TAKEN BY STORM
By
Danelle Harmon
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PUBLISHED BY:
Danelle Harmon
TAKEN BY STORM
Copyright © 2013 by Danelle Harmon
License Notes
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Dedication
As children we all have our heroes, and when I was a little girl, mine were horses. This version of Taken By Storm is dedicated, with affection and long-standing admiration, to my own personal childhood favorite—the beautiful, indomitable, curious and charismatic 1930 American Triple Crown winner, Gallant Fox, on whom Shareb-er-rehh was based.
PROLOGUE
Weybourne House,
London, England
1810
The fire started as a spark set to hay, a twisting viper of black smoke before a draft from the stable’s open door blew it into life.
With a savage, whooshing roar, the hay burst into flame.
Satisfied, the man tossed the lantern into the loose straw and stepped back as the fire’s hot breath hit him. He stood watching the hay blacken, crackle, and disintegrate, mesmerized by the flames, feeling their heat pressing against his face and sucking the moisture out of his pores, drying out his eyes, searing the inside of his nose, and crawling into his lungs with deadly malice.
Take this, you bastard. Teach you to go breaking agreements. If I can’t have the Weybourne fortune—and the horses—no one can.
Acrid smoke blackened the air, banked down from the rafters. Coughing, he whipped out his handkerchief, covered his mouth, and stepped back, toward the safety of the door and the coolness of the night beyond. Already, the fire was out of control, a frenzied demon swallowing up stacks of hay, leaping up the partitions that separated the empty stalls, and charging toward that one, single box at the end that was not empty at all.
A shrill whinny pierced the night, and then, hooves ringing desperately against wood.
The stallion was the most valuable horse in England, if not the world, but the man made no effort to save it. He heard its whinny become a terrified scream, felt the fire growing hotter, louder, angrier, pressing hot clothing against his skin, beginning to scorch, blister, and suffocate him. Smoke began to choke him, and he tasted burning wood and hay, turpentine, leather and dirt. Eyes watering, his lungs constricting in the searing heat, he retreated from the stable, the fire raging at his back.
From behind him came the stallion’s frightened scream, piercing the hellish clamor of fire and heat. It was a horrible, ghastly sound of pure terror and he pictured the flames reaching for the proud animal, engulfing it, burning it.
Such a waste.
It could’ve been otherwise, Weybourne. You old fool.
Outside, the night air engulfed him like a cool blanket, and he sucked huge gulps of it into his lungs to rid them of smoke and heat. At his back the inferno roared, and he heard the great timbers of the stable caving in upon themselves, a last distant battering of shod hooves meeting wood . . .
And then, a crescendo of thunder rising behind him.
He whirled and saw the stallion.
Wild-eyed with fury and terror, its tail streaming smoke and fire, the horse came charging out of the flames like a winged specter of death. It made straight for him; he saw the fire reflected in its savage black eyes, against its burnished coat, in its wide, flaring nostrils that burned an unholy red—
He threw himself out of the way just in time.
The great beast galloped madly off into the night, its mighty hooves making the earth tremble beneath him.
Shaken, his trousers smudged with dirt, the man pulled himself to his feet. Sweat poured down his hot face and sheets of fire snapped and popped and reached for him. Flames danced within the collapsed building like legions of angry devils. And now, faintly, he heard hoarse cries, and turned to see Weybourne himself running from the house, trailed by servants who were trying in vain to catch up to him.
“Shareb!” the old man cried. “Shareb-er-rehh!”
Silhouetted in the conflagration’s bright light, the fire-starter moved backwards, and behind a stately elm whose leaves were already curling in agony against the intense heat. Smiling, he watched as the earl came rushing toward the stable, arms waving, old legs pumping, his night cap trailing from his head.
“Shareb!” the old man cried, and then his voice rose in a desperate scream of bleak agony: “Shareb-er-rehh!”
