Lord of the Beasts

by Susan Krinard

  Boreas cared nothing for the very real possibility that he might be defeated. He didn’t think of the future. The present was all, and the present demanded that he run as if his life depended upon it.

  Donal closed his eyes, no longer able to separate himself from his patient’s primal desires. No longer wishing to do so.

  “Where will we have this race?” he said through clenched teeth.

  Inglesham nodded with smug satisfaction. “Just over that rise is a long meadow bounded by stands of wych elms on either side. We shall start at one end and finish at the other.”

  “And what are the stakes?”

  “Given your limited funds, Doctor, I shall not strain your purse. If I win, you will formulate a convincing excuse, pack your bags and leave Edgecott within the week.”

  Donal’s blood seethed in his veins. “And if Boreas wins?”

  “I shall not speak to Sir Geoffrey about your inappropriate affection for his daughter.” His face sagged in a parody of regret. “How unpleasant it would be if she is forced to choose between placating her fragile father and keeping you…employed.”

  Donal knew exactly how he should reply to such an outrageous threat, but his mouth refused to form the words. He had become as mute as Boreas, capable of showing his emotions only through the actions of his body and the resolution in his heart.

  He turned and strode past Apollo to Boreas and snatched the lead from Gallagher. The groom stepped back as Donal swung onto the stallion’s back. Man and beast became one in that moment, perfectly attuned and intent on only one goal.

  Boreas set off for the meadow at a trot. Tod flickered over the stallion’s neck, his face split in a devilish grin.

  “Shall Tod knock that man off, my lord?” he asked. “There are nettles in the meadow.”

  Boreas tossed his head. Donal shook his. “No, Tod. No magic.”

  Tod shrugged and settled in for the ride. Inglesham and Apollo soon overtook them, Gallagher trailing at a breathless jog. Within minutes they were gathered beneath the elms at the south end of the meadow, gazing across the smooth expanse of sheep-cropped grass.

  “Are you ready?” Inglesham asked Donal with a supercilious grin.

  Donal nodded, his attention absorbed by the irresistible force of Boreas’s need. He hardly noticed when Gallagher took up the starter’s position and raised his cap. He gave no command when the cap fell. Boreas plunged forward like an eagle stooping after its prey, and Apollo was only a hand’s-breadth behind him.

  The working of legs like powerful pistons, the thrust of hooves that tore the sod and sent it flying, the flare of nostrils sucking in air to fuel lungs and heart and blood and bone…all these sensations became Donal’s world. He bent low over Boreas’s back, exulting in the sheer love of the race, the single thing this brave soul had cherished in an existence of abuse and neglect.

  But the glory couldn’t last. A pale blur appeared at Boreas’s right side, its elegant form marred by the figure who clung to its back. Donal bared his teeth and whispered a rhythmic chant of encouragement, even as he recognized that Boreas’s courage was not enough. Even as he felt the pull of tendons and the grinding of bones as an old injury dragged the stallion back to earth.

  The horse began to labor, his breaths coming short with pain and determination. Apollo surged ahead. Despair washed through Boreas…despair so terrible that tears of grief welled in Donal’s eyes.

  And then, as he passed, Inglesham twisted in the saddle and looked into Donal’s eyes. He grinned and waved with a jaunty toss of his hand.

  That was when Donal forgot every rule of human honor and fair play that had been drummed into his head as a boy. He severed his union with Boreas and bent his thoughts on Apollo. Not to coerce; that he would never do, no matter how sorely tempted. But he asked, he begged, he pleaded as humbly as he knew how. And Apollo chose to listen. His gallop slowed. Boreas drew level with him and gradually pulled ahead.

  Tod laughed from his invisible perch atop Boreas’s forelock. The hiss of Inglesham’s curse cut through the rumble of hoofbeats. A crop appeared in his hand. He lashed at Apollo’s flank.

  With a flick of his finely sculpted ears, Apollo stopped short. Inglesham flew over his head and crashed to the ground, rolling out of the horses’ path. Boreas crossed the last stretch of meadow and pulled up among the trees. He favored his right foreleg and his chest heaved with exertion, but his joy encompassed Donal in a warm glow of triumph. Tod peppered the stallion’s damp nose with jubilant kisses.

