“The leg will have to come off, Sir Graham,” the surgeon said gravely, already picking up his saw. “The risk of it turning gangrenous is too great—“
“You take that damned saw to his leg, Ryder, and so help me God you’ll find yourself wishing you’d never met me. Now set it, damn your eyes!”
“But sir—”
“I said set it!”
Colin heard himself groaning, then there was nothing but Ryder, pouring rum down his throat until he was choking and dizzy . . . Ryder, pulling off his shoe and throwing it down . . . Ryder, grasping his ankle, bracing his own foot against the table and hauling on the fractured bone, the screams of his own agony ringing in his ears until he’d finally passed out. . . .
Colin came awake to the sound of rain tapping against the deckhead above. He lay there in the darkness, waiting for his servant to come in and tell him the ship’s position, its course, the direction and strength of the wind. Blinking, he sat up—and with the slipping away of the dream and the return of consciousness, felt the heavy plunge of his spirit at the cruel realization he was not in his cabin aboard HMS Triton, but was land-bound, and the sound he heard was nothing more than the dull tattoo of rain against a roof.
He wondered if he’d always come instantly awake at four in the morning, wondered if the memories would ever go away, wondered if he’d ever be able to get the sea out of his blood.
And suddenly realized just where he was—and whom he was with.
She lay beside him, deeply asleep—as most people were, at four in the morning—her spine pressed intimately into his chest, her hand caught in his, her breathing soft and slow in the darkness. His blood ignited, bringing on an erection made all the more excruciating by the fact that it was already pressing into the softness of her backside. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Colin carefully pulled his hand out of hers and eased away from her.
He stood up, trembling, aching, needing, wanting.
Dear God. Dear God, please give me strength. . . .
His head bent, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead, he stumbled down the long, dark aisle, pulled the door open, and turned his hot face up to the cool, drenching rain that poured out of the night.
“God help me,” he said aloud, his fists clenched, his body rigid, the water streaming down his cheeks. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, baring his teeth in pain. “I just can’t resist her much longer. I beg of you, help me, give me strength, take this temptation away . . .”
The rain came down harder, beating like shot against his upturned face, soaking his hair and plastering it to his scalp. Water ran down his neck, his nose, pummeled his brow and cheeks and eyelashes.
He began to walk, away from the stable, away from her. His breeches pressed against his arousal, making each step an exercise in discomfort. He heard the door creak behind him and little Bow came racing out, streaking ahead of him through the darkness after a barn cat.
Walk, and it won’t hurt as bad. Walk, and put her out of your mind. You cannot have her. She’s promised to another. It’s not to be, damn it, the wind blows from a different quarter.
He walked faster, head bent, the rain streaming down his cheeks, dripping off the tip of his nose, beating against his bare head and soaking the back of his neck. Gravel crunched, then mud squished, beneath his boots as he crossed the drive and headed up the footpath that traversed the hills, coming down heavily on his good leg and mercilessly abusing his bad one. The latter screamed in protest and he walked faster, damning the fates that had made him look up the other day and see her sitting so coolly astride that damned horse, the fates that had thrown the two of them together and would only rip them cruelly apart in the end.
You cannot have her.
She belongs to another.
And she would never want you, if she knew what you had done.
Oblivious to the pain in his leg, oblivious to the coming dawn, he pushed himself, hard. He didn’t see the dog racing off into a wet tangle of blackberry bushes after a hare, didn’t smell the musky fragrance of blossoming wildflowers and wet grass, didn’t hear the birds coming awake around him, nor notice the sky to the east lightening with the approach of dawn. He could only think of her back there, asleep, could only relive the sweet bliss of drifting away beneath her touch last night only to wake up with his rock-hard erection pressing into the softness of her backside.
Didn’t she know what she was doing to him?
He passed a field, gray and misty beneath the still-dark skies, where several cows stared at him as he passed. One of them raised its head, let out a long, lonely, call, and began to walk after him, separated only by the fence. Sure enough, the rest of the herd began to follow, all stumbling along placidly through the mud, swishing their tails, and trailing in his wake.
He kept walking, too full of anguish to notice them, his chest so tight with distress and emotion that it hurt just to breathe. He thought about leaving her, and returning to London. He thought about how many other women there were in the world, and lamented the fact that he’d never met anyone he’d desired as much as he did his copper-haired employer. For five years he’d been a recluse, throwing himself into his new career as emphatically as he had his old one; for five years, he’d felt his purpose in life was to ease suffering, a small atonement for the lives he had taken or destroyed in the name of war; for five years, he had avoided entanglements for fear that women would reject him as a ruined hero.
And then he had met Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn. Her charm, her bubbly playfulness, her carefree attention to him made him aware, in painful, striking clarity, of all that he had been denying himself.