“Stop him!” shouted one of the servants, running as fast as he could. “My lord, no!”
Another section of the stable roof imploded, spouting a fountain of sparks and churning black smoke toward the stars above.
“Shareb!”
“No, milord! Don’t go in there, it’s no use!”
“Shareb-er-rehhhhhhh—”
The old earl ran blindly through the sheets of flame and into the burning stable; the servants charged toward the back of the building in the hope of gaining a safer entrance; then, there was only Weybourne’s horrible screams as the fire caught him. His clothing ablaze, he came staggering out, gaining fifteen, maybe twenty feet, before he fell, clutching his chest.
The arsonist moved out from behind the elm and stood staring coldly down at the dying man.
“You . . .” the old earl gasped, the flames glowing orange against his face as he dragged open his eyes and saw who stood over him. “Knew it was you . . . did it for revenge, didn’t you . . . should have trusted my instincts about you . . .”
The fire crackled and sighed. Pungent billows of black smoke enclosed them, cut them off from the shouts and screams and calls that pierced the darkness.
The arsonist knelt down to the old man’s level. “Pity, pity, Weybourne. I suppose young Tristan told you all about me, did he not? Is that why you wanted to break the agreement?” He arched a brow, a faint smile touching his mouth as the earl stretched a wizened hand toward him, fingers clawing the glowing earth in a spasm of agony. “Well, I’m in debt, too . . . and I’ll be damned if I let you break your promise to me. Good-night, Weybourne. May you rot in hell.”
He stood, still looking at that pitiful old hand reaching toward his boot. Above the fire’s roar, he heard Weybourne’s wheezing gasps, watched the feeble hand jerk and stiffen, saw, in the unholy glow from the burning stable, the skin going ashy and gray.
And heard, off in the distance, the thunder of hoofbeats.
Hard, fast, and furious.
The stallion was returning.
This time, the man slithered off into the night, while behind him the stable burned . . .
And burned.
CHAPTER 1
WANTED: Any information leading to the whereabouts of Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn, daughter of the late Earl of Weybourne, who disappeared on Sunday last following the stable fire at Weybourne House in which Lord Weybourne perished. Her Ladyship, who is nineteen years of age, is described as having a very small frame, a most remarkable shade of red hair, and has in her possession a bay stallion. A REWARD of ten thousand pounds has been offered by her brother, the new Lord Weybourne, for the return of said horse, of which he is the new and rightful owner. Enquiries may be made to Weybourne House, Brompton Road, London.
“That ought to do it.”
Seated at the carved mahogany de
sk that was now his, the new Lord Weybourne scanned his words a final time, put his seal on the document, and briskly handed it into the care of his waiting butler. “Make sure a copy of this gets posted at every inn and public house from here to Kings Lynn, and get it into the Times as soon as possible.” He picked up his gloves, took his hat from his valet, and slapped it atop his dark russet hair. “For all the good it will bloody well do. My sister is probably halfway to Norfolk with that horse by now.”
The door opened and a groom stood there. “Your mare is saddled and ready, my lord.”
“It’s about time,” Tristan said darkly, and slammed from the room.
Outside, the servants were already lined up on the lawn to see their young lord off. As he strode swiftly down the steps of Weybourne House, they quailed at the look in his eye, the grim set to his mouth.
“May God be with our dear Lady Ariadne, wherever she is,” a maid whispered to the footman who stood rigidly beside her. She wrung her hands. “Oh, William, I only hope she reaches Norfolk before he does!”
“She has a good head-start,” the footman said, out of the corner of his mouth. He kept his face fixed and attentive. “And Shareb-er-rehh. He’ll not catch her.”
