Anne Gracie - [The Devil Riders 02]

by His Captive Lady

  “I can inspect the stables by myself,” Harry told him. “These doors got opened somehow. You go and check the other exterior locks.”

  Pedlington eyed the dog, then nodded. “I will then, if you don’t mind, sir. It wouldn’t do if vagrants got in.”

  Harry stepped inside. The dog followed him and headed straight for a scarf and what might be gloves lying just inside on the cobbled floor. Harry frowned. The items looked too good to be lying on the cobbles but the dog flopped down, placed her paws on either side of the pile, then lay her muzzle possessively on top of it. She had no intention of moving.

  “Very well,” Harry told her. “You guard that stuff and I’ll look at the stables.” Her tail thumped twice, but she didn’t move.

  Harry looked around him and exhaled slowly. It was exactly what he’d been looking for; stalls for forty horses at least, and the stable buildings looked as solid as a rock—in better condition than the house, in fact. The cobbled floor was clean and well swept, the air inside smelled of fresh hay and—Harry sniffed—horse. Fresh horse.

  An oilskin cloak hung from a peg and a hat. Harry frowned. It looked like—a sound caught his attention. What the devil? It was a horse in distress. The sound was followed by a low murmur.

  He ran down the central aisle of the stables, checking each stall as he passed. Empty—all but the last. The lower door was shut, but the top part was open. He looked over.

  A mare lay on her side on the hay-strewn floor, straining to give birth, her bony flanks wet with sweat. She was in clear distress, rolling from side to side. It was not a good sign. A young woman crouched beside the mare, in perilous proximity to the flailing hooves. Harry couldn’t see her face.

  He shrugged off his coat. “How long since she went into labor?”

  “Nearly fifteen minutes since her waters broke.” The woman’s voice was grim. She didn’t even turn her head. She poured what looked like oil from a small bottle into her palm.

  “That’s too long.” Harry hung his coat on a hook.

  “I know.” She corked the bottle and set it aside. “The foal is presented wrongly.”

  Harry could see. The mare’s tail had been wrapped in a cloth and her distended entrance was visible. He could see the bubble of the amniotic sac protruding, and within it, the shape of a single tiny hoof.

  There should have been two little hooves, followed soon afterward by a nose. “The foal needs to be turned in the womb,” he said, rolling his shirtsleeves up.

  She finished slathering her hand and right forearm with oil. “I know. I’m about to try.”

  “I’ll help.” Harry unlatched the stable door.

  “No! Don’t come in—you’ll upset her!” The woman turned an urgent face toward him.

  It was her. The young woman from the cart. He caught only the slightest glimpse of her, a blur of pale skin and worried eyes, but he was certain.

  “Stay back! She’s nervous of men.”

  Harry ignored her. “Do you want to be kicked in the head? You can’t help her when she’s in this state.”

  As he stepped into the stall the mare’s head jerked and her eyes rolled back, showing the whites. Her ears flattened, her lip curled and she made an agitated move as if to stand.

  The woman swore and tossed Harry a bright glare as if to say, “You see?”

  Harry did see, but it wasn’t going to stop him. She needed help and he knew a lot about nervous mares.

  She turned to soothe the mare, using her hands and a low, melodic, rhythmical flow of words. It was mesmerizing, he thought. Any creature would be spellbound. He moved quietly closer and joined in.

  “Hush now, my lady,” he crooned to the horse, “You don’t know me but I’m not going to hurt you. You’re in a bad way, and frightened, I know, but we’ll soon fix that.” He took the mare’s halter in his hand, patting and soothing her with voice and touch.

  The mare’s eyes flickered, but after some more eye-rolling, she seemed to accept his presence and calmed a little.

  “Thank you,” the woman said over her shoulder, and still in that mesmerizing tone. “I have to say I’m surprised. Toffee is usually very nervous around men.”

  No doubt Toffee had good reason, Harry thought grimly, eyeing the faint scars on the mare’s thin flanks. At some stage someone had beaten the mare unmercifully.

