He was just turning when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow slide past the window.
His head jerked up and he stared at that ominous black square for a long moment. The rain suddenly seemed louder, the room darker, and unconsciously, his hand went to his hip. But there was no longer a sword there; that had been part of his former life, though the instinctual motion remained.
Frowning, the lantern in hand, he moved toward the door, his gaze on that black window and his suspicions aroused.
He pulled the door open and stared out into the rainy night.
Nothing.
Let it go, Colin. You are no longer an officer on watch, with the responsibility of a man-of-war and some eight hundred men resting on your shoulders. You’re just a humble London veterinarian. Get used to it.
Feeling a bit foolish, he picked up the bread that the farmer had given him and, blowing out the lantern, set it on the floor. For a moment he stood listening, all alone in this room with only his thoughts, and two years of warm memories played out within its walls—of saving, healing, and helping those poor, gentle creatures who could never voice their complaints of just how much it hurt.
He pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool spring night. Rain tapped against his face, moist wind kissed his cheeks. He locked the door and pocketed the key, thinking, still, of her.
He had just turned when there, in front of him, were the two men he had just sent from his office. The taller one had a pistol, and he was pointing it directly at Colin’s heart.
“If you wish to rob me,” Colin said flatly, “I’m afraid I can offer precious little with which to reward your efforts.” And then, looking the man straight in the eye, he calmly reached out, palm up, fingers beckoning. “Even so, I suspect the only thing you might actually steal from me is my patience with the two of you. Give me the pistol.”
“Simon, don’t give it to him!”
“I said,” Colin repeated, giving the taller one an implacable stare, “give me the pistol. Now.”
He saw the resolve wavering in the other man’s face beneath his tone of command; and then, slowly, and with cool, unflappable intent, Colin reached out, took the pistol from the other man’s suddenly nerveless hand, and, removing the flint so that the weapon could not be fired, handed it back to him. The man stood staring at him, slack-jawed at his audacity and total lack of fear.
“Forgive me for depriving you of both your dignity and your flint, but violence is not necessary, and neither of you look as though you should be playing with guns. And now, since you have finally succeeded in arousing my curiosity, perhaps we should all go and meet this employer of which you speak?”
CHAPTER 2
Lady Ariadne waited restlessly in the darkened street. What was taking them so long?
She was terrified.
A part of her vast inheritance was sewn into Shareb-er-rehh’s saddle blanket, but the thought of having it stolen from her by thieves was not the only cause of her fear.
It was the veterinarian.
What if he recognized her as the most wanted fugitive in London? What if he didn’t wish to leave his veterinary practice to escort her to Norfolk? What if he refused the money she was prepared to offer, and turned her in to the authorities instead?
As though sensing her distress, Shareb-er-rehh moved forward, shoving his head against her arm and rubbing hard. She threaded her fingers through his mane, trying to calm her racing heart. Moonlight was infusing the mist now and making it look ghostly and ethereal; shadows crept from the trees, stretching across the street and reaching for her, and from somewhere off in the night, she heard two cats fighting, their angry, drawn out wails winding through the darkness before ending on a high screech of synchronized fury.
She tried to take comfort in the stallion’s presence. He stood quietly beside her, his mane, singed by the fire, trimmed sparse and short. His scorched tail had been chopped, racehorse style, to the level of his hocks. The blinkered hood enclosed his expressive head, the saddle blanket covered part of his back, and weighted leg-bandages threw his long, fluid gait off enough to disguise it. No one would know who—or what—he was. But Ariadne was still nervous. She couldn’t risk Tristan or anyone else tracking them down by Shareb’s description.
Or, she thought, looking ruefully down at her masculine attire, her own.
Clenching her fists, she tilted her face up to the moon that now sailed through the silver clouds.
