by Darcy Burke
The thought of coming face to face with Harlow made her body hum with a potent mixture of eagerness and dread. How could she face him? What would she say?
She hadn’t seen him since the day at the pond and the lovemaking that had made her body shiver with unbridled yearnings. She closed her eyes to block out the erotic images playing in vivid detail, but the darkness behind her lids only made the memories of that day more potent.
The door was flung wide. Caitlin opened her eyes.
And there he stood.
Handsome Harlow. Gorgeous Harlow. The Harlow of her dreams.
Desire dissolved in her blood and spread through her veins like molten lava. She wanted him. She wanted him as badly now as she had on the fateful day at the pond. More so, now that she understood about pleasure… the pleasure his hands, mouth, and body could give.
He looked magnificent standing in the shadowed doorway, his eyes searching her face, his chiseled features etched with concern. Perhaps he did care for her, but it wasn’t love. If he loved her, he’d give her her heart’s desire.
Caitlin realized they were drawing a crowd as they stood staring at each other in the doorway. She didn’t care, but he obviously did. He took her hand and pulled her inside. She stumbled against him and clutched his lapels for support.
He closed the door and pulled her into his arms. “Mrs. Darcy’s in the kitchen, but I have to know. Are you all right? The day at the pond—did I hurt you?”
She wasn’t going to let him off easily. “Not physically-no.”
In the kitchen a pot clanged.
Harlow’s hands tightened on her arms as he set her away from him. “Look, there is a lot I’m not at liberty to explain, but I want you to know that, if I could, I’d give you the house.”
She wanted so much to believe him. But… “Is this another ploy to unsettle me?”
He shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I mean it.”
“Why the sudden change of heart?” she hissed back, and jabbed his rock hard chest with her finger. “Assuming you still have one in there somewhere. I haven’t heard from you all week.”
“That is hardly my fault. You didn’t come for any more cooking lessons.”
“I decided my father’s cook could teach me. You didn’t seem to miss me. You didn’t even send me a note to ask—”
“I thought it best—”
“Not a lover’s spat I hope.”
At Mrs. Darcy’s coy question they jumped like guilty children caught stealing apples.
“Come along.” The old lady waved them both towards the kitchen. “There will be time for holding hands once we have finished the lesson. His Grace informs me this is to be the last one, but I’m happy to continue with more for you, Lady Caitlin, to make up for those you missed.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Darcy,” Caitlin gave her a grateful smile. “But that will not be necessary.”
It wouldn’t be necessary because that afternoon she, Harlow, Henry, and Marcus would be visiting Reverend Foley for his verdict on who baked the best cake. This lesson was the bake-off.
Caitlin brushed past Harlow and made her way to the kitchen. Her stomach seemed filled with lead and it was an effort to get her feet to move. She had to win the bake-off, or Harlow won the wager.
Four long hours later she sat in the kitchen at Mansfield Manor with Cook, eating the remainder of her winning cake, and celebrating with a few glasses of her father’s best wine. His hidden stuff. He’d be furious when he found out, but Caitlin didn’t care.
She’d won the second wager.
There had been no doubt as to the winner as soon as the cakes came out of the oven. Harlow’s cake had a sunken middle and, when tapped, it was rock hard.
They hadn’t even needed the vicar to judge them. Harlow had the grace to concede.
She’d raced home from Mrs. Darcy’s in order to savor her triumph. It wasn’t only the wine making her senses reel—the wager was now drawn. She could taste victory. She had the better horse so the race was hers for the taking. Ace of Spades ran like the wind and would beat Champers by a country mile. Mansfield Manor would be hers.
So why did she feel so hollow inside? Her win should be making her happy. But her chest ached. Once the race was over she would say goodbye to Harlow… and at the thought, bleakness engulfed her.
She’d miss him.
These past two weeks, for the first time in her life she had not been lonely. Whatever Harlow was, he was a man who challenged her and treated her as an equal. She’d thought about it long and hard. Not many men would have allowed her to confront him in this way. Certainly not at cards or in a horse race!
