He risked a glance up and saw some fifty anxious faces, all staring down at him, all expecting nothing short of a miracle, and he was suddenly terrified of failing them all.
Just as he had failed the many men who had died that night he’d made the single worst decision of his life.
He looked away—and it was then that he saw her. A petite young woman, refined and elegant, sitting astride a deep-chested bay stallion and staring directly into his eyes. Her hair was stuffed beneath a wool cap, breeches molded her shapely thighs, and only the fine arch of her brows, the clarity of her skin, and the hint of a bosom beneath her coat belied the fact she was not the lad she appeared to be. Her head was high and her dark eyes were smiling, as though she secretly shared his success; she gave the faintest of nods, and in her gaze he saw more than just blind faith in his abilities—he saw complete, unflagging confidence that he would succeed in saving the dog.
Suddenly flustered, Colin’s gaze shot back to his patient.
And then, beneath his hand, he felt it. The slowing and strengthening of pulse and the return of spirit, the defiant rush of blood, of promise, of life, through veins and arteries and heart.
He forgot the woman on the horse.
“Yes!” he said through clenched teeth, bending anxiously over the dog as the crowd closed in and their shadows fell over the both of them. “Come on—what’s your name, big fellow?—Homer. Come on, Homer,” he urged, stroking the dog’s thick neck and gazing intently into its half-shuttered eyes. “Come awake for me, Homer . . .”
The dog whimpered and stirred. Its foreleg jerked, the huge paw scraping the cobblestones, its whimper becoming a harsh cry deep in its throat as full consciousness began to return, and with it, pain. The crowd murmured excitedly, their voices rising in a sudden, thunderous din; the little boy’s sobs caught, held—and then the mastiff’s eyes opened, and it lifted its huge, noble head to regard the man who had just saved its life, its dark eyes looking deeply, gratefully, into those of the veterinarian.
Colin smiled.
The dog’s tail thumped once, twice, on the cobblestones.
And the crowd went wild.
“Home-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-r!” Tommy shrieked, tearing himself from his mother and plunging to his knees at the mastiff’s side.
His head ringing with that elated screech, his ears filled with the cheers of the crowd, Colin stood up and passed a wrist across his brow. People were clapping him on the back, congratulating him, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. He took off his spattered spectacles and turned to speak to Tommy’s mother—but her fond gaze was on her son, who was bent over the dog, sobbing into its fur, embracing it and hugging the big body ecstatically.
“Oh, Homer!” Tommy cried, sobbing happily. “Oh, Homer, Homer, Homer!”
Colin dropped the spectacles into his pocket, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and gazed down at the happy pair as the boy’s mother moved to stand beside him. “I think,” he said with a helpless grin, “that Homer here will live to eat many more atrociously huge meals—though I would advise against them.”
He looked up then, toward the woman on the bay stallion—but the spot where they had been was empty.
His guardian angel was gone.
# # #
“I want that man.”
Daniel and Simon, walking on either side of Shareb-er-rehh’s hooded head as they hurried away from the cheering crowd, came to such a simultaneous stop that the action might’ve been choreographed. The two grooms stared up at her.
“What do you mean, you want him?”
Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn tugged her cap down over her brow and urged the stallion on. Again, she relived that silent drama: the veterinarian down on his knees in the street, his dark blond head bent over a mastiff, the dog’s tongue hanging out to rest lifelessly upon the cobblestones. Again, she saw the concentration in that intent, handsome face, the hair falling unheeded over his brow, the blood spraying his spectacles, and he never flinching, never faltering, never losing that expression of purposeful intent. The steady hands, the muscles beneath his rolled up sleeves, the horror she’d felt at seeing that needle plunging into the dog’s swollen abdomen—
“My lady?”
And the dog. Coming back to life as though raised from the dead. Lifting its massive head to look up at its savior, and the humble gratitude in its dark eyes before the happy shrieks of the little boy, the thunderous cheers of the crowd, had drowned everything out.