Oh, Papa . . . why did you bequeath Shareb-er-rehh to Tristan? Didn’t you know that he doesn’t care for him the way I do, that he will sell him to pay his debts? Were you so caught up in your dreams of creating the Norfolk Thoroughbred that you were blind to the weaknesses of your only son? Sudden tears stung her eyes, as she thought of her father—the man that she had loved from afar, the man whose attention she had spent her life trying to gain, the man who was always too busy, too preoccupied, too involved in other things, to spend time with a motherless daughter who was starved for love and affection. Even now, Ariadne was not unaware that, in trying to keep Shareb safe, she was still trying to gain her father’s attention . . . even if he was now in a place from which he could never again give it.
A tear slipped down her cheek for all that had been—and for all that could have been. And yet, had her father truly loved Shareb, either? Had Papa thought of him as anything more than a possession, as he had thought of her?
She reached into her pocket, unwrapped the last piece of pastry she’d been saving, and broke off a chunk of it. Hearing the crackling of the paper, Shareb-er-rehh immediately perked up, nosing her hand and lipping at her fingers. She put the treat on her palm, and felt his velvety lips brushing her skin. Only his quiet munching, and the sound of water dripping from the leaves above her head, broke the stillness of the night.
That—and now, something else.
Shareb-er-rehh heard it, too. Crumbs peppering his whiskers, he jerked his head up in mid-chew and stared off toward the increasing spill of light from the veterinarian’s door as it was opened from within, every muscle in his big body tense, his eyes gleaming like jet in the moonlight.
Ariadne caught her breath. There was Daniel and Simon—and the veterinarian walking purposefully between them, headed their way.
# # #
For some odd reason that he couldn’t explain, Colin wasn’t surprised to find the same young woman who had piqued his curiosity and plagued his thoughts from the moment he’d seen her sitting astride that same stallion, waiting for him outside in the street.
No, not surprised at all.
“Colin Lord,” he said, taking off his hat and bowing. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“How gallant you were today, saving that little boy’s dog as you did!” she said hurriedly, ignoring his question. “I commend your persistence, your skill, and your knowledge. I have never seen anything quite like it in my life. You were magnificent. Simply brilliant!”
Magnificent?
“Where did you learn such a thing, sir? You must be appropriately educated.”
“Veterinary College, London. I graduated from there, and did an apprenticeship with Delabere Blaine— ”
“Ah yes, the Veterinary College. My father, God rest his soul, had great faith in the future of the veterinary art and gave much money to support that institution. Always said it was a pity that France had a veterinary college before England did . . . After today, I can certainly see why he harbored such belief in your profession. Your knowledge far surpasses that of the common farrier and I think you’ll do quite nicely.” She smiled nervously, and glanced over her shoulder down the darkened street. “Are you ready to leave, Mr. Lord?”
“Leave?”
“Why, yes, leave. I trust Simon and Daniel told you that I have need of your services, and that there is no time to be lost. We must be on our way, and immediately.”
“To be fair, Madam, your two lackeys here were not entirely forthcoming or persuasive in th
eir attempts to convince me to accompany you. I understand that you want something from me—”
“Yes, but I am willing to pay handsomely for it.”
“And I also assume that you are the ‘employer’ whose whereabouts were unknown to your two friends here.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“They said something about Norfolk, sick horses, and payment. Pray, madam, do not keep me in suspense.”
She was obviously not accustomed to such direct and relentless questioning, and he saw her pause for a moment before she finally tightened her mouth, stood up, and pulled off her cap. In the lantern’s soft glow her hair tumbled down, gleaming rich and red and lustrous, like a warship’s new copper. She drove a hand through it, obliterating the flat imprint left by the cap and making the glossy tresses spring and bounce to life around her shoulders. For the first time, he saw her features in all their glory—the impudent little nose, the high cheekbones, the saucy tilt to her perfect mouth. Her skin was the color of his mother’s finest china, her eyes alight with piquancy. She was more lovely than he’d imagined, and he suddenly found it too hard to breathe.
“What?” Her eyes sparkled, and he caught the challenging, almost teasing, note to her tone. “Have you never seen a lady before?”
“Not . . . garbed so charmingly.”
