“Good. You rather look like a University graduate, all brainy and highborn with them on . . . I do hope you shall wear them often for me, just so I’m reminded that I have indeed purchased myself a veterinarian worthy of my stallion. I mean, at twelve thousand pounds you had better be worthy!”
“Perhaps next time you should shop around for a bargain,” he said drolly, as he directed her to back the horse into the shafts.
“Are you sporting with me, sir?”
“Me, sport with you?” He widened his eyes and gave her his most innocent smile as he fastened the traces. “I would not dream of it. You are far too important a personage to make sport of, and I would be less than a gentleman if I were to insult you so.”
“Good.” She raised her chin and regarded him with a cool hauteur that was effectively destroyed by the mischief in her eye. “Because I would take great offense, I think, if you were to make sport of me without my knowing. That would be unforgivably rude and impertinent behavior on your part.”
“Oh, yes. Unforgivably.”
They stared at each other, both trying not to grin. Then her chin came down a notch, and he saw the helpless sparkle in her eye, the deviltry in her expression.
“So, are you going to wear your spectacles or not?”
“I wear them for reading.”
“You weren’t reading when I saw you in them.”
“I wear them during surgery, too. Or, for anything that requires strict attention to detail. Or when I’m tired. Or when—”
“Surgery!” She clapped a hand across her chest and went a bit green. “Do you mean . . . cutting things?”
“Not ‘things.’ Flesh. Skin. Muscle—”
“How utterly ghastly. Pray I shall never have to see anything more disconcerting than what you had to do to that poor, bloated dog yesterday! Imagine, stabbing it in the belly with a needle—”
“You should have stayed a bit longer,” he couldn’t resist adding, with a teasing grin. “The stomach tube procedure that followed was even more impressive.”
She blanched. “Stomach tube?”
“Aye. A long, snakish thing of wire wrapped with leather. One must push it down the esophagus and into the stomach so as to relieve the excess—”
“Never mind, Dr. Lord, you may talk of such things after we eat breakfast! Which reminds me, would you like a blackcurrant tart?”
As though on cue, the stallion’s ears shot forward and he craned his neck and stared at his mistress’ pocket. Odd behavior, Colin thought, frowning. The little noblewoman reached into her coat, pulled out a thick wedge of paper-wrapped pastry, and pushing aside Shareb-er-rehh’s questing muzzle with her elbow, offered it to Colin.
He took it and thanked her, not realizing how hungry he’d been until the sugary, flaky pastry filled his mouth. The stallion eyed him flatly, one ear forward, one back; then it banged its head against Lady Ariadne’s shoulder, hard, at the same time that Colin felt paws against his knees and looked down to see little Bow, begging, drooling, and staring at him with desperate eyes. Hungry as he was, he broke the pastry in half, gave the bigger piece to the dog, and when he glanced up, noticed the stallion was munching something and regarding him with haughty triumph.
He frowned. Dear God, he hoped she hadn’t fed pastry to the horse . . .
Early morning traffic was beginning to clatter past on the street beyond the buildings, and overhead, two chaffinches flitted amongst branches dressed in green. It was apparent that if they ever wanted to get out of London, he’d have to get this venture underway. He made one final check of the harness, lifted Bow into the chaise—
And saw his employer giving something to her horse.
“What are you feeding him?”
“Pastry.” She smiled lovingly at the stallion as it lipped the last crumbs from her palm. “A blackcurrant tart, to be precise.”
“I forbid it.”
She stiffened, her chin coming up. “Dr. Lord, you’ll not forbid anything. Shareb likes pastry and ale—”
“Ale?”
“Yes, ale. Are you hard of hearing? Or do you forbid that, too, Doctor?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. As your horse’s veterinarian I cannot allow him to have pastry and ale, no matter how much he enjoys them. Surely he can subsist comfortably well on hay, bran, oats and corn, like any other horse—”
“Dr. Lord, you don’t understand. Shareb-er-rehh is not ‘just any other horse’ and he deserves special treatment. Besides, I’ve been feeding him pastry and ale since he was a little colt. Now please, be reasonable . . . you’re already forcing him to pull that dreadful chaise. The least you can do is allow him some small recompense to atone for this grievous assault on his pride.”