She would never forget it, not as long as she lived.
“I said, I want him,” she repeated, glancing behind her. There was no one following them, but even so, she couldn’t help but feel nervous and vulnerable out here in broad daylight where anyone might recognize her. . . or, Shareb-er-rehh. Though a hood covered his noble head, and leather cups concealed most of his wide, intelligent dark eyes—the right one ringed with white and giving him a perpetual look of curiosity and coltish wonder—she was taking no chances. The stallion’s blood was impeccably blue, his existence the result of four decades of careful planning, his worth—as the last and only male heir to his heritage—beyond value.
A horse like Shareb stood out.
A horse like Shareb would be easily recognized.
The sooner they were out of London, the better.
“I need to get Shareb-er-rehh to Norfolk, and I need an escort who is capable of ensuring his health along the way. I want you two to follow him, find out who he is and where he resides, and report back to me. We’ll need to convince him of my need for his services in as discreet a way possible—without telling him of my identity or the bounty on my head.”
“But my lady, what if he refuses?”
‘Do what you must to convince him. I cannot take no for an answer.” She gave them both a stern look. “You both have served my family well, but don’t make a muddle of this.”
“But my lady, we can escort you to Norfolk, keep you from harm, make sure your brother doesn’t recognize or find you along the way—”
“Yes, but you cannot cure a sick or injured horse. That man, obviously, can.” She reached down and nervously touched the stallion’s neck. “It’s not wise for me to tarry out here in the open, so I’m off to my hiding spot. Report back to me in an hour, and don’t forget Shareb’s pastry and ale. I wish to leave London tonight—with the veterinarian.”
# # #
Night had long since fallen outside the livery where Colin ran his practice. As was his habit, he strode the length of the barn, carrying a lantern and looking in on each horse before closing the place up for the night. A small office and two stalls at the stable’s far end were his to use in exchange for veterinary care for the owner’s horses, and now, both of those stalls were empty—the last one on the left, painfully so.
He looked at it for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the lantern’s wire handle. Poor Old Ned, who’d served him so faithfully these past three years . . . sickly, in pain, and chronically lame, he was one animal Colin had not been able to save.
“I miss you, old boy,” he murmured, gazing sadly at the empty feed bin, the empty water bucket, the empty confines of the stall. Around him, the other horses abruptly stopped munching their hay, listening. He reached out and ran his fingers over the door’s worn edge, where a few white hairs still clung. “Miss you like hell.” Then he turned away and continued on, the chronic ache in his right leg warning him of impending rain.
The past weighed heavily on him tonight, despite the day’s triumph. Ned. Orla. And other memories . . . memories that had nothing to do with horses, and everything to do with the life he’d once led. A life of glory, of honor, of distinction, of pride.
Of loss.
He took a deep and steadying breath, the quietness of the stable making him feel all the more alone. It was best not to think of the past. There was nothing to be found there but pain.
But the animals around him sensed his sorrow, and every horse in the stable turned its head to watch him as he p
assed, their quiet, soulful eyes dark with love and adoration that Colin never noticed. The livery’s owner had long since gone home, the two stable hands off for the night to drink themselves into a stupor at the Blue Rooster. As usual, they had invited Colin to join them; and as usual, he had politely declined. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people; he just wasn’t a gregarious man, a trait that he’d first become aware of back in his Royal Navy days, when, alone in his cabin and cut off from the rest of the ship, he’d found a haven in isolation where others of his rank had often complained of finding it a self-imposed prison.
He reached out to stroke the nose of a stout gray gelding whose head hung over a stall door. Better not to think of those years. Nor, of the disgrace that had ended them forever, toppling him from the pinnacles of public and military acclaim to spend his life in forgotten obscurity, bringing shame on his family’s name, and condemning him to nightmares that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. He might as well have just disappeared off the face of the earth, really. And yet, the man he had been still remained, and the parallels between the two, vastly different careers were not lost on him. Once, he’d been a hero. And sometimes—like today, he thought with a little smile, as he remembered the mastiff coming alive under his hands, the boy’s tearful shriek of glee—he still felt like one.