It was a bold reply, and he saw her brows shoot up, the quick burst of color in her cheeks before she quickly turned her back on him and moved to stand beside the stallion, her hand stroking the horse’s muzzle with rapid, nervous movements.
“You have aptly demonstrated your knowledge of dogs, Mr. Lord,” she said, her hand moving faster now. “Tell me . . . what do you know about horses? Say . . . racehorses?”
“Thoroughbreds?”
“Racehorses.”
Thoroughbreds, he thought. “Well, they have four legs, a mane and tail—”
“I am dead serious, Mr. Lord!”
He sighed. “Really, madam, I’m tired, hungry, and not in the mood to go into a lengthy discourse about the merits of the various breeds, nor the illnesses to which each of them are predisposed. What do you want me to tell you about thoroughbreds? That the lot of them are a sick and fragile collection, cruelly forced to run themselves to death for the amusement of humans?”
One copper brow lifted, ever so slightly. Her eyes gleamed, a hint of a smile touched her mouth, and she shot a triumphant glance at the two silent youths. Her hand encircled the stallion’s muzzle, and still watching him, she rested her cheek against the side of its face. “Sick and fragile, Mr. Lord? How so?”
“Are you testing me?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Answer the question, please.”
He shrugged. “I worked with racehorses at Newmarket for a bit—I saw broken-winded animals, many with bones too fragile to withstand the rigors those poor beasts were asked to endure. A deplorable lot, really.”
“Enough, Mr. Lord. You have satisfied my curiosity, and now it is time for us to leave.”
“What?”
“Will you accompany us, Mr. Lord?”
“You haven’t even told me what—”
“Because if you’re not, I can go find another veterinarian to give the three thousand pounds to.”
“Three thousand pounds?”
“Yes. It is what I will pay you to accompany me to Burnham Thorpe in Norfolk. I wouldn’t expect you to know where it is, of course, but—”
“On the contrary, madam,” he said. “I . . . had a friend who hailed from there.” A shadow crossed his face as he remembered that friend—dead now these past four and a half years and sleeping forever in the crypt of St. Paul’s, not far from where he now stood.
“Well! Such a small world, is it not? Burnham is just a tiny village tucked up in the corner of Norfolk, near the sea; probably no one in England had ever even heard of it until Lord Nelson put it on the map.”
The pain in Colin’s heart increased, and memories of the state funeral, the national grief, the outpouring of love and gratitude from a grateful England toward the man who had rid the seas of Bonaparte’s fleet at Trafalgar, were as near as if he’d lost that same friend only yesterday. Lord Nelson. Admired by so many, but loved by those who had had the honor of knowing him.
He would be forever grateful that he had had that honor. . . .
“So are you interested in earning three thousand pounds, Mr. Lord?”
His head was spinning. Three thousand pounds was more than his practice made in an entire year. Three thousand pounds would enable him to buy his own establishment, perhaps even one in the West End of the city. Three thousand pounds would more than fund his research on equine laminitis. Three thousand pounds . . .
“I think, madam—”
“You’ll do it, then?”
“—that before I agree to anything, you should tell me just who you are, and why this need for such haste.”
Silence. She was looking uncertainly at the grooms, as though hesitant to reveal her identity; then, she raised her chin, her shoulders went back, and she faced him resolutely. He saw her chest rise and fall on a deep, steadying breath, almost as though she was bracing herself.
“I am Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn,” she announced, “daughter of the late Earl of Weybourne.”
He looked at her blankly, then glanced at the grooms. “Forgive me, but . . .”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t know who I am?”
“No. Should I?”
She glanced at the two young men; all three exchanged fleeting, relieved smiles. Then her shoulders relaxed, and he heard her release her breath as she met his questioning gaze. “I’m a fugitive, Mr. Lord. The whole of London is after me, and probably East Anglia as well.”
He looked at this lovely elfin creature and grinned. “For what, stealing male clothes and going about dressed as a lad?”
“No, for stealing my own horse and fleeing the clutches of my horrid brother.”
“Oh. How nice. So you wish to involve me in a family dispute.”