Another wedge of pastry on her palm, Ariadne turned her back on him, held out her hand to the stallion once more—
And felt her wrist caught in the veterinarian’s grip.
“I said, no.”
He was no longer teasing her, and his tone was hard and commanding and brooked no argument. She froze, staring at his fingers. How small and fragile her wrist looked, caught in that broad, masculine grip; how white and dainty her skin was, how tiny her bones in comparison to the breadth and strength of his hand. She felt the warmth of his thumb against her pulse, the calluses of his palm against her flesh, and once again saw the mastiff, and he leaning over it, these very same hands coaxing it back to life . . .
Her head jerked up and she stared straight ahead, her mouth set. “Dr. Lord. I did not give you permission to touch me.”
He didn’t let go.
Her voice rose. “Did you hear me, sir? Kindly remove your hand from my wrist.”
The pressure only seemed to tighten and tension crackled between them. “No more pastry,” he ordered softly.
She set her jaw. Her breathing quickened, and a pulse began to beat in her ears.
“Your promise. No more pastry.”
Ariadne took a deep, steadying breath, slowly turned her head, and glared angrily up at him.
He was so close that she could see the starbursts of gray radiating from the lilac depths of his irises, feel his breath against her brow, sense the solid, unbending strength of his will. She noticed a curious, vertical dimple-line faintly clefting his chin, strands of bleached gold running through the fair hair that tumbled over his brow, the long, pale crescents of his lashes, the firm shape of his mouth.
His mouth . . .
Smiling coyly up at him through her lashes, Ariadne touched her forefinger to the corner of his lips.
“You have very beautiful eyes . . . Dr. Lord.”
Her remark, combined with that single touch, was enough to stun him into shock, which was precisely what she’d hoped to accomplish. Quickly jerking free of his grasp and pressing home her advantage, Ariadne pushed the pastry into his palm, making sure her fingertips lingered against his skin a second or two longer than was necessary. His mouth hardening, he snatched his hand away, dropped the confection, and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.
“Really,” she said, dark eyes flashing with laughter and triumph, “I think you are over-reacting.”
“Get in the chaise.”
Shareb-er-rehh flung up his head and flattened his ears.
“But—”
“I said, get in the chaise.”
Giving him a victorious grin, she raised her brows and climbed delicately up into the vehicle. There she sat, head bent, her lips twitching as she made a great pretense of straightening her sleeve.
Colin, his blood pounding, set his jaw. Well, she might’ve scored a hit, the little imp, but she wouldn’t win this battle.
No way in bloody hell.
Did he have beautiful eyes?
“You know, Dr. Lord, I think this is going to be a very exciting adventure, don’t you?” she said airily, coaxing Bow into her lap and behaving as though the contact between them had never happened. “And oh, how funny it will be, that the whole countryside will be sear
ching for a highborn lady dressed in the height of fashion when the real Lady Ariadne will be sneaking past under their very noses disguised as a boy! Isn’t it grand, Dr. Lord? Am I not clever? And what do you think my Maxwell will say when he sees me thus?”
“I don’t know your Maxwell. I have no idea what he’ll say.”
“Well, what would you think, Dr. Lord, if it was your betrothed who showed up on your doorstep dressed in a man’s clothes?”
“I’d think she had the wrong doorstep.”
“I’m serious! What would you think?”
“I suppose I wouldn’t care how she was dressed, as long as I loved her and she arrived safe and sound.”
“Have you ever been in love, Dr. Lord?”
“Briefly.”
“Have you ever wanted to be in love?”
“About as much as I wanted scurvy,” he lied, walking to the stallion’s head and taking a firm grip on the reins just below its chin.