She’d had more fun, more experiences, and more happiness in the last two weeks then during most of her life. She’d never felt more alive. Every nerve broke into song when she saw him. Her heart fluttered in her chest and her pulse raced. He made her want things she’d never wanted before—especially passion. Ever since the day at the pond she could not get the image of his powerful, naked body out of her head. Riding her, caressing her to blissful ecstasy
She took another swallow from her wine glass. The idea of marrying him was suddenly highly intoxicating. Perhaps she should not be so hasty in her plan to decline his proposal. Mayhap, over time, she could make him fall in love with her. He certainly desired her. That was the perfect start to any relationship.
But desire diminished. She frowned into her glass. And a man like Harlow didn’t take long to tire of a woman. He went through mistresses like a blacksmith went through nails.
She relaxed back in her chair and mentally went over her marriage list. The main qualifications she’d missed off were passion and desire. She now knew they, too, were important ingredients in a marriage, and… No. She couldn’t imagine feeling a smidgen of either for any other man.
In more ways than she cared to reveal, Harlow had ruined her for anyone else.
A fat drop of water plopped onto the back of her hand, and she jumped and almost dropped her glass in surprise. She hadn’t even known she was crying.
Lips suddenly quivering, Caitlin downed the rest of the wine in her glass, and poured another. Maybe she’d imitate her father and learn how to drown her sorrows. Perhaps then the pain in her chest would turn to a bearable ache instead of this violent, searing flame that was burning out her heart.
Dangerfield returned to Telford Court after his baking debacle in a surprisingly good mood for a man who’d lost the second wager.
It had been worth it to see the sparkle back in Caitlin’s eyes when he’d conceded defeat. The damned cake had been as hard as stone. He didn’t need a vicar to tell him it was inedible—especially when Caitlin’s was perfection, its aroma alone making his mouth water.
He’d yearned to talk to her, but she’d kept him at arm’s length, the very stiffness of her body telling him he was not welcome. Not wanted. Soon, once the silly wager was over, he would make her understand why he’d made the decisions he had. Maybe then she’d forgive him.
The idea that she might hate him sent chills to his core. What would he do if she didn’t understand why he had to go through with the wager? But he’d marry her and prove his worth. Once they married he could confess everything. He would not keep secrets from his wife. Jeremy could not expect that of him. Then he’d spend the rest of his days making up for his shortcomings.
“Did you lose on purpose?”
Harlow had barely stepped through the front door. He drew up short at Jeremy’s stony question, struggling to hold onto his patience. “How could you even ask that of me? I gave you my word I’d do everything in my power to win. It was baking a cake, for God’s sake.”
Jeremy’s mouth firmed into a thin line and he shook his head. “I still can’t believe you endangered Mansfield Manor after you won it for me. A horse race will decide my future? If you lose I’ll never forgive you. You promised.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.” And he’d never regretted anything more. If he hadn’t promised such a fo
olish thing then perhaps Jeremy would have learned to move on, and Caitlin would still have her home. But would she still want you if that were true? He didn’t want to face the answer.
“Hero can’t be beaten.” Jeremy suddenly smiled. “You’ll win, brother.”
He thought of the Caitlin he’d seen that first day, almost part of the horse herself. “Don’t underestimate Caitlin’s stallion. Ace of Spades is fast, and will be carrying less weight.”
“But she’s a girl. She’s tiny. She won’t be able to ride as hard as you. Her strength will wane well before yours.”
How could he make his young brother comprehend a woman like Caitlin? She had an iron will and believed passionately in her right to the house. That belief, in itself, was a powerful motivator.
“I wish you’d meet her,” he said. “I’m sure if we explained the situation—”
“No.” Jeremy cried. “She’ll look down her nose at me like everyone else. I couldn’t bear it if she rejected me, too. What would I do then?”