“For three thousand pounds, I should think it wouldn’t matter what I ask you to involve yourself in.”
He grinned. “Are you implying that I might want for money?”
“Well . . . your clothes do not suggest to me that you are a wealthy man.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t want to wear my everyday velvets and silks for crawling around in cow manure and performing rectal exams on—”
“Really, sir!”
“Let’s get straight to the point, shall we?” he murmured, a bit annoyed by her presumptuousness. “In exchange for these three thousand pounds, you wish me to escort you to Norfolk and look after a horse.”
“Yes. Not just any horse, but the Fas—”
“My lady!” cried the two grooms in unison.
Her eyes flashed to them and she raked a hand through her coppery hair, looking flustered and blown off course. “Yes, a, er, horse, Mr. Lord. He’s not ill, but he has great . . . sentimental value, and I’m terrified that something will happen to him . . . unfortunately, my wicked, horrible brother Tristan—he’s the new Lord Weybourne, you know—wants Shareb-er-rehh as much as I do. He’s even posted a reward for the return of this horse. My horse. A sister-brother dispute, is that not so, Daniel?”
“Yes, my lady. A sister-brother dispute.”
Colin looked at her suspiciously. There was more here than met the eye, but for three thousand pounds he was hesitant to dig too deeply.
“So, is it this horse you want me to look after, then?”
“Yes. Shareb-er-rehh, His name means ‘Drinker of the Wind.’“
“And just what is so valuable about this animal that you’re willing to pay me so much money to protect him?” Colin asked, stretching out a hand toward the stallion. The animal flung its head up with violent force; its ears swept back, and thick white teeth gleamed savagely in the darkness.
“I wouldn’t get too close,” the young woman warned. “He’s very protective of me and quite j
ealous besides.”
“Yes, well let’s pray he never requires any medical attention,” Colin said, dryly.
“No, I doubt that he shall. But to answer your question, sir . . . my father, the sixth earl, had a lifelong interest in breeding horses. He—”
“My lady!” Daniel and Simon cried once more.
“Yes, you two, I know.” Her eyes flashed, and she was looking mildly irritated now. “In any case, Mr. Lord, my father devoted his entire life to developing a . . . very special breed of horse. Superior in intelligence, and . . . other things. Shareb-er-rehh is the last surviving male to represent it.”
“And just what is so special about this breed?”
She looked away. “It is, um . . . renowned for its . . . high-stepping gaits.”
“I see.”
“With the exception of one mare, who is in the possession of Lord Maxwell of Norfolk, the rest were all lost to a mysterious illness two months ago.” Her eyes grew sad, and she looked down at her toes. “Four decades of careful breeding, Mr. Lord. My father’s legacy. Wiped out, just like that.”
“And you don’t know what this ‘mysterious illness’ was?”
“No. All I can tell you is that the horses went out of their minds, and had strange convulsions and behavior just before they died . . . thank God my father got Shareb-er-rehh out of there and down to London before he could catch it, as well.” She turned to him, her eyes haunted and bleak. “What do you think it might have been?”
“I’d have to see the clinical signs and examine the animals,” he said, evasively.
“A guess, then?”
He shrugged. “Could be one of many things. Moldy corn disease, perhaps.”
“Moldy corn dis—”
“Aye, sometimes the corn goes bad and upon ingestion, proves fatal to the horse.”
“Oh.”
“But you say there is one mare left?”
“Yes, just one. My father gave her to Lord Maxwell—he also resides in Norfolk, you see—and her name is Gazella. She is the real reason that I must get Shareb-er-rehh to Norfolk—so that they can be bred, a foal can be got, and the horses that were my father’s legacy, preserved.” Her eyes grew angry and she turned away to stroke the stallion’s neck. “But my wicked brother Tristan cares naught for our father’s forty years of dreaming and planning! All he cares about is catching up to me, claiming Shareb-er-rehh as his own, and then handing him over to his creditors in order to pay off his immense gambling debts!”
Danelle Harmon Page 3