Giving the horse a last fond pat, he continued on, his limp more pronounced than usual, remembering that beautiful, elegant woman sitting astride the stallion.
Watching him.
Sharing a smile with him.
What had she thought?
He’d probably never know. Just as he’d never know who she was, nor why she had concealed her gender, nor why she’d been staring at him so intently.
He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind all day. Surely, such obsessions were a direct result of spending too much time with animals instead of people. Perhaps he should have joined the two stable hands for a wet or two at the local tavern, just for a change of scenery . . .
He completed his nightly tour, the straw and dirt sighing beneath his boots. For a moment he stood listening to the sounds of a happy, healthy stable—horses munching their hay, the occasional swish of a tail across a sleek haunch, the stamp of a foot, the rattling of a bucket. All was as it should be. Satisfied, he stepped into the small office where he treated the occasional dog or cat that found its way to his mainly-equine practice, intending to retrieve his bag and his nightly dose of educational reading.
He stopped in surprise. A man stood there, a stained hat clenched between his stubby fingers.
“Can I help you?” Colin asked.
The man put out a thick, broad hand. “Name’s John McCarthy. Just wanted to stop by and thank ye for savin’ that dog today—he belongs t’ me son, ye know. The wife baked ye a loaf of bread f’r yer services; I put it there on the table.”
Setting the lantern down, Colin returned the handshake. He thanked the man and heard himself making some inane comment about what a good patient Homer had been.
“I know ye don’t remember me,” the farmer went on, the lantern light gleaming off his balding head as he gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the vials and jars of salves, pills, and powders that competed for his attention on the wall-shelves. “But I came to the talk ye gave last week at the lecture hall, the one on lameness in the horse. Enjoyed it a real lot, Mr. Lord. Thank ye for leavin’ out all those eee-ses and oh-ses so that us plain folk could know what ye was talkin’ about.”
Colin nodded, smiling in amusement as the man screwed up his brow and peered at a bottle of pills whose cobalt color he seemed to find particularly attractive.
“I, uh . . . I’m sorry to be botherin’ ye, ‘specially at this hour when ye probably want to go home and eat yer supper, but . . . well, I was wonderin’, Mr. Lord, if ye might suggest a remedy for me little mare. She’s got a cold—you know, runny eyes ‘n’ nose an’ the whole lot, and I’ve already had her bled once. It didn’t do no good, sir, and I was just wonderin’ what you, bein’ one of these new vet-rinarians, think I ought t’ do.”
“Do you have her with you, Mr. McCarthy?”
“Well, er, no . . . figgered she was best left at home since she was feelin’ so poorly.”
Overhead, rain began to drum softly upon the roof, and Colin felt his leg throbbing right along with it. Leaning against the examination table to take the weight off it, he bent his head, raking a hand through his hair and pushing it back off his brow.
“F’rgive me, Mr. Lord. Ye look tired—I can come back in the mornin’—”
“No, no, I’m fine, really.” Colin looked up and gave a reassuring smile, his mind drifting back to the woman. The memory of that pixie face would put off any hopes of a peaceful night’s sleep, as surely as the pain that was plaguing his leg. “About your little mare . . .”
“Do ye think I ought t’ get her bled again, Mr. Lord?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But the farrier said—”
“I know what the farriers say,” Colin said, with more sharpness than he intended. “And the cow leeches, and the surgeons, and my own colleagues, even. Phlebotomy is the accepted treatment for everything from colic to pneumonia. But it is cruel and unnecessary, and I don’t believe in it. Cover your little mare with a blanket instead, give her a hot bran mash, get her away from your other stock so she does not infect them, and rest her from her work for a day or so.”