You can’t have her, he told himself with the stoic practicality that had saved him from crushing despair after the courts-martial. She belongs to another, and there is no sense pining for her. There are other women out there. She has merely opened a door, shown you that there is more in life than just being the finest veterinarian you can be, that you need someone to love and be loved by as much as the next person . . .
Then why didn’t he tell her about the court-martial? Why did he hold back when she wanted to know about his old life? After all, he’d long since accepted and come to terms with what had happened to him—it was others, who could not.
He trudged along through the wet grass, the fragrance of clover and damp earth filling his senses. Oh, how he wanted to share with her the pain he’d felt when his former career had come to its abrupt and untimely end; how he wanted to tell her what had really happened, so she might know that once he’d been a hero, and worthy of her. But he couldn’t. Because she, like his peers, like his former friends, like the rest of the world, would only pity and despise him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that bright smile fading away when he revealed what he had done. She was young. She was class-conscious. She had not yet learned, might not ever learn, given her privileged spot in the room of life, that it was the person inside that counted.
He might have fallen from glory, but he was still the same man he had been.
A better one, probably.
The rain began to let up, the droplets fading to cool mist against his face. A flock of geese winged overhead, and still, he pressed on. He thought of Orla, and tried to recall her dark hair and wise eyes that had seen too much, but her face was lost to time and all he could remember was the little pirate ship, the all-women crew of which she had been a part, and their lady-captain, his cousin Maeve, who’d found her own true love in the arms of Sir Graham himself.
They were painful memories. Especially when he considered what had happened after he, Colin, had brought them all back to the Caribbean . . . and the storm had hit, changing his life forever.
Now, Orla was an ocean away, far beyond his reach. But even the brief flame he had felt for the Irish girl was nothing compared to the raging fire that burned in his heart and blood at the mere thought of Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn.
He ought to leave her. He ought to run, to flee, while he still had a h
eart beating within his breast.
Has anyone ever told you that you have very beautiful eyes, Dr. Lord?
He raked a hand over his wet face.
You’re a very handsome man, you know.
He ought to get as far away from her as he could, and as quickly as possible.
You have a very nice smile, too.
Yes, far away . . . and fast.
He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing hard. He couldn’t leave her, of course. He was a man of honor, had given his word to stay by her side, to protect her and safeguard the well-being of the stallion. He could last just a few more days, couldn’t he? Besides, what he felt for the lovely heiress was nothing more than infatuation borne out of his own loneliness. It would go away, as soon as he saw her safely to Burnham and returned to London.
It had to.
Soaked to the skin, he walked until grey light revealed the patchwork-fields and hills, the fences and hedgerows and the muddy, rutted path on which he walked. He whistled for Bow, and turning, strode back the way he’d come, resolved to be strong where she was concerned, resolved to put some distance between them for the sake of his own heart, resolved to be practical about the matter, as he was about everything else in his life, and not let a bit of whimsy fill him so full of anguish.
The world had awakened during his absence. He heard the old sheepdog barking in the drive long before he came down the last hill and saw the coaching inn in the distance, people already moving in and out of the barn, travelers coming and going, and Meg hauling twin buckets from the well and carrying them into the inn. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney, and his stomach growled at the thought of breakfast.
His employer was nowhere in sight.
A pair of matched grays hitched to a fine carriage stood in the drive, their coats streaked with rain, their eyes on Colin. As he passed they, like the cows, tried to follow him. A groom pulled them back. With Bow at his heels he slipped into the barn, his gaze helplessly drawn to that place where he and Ariadne had spent the night. But there were people up and about the stable now, horses being led in and out, and the place where he had slept and dreamed and ached for a woman he could never have was marked by nothing more than a flattened patch of straw.
Passing their chaise, which had been pulled over to the side of the aisle, Colin peered into Shareb-er-rehh’s stall.
The stallion was gone.
A rush of fear and alarm swept through him and he whirled, only to collide with Meg.
“Ah, Mr. Lord! Your little brother asked me t’ give ye a message—said the horse needed exercise and he was going t’ take him out for a gallop. Said he’d be back in an hour.”
“Oh.” Colin sighed with relief. “Thank you.”
Touching his arm, Meg tilted her face up at him. “An hour ain’t so long, you know.” She winked. “But long enough to take a little ride of our own. What do ye say, handsome?”
Colin smiled, his mind groping for a suitable but polite excuse to decline. Though it would probably do him a world of good to take a tumble with Meg, he just couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to do it. He shook his head, and made some excuse that sounded implausible to even his own ears, leaving Meg to stare at him as though he’d grown a third eye, the corner of her mouth twitching with good humor.
“Ah, Mr. Lord. ‘Tis heartier fare I’m offering ye, but maybe there’s some truth that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Maybe next time, hmm? Come, follow me. Uncle Rodney’s serving breakfast, and that’s the least I can give ye.”