  Donal dismounted and bent to examine the injured limb as Inglesham scrambled to his feet. Apollo stood some distance off, regarding his owner with a look of disdain. The viscount started toward his mount. Apollo backed away. Inglesham circled the stallion. Apollo trotted in the opposite direction.

  “Fool,” Tod crowed. “Fool, fool, foolish human!”

  Donal smiled and ran his hands over Boreas’s fetlock. “I’ll put a poultice on this at the stable,” he said. “But no more racing for a while, my friend. I fear we both lost our heads…”

  “But not the race.”

  Donal straightened to meet Inglesham’s gaze, expecting a scowl of rage and insinuations of cheating that the viscount could not possibly defend with any rational explanation. But Inglesham was not frowning. To the contrary, there was a peculiar glitter in his eyes that Donal would almost have called satisfaction. Or vindication.

  “You did it,” Inglesham said.

  Donal looked out at the meadow, where Gallagher had finally managed to catch Apollo. “Boreas deserves full credit, not I.”

  “You made Apollo…do what he did.”

  So much for conceding gracefully. This inevitable argument was no less than Donal deserved for his lapse in judgment.

  “That is hardly possible,” he said. “I didn’t touch him, and I certainly had no access to him before you arrived.”

  “Of course not. You didn’t have to.” Inglesham pointed toward Gallagher. “He told me, and I didn’t believe it. Why should I? But I saw your face just before Apollo threw me.” To Donal’s amazement, he smiled. “I’ve ridden in a hundred match races, and won most. Apollo has never disobeyed me before. He is a born competitor. There is no logical reason why he should suddenly misbehave…unless you spoke to him.”

  Donal concealed his wariness beneath a blandly inquiring mask. “Spoke to him, Lord Inglesham?”

  “Ah, you play the innocent so well. But I know your secret, Fleming.”

  “We all have our secrets, and you have had your race.” Donal took Boreas’s lead and brushed past Inglesham. “If there is nothing more…”

  Inglesham grabbed his arm. “But there is. Did you think this was the end of it?”

  Donal stared at the viscount’s hand and slowly met his gaze. “Go to Sir Geoffrey if you wish, Inglesham. I am through with your games.”

  Inglesham released him and stepped back to lean against the nearest tree, one leg crossed over the other. “How fond are you of little Ivy, Dr. Fleming?” he asked.

  Donal dropped the lead. “What?”

  “A straightforward enough question, I believe.” Inglesham stifled a yawn behind his hand. “Cordelia told me all about your dramatic rescue of the child from the rookeries in London. I was quite surprised to learn that Delia’s pretty new protégée is one and the same as the ragged waif who robbed me in Covent Garden.”

  A breath of wind circled Donal’s head, reminding him of Tod’s presence. The hob’s agitation seemed to match his own. Thoughts of stinging insects and an avalanche of bird droppings filled Donal’s mind.

  “I understand that Ivy lived with you for a time, before Delia so graciously gave her a home here at Edgecott,” Inglesham purred. “Of course you could not have realized that she was in fact a young woman….”

  “I did not,” Donal said. “Not until Mrs. Hardcastle came to offer me employment and saw her again.” He gritted his teeth. “Naturally, once I learned the truth, I agreed that it would be best for Ivy
to reside elsewhere.”

  “Naturally.” Inglesham gouged the tree trunk with his bootheel. “I am most impressed with your benevolence toward one so much less fortunate. I expect such liberality from Cordelia, but in a man of your station…what motivated such largesse, I wonder?”

  Boreas snapped at the air with broad yellow teeth. Donal retrieved the lead and started in the direction of the stables. He had gone only a few feet before Inglesham fell into step beside him. “How much do you know of the girl’s years on the streets of London?” the viscount asked.

  Donal felt the toothed jaws of a trap waiting to be sprung. “Only what she remembers of them,” he said in a flat voice.