McCarthy stared at him for a moment, mentally digesting the information. Then he nodded, slowly. “Blanket, bran mash, and rest,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “No bleeding.”
“No bleeding.”
He pumped Colin’s hand, beaming with gratitude. “Thankee, sir. Much obliged. And what do I owe ye for yer good advice?”
“Not a thing. Just your promise that you won’t have her bled. And please, if she doesn’t improve, send for me and I’ll come take a look at her, personally.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Lord.” Smiling, the farmer clapped his hat down atop his balding pate and reached for the door. “Thanks again . . . and I’m sorry for botherin’ ye.”
“You’re not both—”
But he was already gone, his cheerful whistle and heavy footsteps following him as he pulled open the door and disappeared into the rainy night. For a moment, Colin stood leaning against the examination table, listening to the gentle tap of rain against the roof. He could smell it as it came sweeping through the open window on a feathery gust of wind, and the fresh, earthy scent of springtime; damp dirt and grass, blossoming flowers, clean, newly washed air. He looked forward to a refreshing walk home in the damp.
Another trait, left over from his years at sea. He liked weather, in all of its many facets and moods.
He was just retrieving the key to his bookcase when the door opened once more, admitting two young men who had a look of nervousness and secrecy about them.
“Are you Mr. Lord?”
“I am.” He pocketed the key. “What can I do for you?”
“We, uh . . . we have a horse, and we need you to, er, come look at him.” said the taller of the two.
“Sick?”
“Well, not really,” said the other one. “But he might get sick.”
“Yeah, you never know, he just might.”
“And even if he doesn’t get sick, La— I mean, our employer wants to know if you’d accompany us to Norfolk—“
“To make sure he doesn’t get sick.”
“And to cure him if he does.”
“But he’s not sick, now.”
“And he never gets sick.”
“So it would be a really easy task.”
‘Very easy.”
“You really wouldn’t have much to do.”
“So will you come with us?”
Colin just stared at them. The taller one flushed, his gaze darting toward the door. The other was nervously picking at a thread in his coat; both had the look of trapped animals about them.
&nbs
p; “Let me get this straight,” Colin said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. “You want me to accompany your employer to Norfolk to make sure his horse doesn’t get sick?”
“Yes, will you?”
“It would be an easy job!”
“And you’d be well paid!”
Colin bent his head to his hand as he kneaded his tired eyes. “How much?”
“Well, we really don’t know, that would be between you and—and our employer.”
“And where is this employer?”
“At the moment? At the moment, um, well, I don’t really know, but I’m sure we can find him.”
“He’s, um—he’s in hiding.”
“Hiding,” Colin said flatly.
“Yes, hiding.”
Colin felt the last of his patience waning. His stomach was growling, he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than a meal, a bath, a few minutes with a book, and bed.
“Gentlemen, I have had a long day,” he said. “If you have a horse that is truly sick, then by all means, come and seek my services. In the meantime, if you will excuse me—”
“But Mr. Lord, you must listen, must hear us out!”
Colin was already guiding them toward the door. “I believe I have heard enough. Good night, gentleman.”
“You won’t come with our employer to Norfolk?”
“No.”
“But—“
“I said, good night, gentlemen.”
And with that, he opened the door, saw them out, and shut it behind them, wondering what the devil that had been all about. It must be the lateness of the hour, he thought. Or perhaps it was the full moon. He shook his head, unlocked his bookcase and selected the second volume of Delabere Blaine’s The Outlines of the Veterinary Art and Bracy Clark’s recently published A Series of Original Experiments on the Foot of the Living Horse—the former for its discussion of laminitis, the latter for its theories regarding elasticity of the foot, complete with an anatomical and physiological dissertation long and complicated enough to keep him well distracted into the wee hours of the morning. Heavy reading, but certainly easier to rest on than thoughts of that petite beauty who’d been watching him earlier. Tucking the books beneath his coat, Colin reached for his bag.
Danelle Harmon Page 2