Harlow’s heart almost broke as his younger brother fought back tears. “Caitlin won’t reject you. In fact, I think she’d love to learn she has a brother. She’s lonely too.”
Jeremy wiped a hand over his eyes. “Please, Harlow. Just get me Mansfield Manor like you promised.” He drew in shuddering breaths. “That’s all I need. All I want. It’s different for you. How can you understand? You weren’t born a bastard.”
Harlow pulled the boy into his arms. “Don’t ever say that word to me. You’re my beloved brother and I don’t care what anyone says. You are a Telford.”
The boy was growing tall. Harlow could rest his chin on Jeremy’s head. Soon he’d be too big—and too old—to hold. “I understand perfectly why you’re obsessed with Mansfield Manor.”
“But you don’t agree with me.” Jeremy pulled away. “You think I should let Caitlin keep it.”
Harlow sighed. “I think that maybe once you have Mansfield Manor you’ll realize it’s only a house. A house with bad memories. A house doesn’t make a home. It’s the people in it. You’ll hold onto your hate, and that will only hurt you.”
Jeremy folded his arms across his chest and looked mulish. “One of the reasons I want Mansfield Manor—besides the fact it should be mine—is because it’s close to Telford Court. If the Earl had married our mother I would always be near my family. You gave me your word.” Jeremy started to walk away. “You are honorable. You’re not like my father. I know you won’t lose Mansfield.”
With a heavy heart Harlow watched his brother disappear up the stairs. He, too, knew he would win. He only hoped that, by doing so, he did not lose Caitlin forever.
Chapter Ten
The day of the race saw the sun break through the cloud, but, saturated by two days of relentless rain, the ground was heavy underfoot. Mud flew up behind Caitlin as she rode toward the meeting point.
Marcus had delivered the planned route for the race to her at Mansfield Manor two days ago. It would be held on Henry’s land, at the base of Clee Hills. Reluctantly, Caitlin agreed he’d been fair. The course did not give Champers any advantages and, although it was not as flat as she’d hoped, neither was it too hilly. The heavy ground would slow both horses down. Caitlin still had the advantage. She was much lighter than Dangerfield.
The ride to Henry’s hunting lodge allowed Caitlin time to give Ace a good warm up before the start.
Her stallion had been decidedly manic that morning. Due to the wild weather she’d not been able to give him a solid workout the last two days, and he was champing at the bit to stretch out and run like the wind. It took all her strength to rein him in. She didn’t want him to use up all his energy before the race. The safety of her heart and home relied upon the outcome.
Even though her body was a mass of nerves, she wasn’t panicked. She knew her stallion’s capabilities. Champers was no contest for Ace of Spades, especially carrying a man of Harlow’s size and weight.
But her heart leaped up and lodged in her throat as she drew closer to the official starting line and saw, not the sturdy, golden-brown Champers, but a black, menacing-looking beast. The sleek thoroughbred stallion pranced around as if he owned the world while Harlow sat astride the fierce creature trying to keep him in check.
Harlow was minus jacket and waistcoat. His fine linen shirt was undone at the neck and she could see a glimpse of his tanned and muscular chest. He looked as wild and virile as his stallion. His hair flew about his face emphasizing the primalness of man versus beast. Pure masculinity. Pure danger.
And he was danger personified in more ways than one. She was in danger of not caring about the race. All she could remember was what it had felt like when he’d made love to her, and how she longed for him to do it again.
Panic rose swiftly—followed by bone-chilling fear, and blood-red fury.
She drew Ace of Spades to a halt a safe distance from Harlow’s mystery stallion, not prepared to risk her horse to a kick or bite. She could see the whites of its eyes. Ace would have to run the race of his life to beat this creature.
“Who is this?” she asked coldly.
“Don’t come too close,” Dangerfield said. “Hero is likely to challenge another stallion.” The stallion reared as he spoke. “I’ve had my trainer training him for the Two-Thousand Guineas race at Newmarket. He’s been down at my estate in Devon. I was trying to keep him a secret.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Really? You haven’t suddenly purchased a horse just to beat me? I’m not sure that would be fair.”