  But all he said was, “I’ve spent my whole life around horses. Now, do you want me to try to turn the foal?”

  “No, I’ll do it” the woman said. “It’s supposed to be easier with a small hand.”

  She was right, and she seemed to know what she was doing, so Harry positioned himself in a way to protect the woman from any flailing hooves and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  It was amazing. For the past two weeks he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind and now, here she was, not two feet away from him. What was she doing at Firmin Court, on her own in a deserted stable, assisting a mare giving birth?

  He watched as she waited for a contraction to finish, took a deep breath, then broke the sac with her fingers. Fluid gushed over her hand as she took the little hoof firmly in her hand and pushed it steadily back, slipping first her hand, then her whole forearm into the mare’s entrance.

  “Is the foal alive?” he asked.

  There was a silence, then, “Yes.” She frowned and felt around. “One foot is tucked under him. I’m going to try—ahhh—” She broke off on a gasp as another contraction rippled through the big animal, clamping down on her arm.

  Harry winced in sympathy. He’d experienced it himself. It was damned painful. He would have expected a woman to cry out, but she didn’t make a sound.

  She waited until the contraction was over, then pushed and groped, straining with the mare, as she fought to turn the foal’s leg around. It was a delicate process. Forcing it could badly injure the foal or the mare.

  She grunted, gave a soft sound, then carefully began to pull back. In a slow, steady movement she drew first her arm, then her hand from the mare. She opened her fingers and Harry saw two tiny, dark forelegs emerge, followed an instant later by a nose.

  “You did it!” Harry breathed.

  She gave no sign that she’d heard him. She sat back on her heels, a second contraction came and the whole foal came slithering out in a messy gush of fluids.

  The mare lifted her head and stared at the wet, dark bundle still partially encased in the sac. She sniffed it carefully, then began to lick her baby clean, starting with the head.

  The woman didn’t move, so Harry slipped a hand under her elbow to help her to rise. She started at his touch and rose unaided in a swift, graceful movement. “She needs to be alone with her colt,” she told him and ushered him out of the stall.

  She leaned on the stall half door, wiping her hands on a cloth. She didn’t take her eyes off the mare and foal.

  Harry didn’t take his eyes off the woman.

  He could see her properly now she wasn’t shrouded in rain and canvas. She was medium height, with a thin, intense face. Her skin, now dry and in the gloom of the stables, was still moonlight pale, soft and pure. He’d imagined her hair would be lighter once it dried, and it was, caramel-colored and streaked with gold. Today she wore it caught back on her nape in a loose knot from which tendrils escaped.

  She wore an old brown riding habit, well worn and out-of-date. A hand-me-down, he decided: good quality cloth, but too loose in the chest and too tight in the waist.

  She turned abruptly and sank to the cobbles. “Oh God, oh God.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself with hands that shook. “I didn’t think I could do it. I thought she’d—they’d both—” She broke off and took several deep, jagged breaths. “When I felt that foal inside—” Her head dropped to her knees. “Thank God.”

  “Had you never done that before?”

  A few more deep breaths and she looked up. She shook her head. “No.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

  Harry wanted to taste it. Instead he passed he
r his handkerchief.

  She jumped when his hand touched her arm, as if she’d forgotten he was there. She stared at the handkerchief. “What’s that for?”

  “You’re weeping.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said quickly. She scrubbed at her cheeks with her hand. “I never weep. There’s no point.”

  Harry raised his brows, but before he could say anything she scrambled to her feet again and turned away to stare at the mare.

  She was very thin. And she looked even more exhausted than the last time he’d seen her. He felt a spurt of anger. Someone ought to be taking better care of her.

  Who was she? A groom’s daughter? A farmer’s? Did she live close by?

  He couldn’t believe his luck finding her again. Fate, giving him a second chance. Harry was not one to waste a second chance; they came rarely enough in this life. But he wasn’t going to rush his fences, either. She was tense; he could read it in every line of her body.

  “I remember Toffee herself being born,” she said after a while.