  “The poor child must have found it difficult to maintain her innocence, especially as she grew to womanhood.”

  “She disguised herself very well, as you noted.”

  “Indeed. But perhaps she didn’t always maintain the masquerade. Perhaps she was occasionally driven to…desperate acts.”

  Donal refused to grant Inglesham the satisfaction of a response. Inglesham sighed. “Cordelia has such high hopes for the girl,” he said. “It would be a great pity if she were to be disillusioned, don’t you agree?”

  “And you plan to create this disillusionment,” Donal said.

  “That will hardly be necessary. Ivy will do it herself. The question is whether it will take a mild or painful form.” He stroked his riding crop. “You care too much for Cordelia to wish her pain, just as you care for Ivy. Doubtless you would do anything to protect them.”

  Donal stopped. The grass under his feet began to boil with the movements of hundreds of tiny creatures. He sent them away with an effort. “Protect them from you?” he asked.

  Inglesham placed his hand on his chest in a mockery of affront. “From me? Not at all. From Ivy’s unfortunate past. You see, your innocent little ward is a murderess as well as a thief, and if you do not do exactly as I tell you, I shall see that she spends the rest of her life in a cage from which she will never escape.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NEARLY MAD WITH RAGE, Tod buzzed about Inglesham’s head like a wasp making ready to sting. He had come to Donal this morning in spite of his desire to avoid his master, knowing that he must behave as if nothing had changed between them. When Donal had apologized for his neglect, Tod had come very near forgiving him for concealing his plans to leave England.

  But then Yellow-Hair had interrupted with his threats against Donal and Ivy, and incongruous emotions had possessed Tod like some powerful enchantment—not only the familiar desire to protect Donal from mortal treachery, but anger that Ivy should be in danger…Ivy, who was nothing to him save a responsibility he had never wanted.

  It didn’t matter. All he wished now was to punish Yellow-Hair…if only Donal would permit it. But Donal only stared at his adversary, calm and cold as a still, deep lake.

  “What is this lie?” he asked quietly. And he listened with equal dispassion as the bad man spoke of incomprehensible things: of some other mortal in the Iron City, of dark places and darker feelings, of an unprovoked attack by a thief who carried the same pendant that protected Ivy from the wrong enemies.

  “What proof?” Donal asked when the man was finished. “All you have is the word of this dead acquaintance.”

  “Proof?” Inglesham said, snorting through his mouth like a nasty troll. “My word is enough against a nameless thief whose actions led to the death of a titled gentleman. Sir Geoffrey will gladly support me in my accusations.”

  “Against his own daughter?”

  “He will naturally desire to protect her. I truly fear for her state of mind if she learns that this girl she has taken into her heart is capable of such savagery. She would be placed in an untenable position.” His face grew long. “Delia is much more delicate than she would seem, you know. That is often the case with women who appear unusually strong-willed.”

  His face still expressionless, Donal drew Boreas closer to keep the horse from kicking Yellow-Hair across the meadow. His anger reached so far that even the beasts in their cages roared and howled.

  “What do you want, Inglesham?” he said at last.

  The man examined the tips of his fingers. “Very little, actually. Nothing that you will find unduly taxing. I have told you that I enjoy betting, and flat racing is my particular sin.” He smiled. “Have you ever been to a race meeting, Fleming?”

  “No.”

  “No matter. I will instruct you, and the rest you’ll learn quickly enough. You will accompany me to various meetings, and you will advise me as to the physical state of the entries and the accuracy of the odds placed on each horse. If I am happy with the results…that is, of course, if your picks win and I obtain a useful profit…little Ivy’s secret will remain so.”

  Donal’s nostrils flared. “You expect me to determine which horses will win each race?”

  “Surely that is not beyond your capabilities. I’ve seen proof enough of that. And if ever there is any doubt in your mind as to the final outcome of any race, you can certainly provide the necessary encouragement—or discouragement—to the appropriate animals to see that the desired results are achieved.”

  Tod hugged himself, trying with all his might to remain invisible when he wished more than anything to pelt Yellow-Hair’s head with every bit of filth he could find. Donal had the power to make Boreas, even Apollo, turn and trample Inglesham to death. But that was not his way.