“Ask Henry,” he replied, obviously affronted at her suggesting he would cheat.
She looked over to where Henry sat upon his horse. He nodded. “Harlow’s owned Hero since he was a colt.”
The sting of misplaced pride soured her mouth, making swallowing difficult. She’d assumed she’d be racing against Champers. This giant, black beast was something altogether different.
Harlow sent her a look that would freeze a warm bath. “Let’s get the race over with. Then we can get on with our lives.”
“I should have known you’d pull something like this.” Anger scored through her words like vicious claws.
He swung the stallion back around to face her, his angry gaze making his eyes almost as dark as his horse’s glossy coat. “I have done nothing underhand. I can’t help it if you dared me without specifying which horse I was to race. Stop behaving like a spoilt brat. You wanted this race, not me, and by God, you’ll have it. Then we shall end this stupidity and do what we should have been done the night you barged into my house. Marry.”
His harsh words, spoken in front of his friends, hurt. He was like a stranger. Any hint of feelings for her hidden under a blanket of formality. Well, if that’s what he wanted…
She swung her horse away and trotted to the starting line.
At the line, Dangerfield could barely hold Hero still. The stallion was at least two hands taller than Ace of Spades. He’d have a longer stride. However, Hero carried more weight. Caitlin’s gaze swept over Dangerfield’s massive frame. They would be very evenly matched. As, she admitted, were she and Harlow—damn him. Both stubborn, full of pride, and determined to be the victor. She could hardly blame him for being exactly like her. A queer shiver swept over her tensed muscles.
Marcus stood at the line. “On my count of one you will race.” He paused, and then proceeded to count down. “Three, two, one...”
As the word “one” left Marcus’s mouth, she urged Ace forward. He leapt to her touch, his head out-stretched, eager to run.
And run he did. Caitlin felt as though she rode a storm, the scenery a blur about her. She prayed Ace would handle the soft ground. She’d not really tested him in the wet. She gave him free rein, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Hero keeping pace beside her. Only time would tell which horse would tire first.
They were only moments from rounding Barr Beacon, a small cluster of waist-high stones. The horse closest to the stones when he too
k the turn would have the advantage. Caitlin intended it to be Ace. At what she judged to be the perfect moment she gathered the reins for the turn, and rose up slightly in her stirrups to help her stallion get more speed.
Then it happened. On one breath they were approaching the turn on a lean. On the next breath she felt a jerk, like something breaking, and she was flying, slipping sideways, her feet still in her stirrups, the reins tearing from her hands.
She heard herself scream, saw the ground coming at her with dizzying speed, felt an explosion of pain.
Powerless to do anything, Dangerfield could only watch as the nightmare played out in front of him. Watch her slide sideways, her saddle with her. Hear her scream. See her hit the ground with a sickening thump.
He’d begun to rein Hero in the instant he saw Caitlin was in trouble—not an easy task when the stallion was in full flight. But terror for her gave him the strength he needed to bring the horse to a rearing stop no more than six paces from where his heart lay entangled in her saddle.
He leapt from Hero’s back and ran to where she laid, her face white, and with blood seeping from a wound on her temple. Was her chest moving? He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw it lift, and then fall only to lift again.
Choking with guilt he dropped to his knees and gently eased her upright into the cradle of his arms. He’d done this to her—his damned pride and so-called honor—and it should never have happened. He should have forced Jeremy to meet with her. Forced them to sort it out. But he hadn’t. He’d been having too much fun battling his wits against hers. And now she was paying the price.
Henry and Marcus thundered up and reined in beside him. Henry dismounted, crossed to where Dangerfield sat, and put a careful hand on Caitlin’s neck. “She’s still alive, thank God. And her pulse is steady. Let’s get her home.”
“I’ll go for Doctor Spencer and meet you at Telford.” Marcus didn’t wait for confirmation; he turned his horse and galloped off.