He followed her out of the now-busy stable, passing horses being brought out and harnessed, the matched grays, and an old, sway-backed bay gelding that had just been driven into the little yard. Its coloring and markings mirrored Shareb’s, but any similarity stopped there. The animal’s head was lowered, its nose hanging near the ground, its eyes half-closed and its entire body broken and defeated.
“Hello, boy,” Colin murmured, and put out his hand to touch the drooping head.
Unlike the fiery Shareb-er-rehh, this sad, gentle creature took a weary step forward and placed its muzzle in his palm. Its sides expanded in a deep sigh, and it was then that Colin noticed the cruel sores beneath the harness, the rawness about the animal’s mouth. Oh, God, he thought, his heart constricting, and laid his hand against the old beast’s rain-soaked neck.
You have healing hands, Delabere Blaine had once told him, upon noting the eerie way that animals behaved around him. But even healing hands could do nothing to take away cruelty and the pain of abuse.
“Hey, you, there! Git away from my horse, ye hear?”
Colin looked up as a fat, pox-scarred man waddled toward him, a cowed-looking gun dog trailing at his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg standing on the inn’s steps, hands on her hips, head cocked, watching. Not wishing to make a scene, Colin gently stroked the gelding’s thin neck and said mildly, “You might try a little kindness where your horse is concerned. He’ll perform far better for you.”
“I’m kind as the day is long,” the man puffed, glaring hatefully at the poor old gelding. “But my luck with animals is the devil’s own. Damned dog here won’t hunt, damned horse ain’t no better. Paid enough money for ‘im and ‘e’s sick. Won’t go. And here I gotta be in Norwich day after tomorrow an’ this animal ain’t fit for nothin’ but dog food. Damned farrier’s supposed to be along any minute t’ have a look at ‘im. I’m tellin’ ye, though, if he can’t do anything for the stinkin’ beast I’m sending ‘im off to the knacker’s!”
“Mr. Lord?” Meg called saucily. “Coming?”
Colin’s worried gaze remained on the gelding. He touched the soft white and pink muzzle and felt the animal’s breath against his fingers. “Perhaps I could help,” he suggested, keeping his tone steady and mild in an attempt to defuse the owner’s ill temper. “I’m a veterinarian.”
“A what?”
“Veterinarian.”
“What the hell is that?”
Colin smiled, and stroked the gelding’s neck. “An animal doctor.”
“There ain’t nothin’ you kin do that me own farrier can’t,” the man growled. “I don’t need no university-educated know-it-all telling me how to treat me horse.”
Colin sighed. Maybe, just maybe, one of these days he’d learn that he couldn’t fix the world. “Have your farrier treat him, then. But if my advice means anything to you, try putting a pad of sheepskin right here—” he gently lifted the saddle of the harness and indicated a raw spot, just behind the gelding’s withers— “to keep the leather from chafing his back. He has harness sores, and they hurt. No wonder he won’t go for you.”
The man stared at him, and wordlessly, Colin gave the poor animal’s nose a last stroke. But as he turned and walked away, the old horse let out a long, plaintive whinny, trying to call him back. The sound tore at Colin’s heart. Steeling himself, he kept walking. The gelding whinnied again.
You can’t fix the world.
Meg was holding the door open for him, and as he stepped inside, a notice displayed boldly across its front caught his eye and pushed thoughts of the old horse to the back of his mind.
WANTED: Any information leading to the whereabouts of Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn, daughter of the late Earl of Weybourne, who disappeared on Sunday last. . . .
“Bloody hell!” he said under his breath. “She wasn’t exaggerating!”
“What?” Meg asked.
His smile was quick and false. “Oh—uh, nothing. Friend of mine told me about this—um, this fugitive, but I suppose it’s such a singular story you have to see something like this in order to believe it, eh?”
“I suppose. Whole countryside’s talkin’ about it, though. Can ye imagine? Ten thousand pounds to return the girl—an heiress, no less!—an’ the stallion to her brother. Must be one valuable nag indeed. . . .”
Sudden sweat ran down Colin’s back, his heart pounded in his ears, and it was all he could do to retain his composure as he
followed Meg into the inn. It was a far different scene than it had been last night, with patrons laughing and drinking and sitting elbow to elbow at the dark, polished tables. Smoke and the nauseating scent of frying pork clogged the air. Finding a chair, Colin stared desperately out the window, where green hills dotted with sheep rolled away to the horizon.
He fisted his hands beneath the table. Come back, Ariadne. We have to get out of here, now.
Meg set a plate before him, and a pot of tea. He shook his head, waved them away. “No, no. Ale. Strong, dark, with plenty of bite to it. Ale.”
“Mr. Lord, are you quite all right?”
He raked his fingers down his face. “I’m fine. Bad night. Didn’t sleep well. Take this away, please, I can’t eat it.”
“But it’s fresh bacon, surely—”
“For God’s sake, woman, take it away and bring me a plate of eggs and toast instead!”
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