habits of thrift as you have,” he said in wonderment. “Kneel up and let me wash your back.”
“I am not ready to wash my back yet,” Polly objected. “I am still enjoying the hot water. It is beneficial for aches and bruises.”
“On which subject, if those aches and bruises are not going to prevent your riding, what is?” Finding one warm wet breast beneath the water, he lifted it clear, soaping the ivory mound with an air of great concentration.
“I refuse to ride that sluggard ever again, with or without a leading rein,” she told him. “So I will not ride.”
“I had not envisaged your riding the piebald again,” Nick said, transferring his attention to the other breast. “I, too, was in error.”
“Oh.” Polly could find nothing more to say for a moment, particularly when Nick had taken her nipple between thumb and forefinger, and was rolling it in the way that set butterflies of delight aflutter in her belly.
“Tiny is yours,” Nick said softly, tipping her chin with his unoccupied hand. “I gift you each to the other.”
“Oh,” Polly said again, at the mercy of such a welter of emotions that she was quite unable to express herself.
Nick kissed her, and there she could find expr
ession, her lips melting against his, her tongue flirting with his in sensual promise. Drawing back, he smiled down at her face, flushed with the warmth of the bathwater and his kissing. “Am I forgiven for causing your fall, moppet?”
“You would buy your pardon, sir?” Her eyes glowed; she reached up with wet hands to clasp his face, pulling it down to hers for renewed thanks. “In the face of such a birthday gift, who could be so mean-spirited as to deny pardon for any offense that stopped short of murder?”
Nick frowned. “Birthday gift, Polly? What mean you?”
She shrugged casually. “Why, ’twas my birthday on Wednesday.”
Nick sat back on his heels, regarding her gravely. “Why would you say nothing of it earlier?”
She shrugged again. “It has never been a day of note. I do not regard it.” A tiny smile touched her lips as she remembered. “Well, one year it was. It was my fifth birthday, as I recall. Prue had made me a rag doll.” She laughed, quite unaware of the effect this revelation was having on Nicholas. “I kept that doll until it fell apart, then I had a scrap of the material that I talked to as if ’twere still Annie. But Prue threw it away eventually, when it became so dirty that she would not give it houseroom. It must have been very dirty,” Polly reflected. “Prue was not overly scrupulous about such things.”
“That was the only birthday present you have received?” He spoke slowly, as if to be sure that he was understood.
“Why, yes, I think so,” she responded. “I would have remembered, I expect, if there had been others.”
“Yes, I imagine you would,” Nick said, swallowing the lump in his throat. There was no point in expressing his feelings at this gulf of deprivation. It would hardly benefit Polly to be made aware of a loss that she did not consider in the least. However, he was resolved that never again would her birthday pass unremarked. “So you have attained the great age of eighteen.” A finger ran over her lips, gently teasing. “I must learn to treat you with the respect due such maturity; or, at least, endeavor to do so.”