“Be serious, sir! This is important business we’re discussing. You are a very handsome man, you know. Why, if our stations were equal, and Papa hadn’t betrothed me to Maxwell, I might even take a fancy to you myself.”
“And why is that?”
“Why is what?”
Backing the horse up with one hand on its chest, he impaled her with his direct gaze, trying to put her off-balance as she had so successfully done with him. “Why would you take a fancy to me?”
“I—” Color swept through her cheeks. “Dr. Lord, that is not a very polite question to ask a lady.”
“Regardless, I have asked it, and should you decide not to answer, ‘twill be you who is being impolite.”
“Very well then,” she said, a bit huffily. “I would fancy you because . . .”
Her face went crimson, and she looked away.
“Yes?” he goaded, pleased to have turned the tables on her at her own game. “Because why?”
Her chin shot up and she stared straight ahead. “I have no wish to further this conversation.”
“A pity. And here I thought I was going to be enlightened as to why a beautiful young heiress might take a fancy to me. Such a cruel and unfair world, this! Never mind.”
“Dr. Lord?”
He was hard-pressed to contain his grin. “Yes, my lady?”
She was still staring ahead, spine as straight as a frigate’s mainmast, hands fisted between her knees. “I think it’s time we leave.”
CHAPTER 5
Shareb-er-rehh, however, had other ideas.
Ariadne was quick to recognize the alarm and indignation in the stallion’s eyes. “Really, Dr. Lord, I think this is a very bad idea. You’re asking for trouble, I tell you.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“No he won’t. Look at him, you can see how angry he is. He gets very unpredictable when he’s angry—”
Colin tried again to urge the stallion forward, but the horse only hunched his back and froze, one hind leg coming up with dangerous intent. Ariadne couldn’t prevent her smug smile; but then the animal doctor called a firm command and this time, Shareb-er-rehh moved ahead, not smoothly, not confidently, but in jolting, frightened rabbit-leaps that made his mane and tail snap out in the wind with each violent motion and nearly dislocated Ariadne’s head from her neck.
“You are right, he possesses very unusual gaits,” the veterinarian observed dryly. “I should think he is a most uncomfortable animal to ride.”
“Very—funny—Doctor Lord,” she managed, between the erratic jolts.
“How on earth do you sit to such motion?”
“Years of practice.”
Ears flattened, Shareb moved forward, his head and neck at an unnaturally high angle, his lips pulled back in an angry grimace, his mouth dripping foam. Despite the fact that blinkers hid his eyes, Ariadne knew the dark orbs were wild and ringed with white.
But he was moving, and Ariadne had to admit grudging admiration for the veterinarian’s skill. Pulling a chaise was a lot to ask of an untrained horse, especially one who had been bred to do something entirely different.
Yes, I am glad I chose him to be Shareb’s doctor, she thought, despite her earlier views to the contrary. There is something about him, something I cannot quite put my finger on . . . something more than his gentle strength, his quiet demeanor, his dry humor. He is smart, strong, and sensible, and I feel safe when he is near.
Now that was an odd notion. Safe?
Safe. But how long before she dared trust him enough with the truth about what Shareb really was?
Gait-horse, indeed!
The jerky, jolting motion began to ease off as Shareb-er-rehh found his stride, and his confidence, and soon the stallion’s head had returned to its proper angle and the powerful hindquarters were churning in a fast trot. The veterinarian guided him out of the little courtyard, and shaking his head, Shareb moved into the street, his hoofbeats echoing loudly against the buildings that rose up on either side.
“Why, this is actually fun! Imagine, Shareb-er-rehh, pulling a chaise! My goodness, I never thought to see the day—can you believe how well behaved he’s being? And here I thought we’d both be killed by now! Give me the reins, Dr. Lord, I want to try driving him!”
Such boundless delight was infectious. Colin chuckled, the wind on his face, buildings and glimpses of the silvered Thames passing in a blur as Shareb-er-rehh’s fast, ground-eating trot sped them through London. As he’d predicted, his charge wasn’t so hard to manage, after all.