Tight-lipped and silent, the servants watched as their new master checked his horse’s girth, scowling at the animal as though damning it for not being one of the fast Norfolk Thoroughbreds. Tension crackled in the air, and tense sideways glances passed up and down their waiting ranks. Lady Ariadne had lost so much in the last two months alone. First the strange epidemic at the country house in Burnham Thorpe that had killed all but one of the Norfolk Thoroughbreds; then the London stable fire that had claimed her father, and nearly Shareb-er-rehh as well—and finally, the opening and reading of his will. It had been the final blow. Surely, old Lord Weybourne had meant well . . . but to think he had been blind enough to bequeath Shareb-er-rehh, the last, and only remaining, stallion, to his derelict rakehell of a son. Who could blame Lady Ariadne for stealing the horse and fleeing London?
It was a good thing young Tristan was ignorant of their thoughts—and, where their sympathies lay. His handsome face exhibited no sign of grief as he passed the gutted stable on its black and ugly patch of charred ground, his eyes belied no emotion as the damp London wind skated over the rubble and brought with it the acrid stench of ashes and dead dreams. There was nothing in his countenance but fury—and grim resolve.
Sensing it, the mare rolled her eyes in fear as he pulled on his gloves, took the reins, and snapped out final instructions to his grave-faced butler. “If anyone comes looking for the reward money, put them off until my return. God knows I don’t have the funds—yet—to pay it out. But I will, as soon as I catch up to my sister and get my hands on that stallion. So help me God I will.”
Then the young master of Weybourne swung himself up in the saddle, wheeled his horse, and in a clatter of hoofbeats, was gone.
# # #
“There sir! In the street!”
Colin Nicholas Lord took one look at the dog and knew it was dying.
Gripping his bag, he sprinted as best he could toward the animal even as a woman broke from the confused group that milled around it. She hurried to meet him, her skirts flying, her face flushed and anxious. “Oh sir, they said you’re an animal doctor! Please, do something to save our precious Homer—you’ve got to save him, sir, oh, please you’ve got to save him, he’s my son Tommy’s only companion and if he dies—”
The crowd parted, ushering him through. The big black mastiff was lying on its side, lips pulled back in a grimace of agony, body stiff, eyes glassy and staring into nothingness. A little boy, six or seven years old by the look of him, was huddled on the street next to the dog, his skinny arms wrapped around its massive neck, his bright blond head buried in its fur. He looked up, his eyes huge and blue, his cheeks streaked with tears.
“H-Homer. . . .” he choked out, “My doggie—”
“Let me get in here and take a look at him,” Colin said gently. “May I?”
The boy’s lower lip quivered, and a huge tear rolled from his eye. Wordlessly, he turned and fled into his mother’s arms.
Colin knelt down on the cobblestones beside the dog. “Easy there, big fellow,” he murmured, setting his bag down and running a calming hand over the animal. Beneath the heavy warmth of its hind leg, he found the femoral pulse beating too rapidly, too faintly; he lifted the slack lip, saw that the mucus membranes were nearly as white as the teeth they enclosed. But it was the dog’s abdomen, huge, hard, and swollen tight as a drum, that gave him his diagnosis.
“When was the last time he ate, madam?”
“A few hours ago,” she said tightly, holding Tommy against her skirts and clutching his hand. “Oh, sir, is he going to—”
“Any vomiting?”
“Well, yes, he tried . . . I made him a big plate of meat and potatoes for supper, then he drank his whole bowl of water, went outside to run and play with Tommy—he does that every night and he’s such a gentle old dog and all the little ones in the neighborhood love him so much—oh, sir, is he going to live? Please, tell us he’s going to live—”
Tommy broke from her side, fell to his knees beside the dog, and wrapped his arms around its big neck. “Oh, Homer . . . Oh, Homer, please, don’t die! Please, please, please don’t die . . .” Sobbing, the boy looked imploringly into Colin’s grave face. “Please, mister, don’t let him die. Please . . . You won’t let him, will you?”
Colin opened his bag and took out his spectacles. “I’ll do what I can, Tommy. Now, you do me a favor and go stand with your mama, all right?”
The little boy’s throat worked, and he ran to obey.