  “How long is this agreement to last?” Donal asked.

  “If you do your work well, through the end of this racing season should be sufficient for me to accumulate a respectable pile. And when I have adequate funds…why, it will not seem quite so necessary to seek other sources of income.”

  Donal stared at the grass beneath his feet. The narrow blades still trembled with the frenzied activity of the creatures that lived in and on the earth, but he did not send them against the one who threatened him and Ivy.

  Do not trust him, Tod thought furiously. But Tod’s master was no fool. He would have a scheme for dealing with this horrid human.

  “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow,” Donal said.

  “A delay will win you nothing,” Inglesham said.

  “Tomorrow,” Donal repeated.

  “Tomorrow by sunset, Fleming. No later.”

  Donal stood very still a moment longer and then turned, leading Boreas away. Tod waited until they were passing through a dense grove of trees before he materialized.

  “My lord!” he cried. “Let me go back. Let me punish this mortal.”

  “No, Tod. We live in a human world, and I will not resort to Fane methods to defeat a low scoundrel like Inglesham.”

  “But he lied, my lord. He said…he said that my lord loves—” Tod almost choked on the terrible word “—loves the woman Hardcastle.”

  Donal’s skin flushed red. He didn’t answer.

  Tod hovered before him. “Remember, my lord. Remember the Black Widow—”

  “Inglesham is a fool,” Donal said sharply, “and that is why he won’t win this contest. Think no more of it, my friend.”

  “And what of the girl? She is in peril.”

  Donal cocked his head. “So you no longer dislike her, Tod? You are concerned for her welfare?”

  Tod squirmed. “She does not deserve to suffer such harm.”

  “No. And I have no intention of obeying Inglesham any longer than is required to counteract his blackmail. The first thing I must do is talk with Ivy.”

  “My lord will explain the danger?”

  “I see no need to upset her or Mrs. Hardcastle at present. This is between me and Inglesham.” He frowned in the direction of the big house. “Please find Ivy for me, Tod, and return at once.”

  Tod obeyed, skimming high over the treetops and looking down upon the groomed human landscape with an eagle’s eye. He found Ivy sitting under a broad-canopied horse chestnut. Her dress was torn and muddied at the hem, her hair tangled with bracken, but to Tod sh
e looked strangely beautiful. His whole body shook with anger—not only at Yellow-Hair, but at himself for his own jumbled emotions.

  He led Donal to the horse chestnut and found a seat on a high branch to eavesdrop on the conversation. He scarcely listened to the dull pleasantries man and girl exchanged as they sat together under the tree. He watched the play of sunlight and shadow on Ivy’s silken skin and found himself succumbing to the musical lilt of her voice as if she had cast a spell upon him. A spell he was losing the will to resist….

  “I know there are things about your past you didn’t tell me,” Donal said. “I understand why you were reluctant to trust anyone with the story of your life. But now that you are to live with Cordelia on a permanent basis, I think it only right that you keep no secrets from her.”

  Ivy glared at him from beneath the dark arch of her brows. “What of the secrets you keep from her?” she demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.” Ivy pulled a bit of bramble from her hair. “What do you want me to tell her?”

  “Everything you remember about your childhood and your time in the rookeries until I found you.” He plucked at a blade of grass. “I thought you might feel more comfortable speaking to me first.”

  “Even though you hardly ever talk to me anymore?”

  Donal glanced aside. “For that I apologize. I have always tended to…fall short where my human connections are concerned.”

  Ivy drew her knees to her chest. “Where should I begin?”

  “Why don’t you start with what you remember of your early childhood?”

  Tod hung on every word as Ivy began to reveal the secrets of her past. “My mother’s name was Estelle,” she said. “Estelle Naismith. Her father was a diplomat for England in Russia. That was where Estelle met my father.”

  Donal leaned forward, and Tod mimicked his motion, nearly tumbling from his perch. “Then you did know your father.”

  “Only what my mother told me. She spoke of him only when she was…when she had taken her laudanum.”