The horse was one thing.
Her Ladyship was quite another.
His mouth still tingled where she had touched it, her comment about his eyes still rang in his head, both awakening some unexplored part of his soul that responded to the attention and wanted more. He was unused to having a woman, especially a lady, behave so boldly toward him, and he wasn’t quite sure whether he liked it or not. Well, he thought he must like it, but he was unsure how to respond to it. Maybe the little flirt was just trying to upset his even keel. Maybe she was just trying out her own feminine wiles on someone she perceived as “safe.” Or maybe she was calculatedly paying him back for winning the upper hand with regards to the twelve thousand pounds, or even harnessing the stallion. He didn’t know. But what he did know, was that if she persisted on tormenting him so, he would see no recourse but to give her a taste of her own medicine.
And had no reservations about doing so.
Now, her thigh was a hair’s breadth away, her piquant face too close to his own as she gazed eagerly into his eyes, waiting for his answer. Such scrutiny was enough to send the blood pounding through his heart at a clip that, coupled with her childlike joy at breezing along through the streets of London, was totally disarming.
Now, he felt the pressure of her hand over his, her fingers against his knuckles as she playfully tried to pry the rein free. “Please, Dr. Lord, let me drive, it’s my turn!”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s put the city behind us, first. Then you may drive all you like.”
“Now see here, he’s my horse and I’m sure I can handle him!”
“Fine.” He shrugged and handed her the reins. “Take him, then.”
Shooting him a triumphant glare, she raised her chin and took the reins loosely in her hands. But her smugness was quick to change to worry as she realized her folly. Shareb-er-rehh immediately stepped up his trot. Her hands tightened around the reins. Shareb pulled harder. Her hands became fists. The stallion shook his head, fighting her. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. Her knuckles went white, and she planted her feet against the floorboards as the stallion’s brute strength began to pull her straight out of her seat—
“Fine day, isn’t it?” Colin mused, leaning back in the seat and pretending an interest in the tangles of ivy that choked the wall of a passing house.
“Lovely,” she managed, through clenched teeth.
“Got any more of that pastry?”
“There’s a m
an for you, always thinking of his stomach.”
Colin grinned. Most of the men he knew put other needs before their stomach’s, but he kept the remark to himself out of respect for her gender, her innocence, and her status. And as for such “needs” . . . he was all too aware of a tightening in his breeches at the closeness of the female who sat beside him. Damn him if he wasn’t getting hard.
They weren’t even out of London. How on earth was he going to survive this trip to Norfolk?
He glanced over at his employer. Her cheeks were flushed with wind and the effort of holding the horse back, and her mouth was tight with determination. The stallion shook his head, trying to take the bit in his teeth and run.
“Having problems?” he asked, raising a brow and enjoying her obvious distress.
“I told you he was not a carriage horse. And I have no wish to drive a horse while you sit there and enjoy the scenery. Not that the scenery in this particular area of the city is particularly enjoyable, mind you. Here, take him back.”
Colin, grinning, pulled the sack of pastry out from beneath the seat. “I think I’d much rather eat my breakfast.”
She all but stuffed the reins in his hands. “I said, take him back!”
“And how do you expect me to eat if I am to hold the reins?”
“I don’t particularly care how you eat! Next you’ll be asking me to feed you!”
Firmly taking the reins, he brought the stallion back under control. “Now, there’s an idea . . .”
She stared at him, eyes beginning to glint with deviltry. Or malice. It was impossible to tell which.
“Very well then, Dr. Lord,” she purred. He raised a brow, wondering what she was up to as she took the sack, opened it, and peered within. “Let’s see . . . we have apple . . . plum . . . blackcurrant—”
“Plum’s fine.”
“Plum it is, then.”
She reached into the bag and pulled out a thick, sugary wedge of pastry oozing globs of fruit filling. A mischievous smile curving her mouth, she held the pastry up to his lips. “Open your mouth, sir—”
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