  “She’s a beautiful animal. Her Arabian heritage shows. My guess is she’s a beautiful mover.”

  She gave him a thoughtful glance. “Yes, she’s fast, too.”

  Close up, he could see tiny gold flecks in the wide, sherry-colored eyes. Under his gaze they turned wary and self-conscious. She turned back to the stall. “I suppose that’s why she’s still here. She’s impossible to catch.”

  “You seem to have managed.” Harry itched to bury his fingers in those tendrils at her nape, to stroke the tender skin beneath.

  “Yes, but she trusts me.”

  “I’m not surprised. Is she yours?”

  “No, no, she’s not.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but closed it again.

  Harry said, “From the look of her coat, she hasn’t been paid much attention in recent months.”

  “No.”

  “Unusual treatment for a valuable animal in foal.”

  “Indeed.”

  “On a par with the rest of this estate,” Harry said. “The whole place has been neglected for years. Only the stables are fit to be used.”

  She sighed. “I know.”

  He tilted his head to look at her. “Not one to run off at the mouth, are you?”

  She shrugged.

  Harry’s mouth quirked. And people called him a stump. He caught a faint whiff of her scent, then sniffed again, trying to place it. Lye soap? Not what a young woman usually smelled of. She’d used it for the birth, he supposed.

  They stood side by side at the stall door and watched the mare washing her colt, freeing him of the remains of the amniotic sac and the fluid, learning him with long sweeps of her tongue. It was a sight Harry never tired of.

  He glanced at the woman’s profile and saw another tear slide down her cheek as she watched the first precious bonding of mother and babe. Her soft, vulnerable mouth trembled. She bit it and dashed the tear aside almost angrily.

  I never weep. There’s no point.

  “Do you live around here?” he asked quietly.

  She was silent a moment, then said, “In the olden days they thought animals really did lick their young into shape.”

  Harry noted her evasion. Fair enough. She knew nothing about him, but that could be rectified.

  “I’m Harry Morant, by the way.” He held out his hand.

  She hesitated, then shook it. “Nell, I’m—just Nell.”

  “How do you do, Just Nell,” he said. Her handshake was firm. Her skin was soft enough but there were old calluses there; at one time she had been used to hard physical work.

  She wore no ring. Her clothes were ill-fitting and out-of-date, but the cloth was good quality and the garments well made.

  She’d spoken very little, but from what he could make out, her accent was unmarred by any regional burr.

  So who was she?

  She hesitated, then said, “I suppose you’ve come for your hat and gloves.”

  “No, I—”

  The stable door creaked open a little wider. “Mr. Morant,” Pedlington called. His voice echoed. “Is that anim—oh, there it is. I shall wait for you out here.”

  Harry grinned. “He’s scared of your dog,” he told Nell.

  “She wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “I know. Come on, let us put Pedlington out of his misery.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Toffee doesn’t need you now. She needs to be alone with her colt.” Harry took her arm and after a brief hesitation, Nell allowed him to escort her down the length of the stables, toward the door.

  After a dozen steps she gave him a sidelong glance. “Does your leg hurt?”

  It was as good a way as any of asking about his limp. Everyone did, sooner or later.

  Harry surprised himself with his answer. “No, it’s been that way as long as I can remember.” He usually implied it was a war wound. People were so much more comfortable with the idea of a gallantly wounded soldier than the truth: that he was a lifelong cripple.

  As they reached the entrance, her dog bounded forward. “Good girl, Freckles.” Nell picked up the scarf and gloves and dusted them off, saying, “She follows me unless I give her something to guard, and I didn’t want her near Toffee while she was foaling.” She took down the coat and hat from the peg and handed him the hat and the gloves. “Thank you for the loan of these. They warmed me more than you’ll know.”

  Harry took them awkwardly. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to tell her to keep them, and that was stupid. She had no need of them now, and they were too big, anyway.

  She took a thin strip of leather and looped it around the dog’s neck, then stepped through the stable door into the bright light.