Colin put on his spectacles and once more returned his attention to his patient.
Commotion surrounded him. Traffic stopping in the street . . . carriage wheels grinding against worn cobblestone . . . running footsteps, windows sliding open in the rooms above his head, someone shouting, the hollow clatter of a horse’s hooves. Colin never raised his head, intent on the dog, and the dog only. He passed his hand over its abdomen as the crowd pressed close, some unwashed and rank with sweat, others heavily perfumed, all of them blocking out sunlight, air, thinking space—
“Give the fellow some room, folks!” a man shouted, from somewhere above. “Clear away, get back. Back . . .”
The dog stared glassily into space through half-closed eyes, whimpering through its nose in pain.
“Do you know what ails him, sir?” the woman asked, tightly.
“Gastric dilatation. Bloat, if you will.”
“Bloat?”
Colin was already eyeing the hugely swollen abdomen, silently praying that the stomach was not twisted up inside; if it was, the animal was as good as dead. But the woman didn’t have to know that. Not yet, anyhow.
As gently as he could, he answered, “There’s a large amount of gas trapped in your dog’s stomach, madam—if it is not released, he’ll die.” His hands still resting on the mastiff’s side, Colin twisted around, looking up at the anxious faces until he found the man who’d summoned him. “Sir? If you’ll please restrain Homer for me while I attempt treatment . . . Yes, like that. Just put your hands on his neck and shoulders. Good.”
Little Tommy hid his face in his mother’s skirts, crying bitterly. Colin’s chest constricted. He glanced at the woman, and she stared beseechingly into his eyes with that frozen plea he was all too familiar with, that blind faith and hope and trust that the animal lover bestows upon the one person in the world who might be capable of saving their beloved pet.
“Please do your best, sir,” she said quietly. “For my son.”
There was no time to waste. Reaching for his bag, Colin hurriedly searched its depths for the small bottle of rum, a cloth, and the trocar, a short needle that was Homer’s only hope of survival. He lifted the instrument out, keeping his face perfectly blank and his features composed for the sake of the mastiff’s distraught owner. He’d used
the fine needle on sheep—but never on a dog.
There was no other choice.
Palming the mastiff’s distended belly, Colin found its highest point. The dog tried to roll into an upright position, but Colin held him down, his voice gentle and soothing. As the crowd went hush-silent around him, he poured rum onto the cloth and cleaned the area. Then he leaned over the dog so the little boy could not see what he was about to do—and pushed the needle straight down into the hard, swollen stomach.
Behind him, the woman gasped.
The needle pierced the stomach wall. Fluid, sunset-colored and fetid, shot from the top of the trocar, spattering his cheeks, his brow, his spectacles; he blocked out the sudden, overpowering stench and the alarmed murmur of the crowd, aware of only the malodorous fluid bubbling out of the trocar and the pent-up gas escaping the dog’s stomach in a frenzied hiss.
At his side, the man was staring at him in shocked horror.
Please, God, let the stomach wall be healthy, Colin thought, desperately—for if it were not, the organ would burst inside the abdomen and the resulting peritonitis would surely kill poor Homer.
The moments crept by.
The crowd held its collective breath.
He laid his fingers against the inside of the dog’s hind leg, checking its pulse once again. Counting. Feeling his helper’s gaze upon him, searching his face for some sign of encouragement, hope, promise.
Come on, big fellow, he thought, holding the needle in one hand and stroking the dog’s heavily muscled neck with the other. Don’t bow out on me now. Come on, Homer . . . make little Tommy happy . . .
He shut his eyes, oblivious to the bits of gravel driving into his knees, the sunlight against the back of his neck, feeling only the dog’s ribs moving steadily beneath his palm, up and down, up and down. Long moments went by. The crowd around and above him had gone deathly silent. The hiss of the escaping gas dropped in pitch, then faded out, and gently, Colin withdrew the needle.
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