  “Everything is securely lock—” Pedlington stopped dead, staring at the woman.

  “This is—” Harry began.

  “Lady Helen Freymore, I know,” the agent said, sounding none too pleased about it.

  Lady Helen Freymore? Harry blinked. Freymore was the family name of the earls of Denton. He’d seen it on all the estate documents. He stared at her.

  “Just Nell” was Lady Helen Freymore?

  The woman who’d traveled in the rain with her muddy feet dangling off the edge of a rough cart, the woman who’d expertly assisted a mare through a difficult birth was an earl’s daughter? There must be some mistake.

  “Lady Helen, you know you’re not supposed to be here,” Pedlington said in a voice that expressed both pity and exasperation. “I explained it all to you before.” He darted an embarrassed glance at Harry, then continued in a low tone, “You cannot stay here. The house has sat empty for months, and my instructions are to sell it vacant possession.” He stressed the word “vacant.”

  “I do understand, Mr. Pedlington,” she said calmly. “And I have made other arrangements, but the mare was in distress.”

  “Mare?”

  “Yes, she’s rather old to be foaling again, and as it happened the foal presented in the wrong position. Both dam and colt would have died had I not been here to turn the foal in the womb.”

  “Lady Helen, please!” the agent expostulated, turning puce with embarrassment. “You should not even know of such things.”

  She gave him a thoughtful look. “Yes, but I do. I’ve never understood why females should be kept ignorant of a process that, after all, is their—”

  “Lady Helen!” The agent cast Harry a mortified glance.

  She sighed, but spared the man’s lacerated sensibilities further. “The mare used to be mine, so her welfare matters to me.”

  “Well, she’s not yours anymore,” the agent said in exasperation, adding, “I was assured you had somewhere to go, Lady Helen.”

  “I have, of course,” she said with dignity. “I was to leave this morning, in fact, but—”

  “Then please do so. The animals are none of your business. They will be sold to whoever wants them.”

  Her pale skin suddenly flushed with color. �
�You mustn’t move her! She’s just given birth, and the weather is becoming more bitter by the day. The foal should be—”

  “They’re not your concer—”

  “I’ll buy them both,” Harry interrupted.

  They both turned to stare. “You?” she said.

  He nodded. “And I’ll take good care of them. My word on it.” He held out his hand.

  She took it. Her handshake was firm for a lady. He could smell her, the scent of soap, and horse, and fresh hay, and warm, sweet woman. One tug and he could pull her into his arms, taste those soft lips . . .

  What was he doing? Harry tamped down on his eager body. He didn’t even know her.

  But he surely wanted to, lady or not.

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him, that piercing, radiant smile that had dazzled him in the forest.

  And his body thickened.

  And his brains scrambled.

  And not a single word remained in his head.

  “Mr. Morant, I cannot be responsible for any animal left here,” Pedlington’s voice broke through his reverie. “It must be removed from these premises. Mr. Morant? Lady Helen? I really must insist.”

  The man sounded distinctly peeved. Harry wanted to swat him like a Portuguese mosquito.

  “And Lady Helen, I must also insist that you leave Firmin Court. I did inform you more than a week ago that it no longer belonged to your family, and you have wantonly disregarded my instructions. Indeed, I will go so far to say that technically you are trespass—”

  She ripped her hand from Harry’s grip and turned on the agent. “How dare you say so! My mother’s family have owned Firmin Court for hundreds of years and I have a duty to the estate that”—she made a scornful gesture—“lawyer’s papers do not account for. But my bag is packed and my travel arrangements made, and now that my mare is safely taken care of, I’ll be gone before the day is out.”

  “You said that before,” the agent said sulkily. “And yet—”

  “And you’re worried that I’ll hang around like a tinker’s dog to embarrass the new owners,” she flashed angrily. “You need not—”

  “What rubbish,” Harry interrupted savagely. He turned on the agent. “Address one more disrespectful word to Lady Helen and I’ll shove your words so far down your throat you won’t speak for a year.”