The horse stood in the far corner of the stall, his entire body quivering.
"What's wrong with him?" Imogen asked.
"Not any normal sickness," Paddy said.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, surprised by his hesitant tone. "What have you tried?"
His eyes drifted toward his boots. "Nothing to try, girl. The beast has the shakes."
Imogen turned her attention back to the horse in the stall. That must be why no one else outbid her. They'd been at the auction and seen this display. "He certainly won enough races. The pedigree might be faked, but his track record isn't."
"That horse is trouble, girl," Paddy said flatly. "We should ship 'im back."
"We don't have the money for that now." She hadn't told him about Hammersly, thinking one catastrophe per morning all he needed. She lifted the wooden latch on the stall door. Paddy knew better than to protest--no horse would ever hurt her. Horses always knew, somehow, that she shared a bit of common blood. When she stepped closer, the horse's head came up and his eyes focused on her. She held out a gloved hand to let him get the smell of her.
The horse's nostrils quivered. He took a step forward and set his forehead against her sternum. Surprised by the gesture, Imogen scratched under his forelock. Then she stepped back to get a better look at him. "He's docile enough."
She laid one hand against the creature's neck and felt the shudders flowing through his body. When she pulled back to look at his teeth, she noticed that the halter's ring had worn a raw spot into his cheek. She found another at the top of the chinstrap as well, where that ring rubbed. A third reddened spot lay under the buckle of the headstall.
He wasn't a horse.
Imogen stared at the creature, amazed that he'd ended up in her stable. Of all the things that her mother had ever dreaded, this would be the worst--a puca, one of the Fair Folk who could wear the shape of a horse. As such, he must have even less tolerance for cold iron than Imogen herself.
She looked the stallion in the eye and unbuckled the harness, careful not to touch the metal. Even through gloves, it bothered her. Everywhere metal touched his hide, the hair had abraded away, leaving red and irritated skin.
"Shouldn't do it," Paddy said. "That beast is trouble, girl. Send him back."
She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. "You knew, didn't you?"
Paddy just shook his head.
She hung the harness over the stall door and turned back to the horse. He still quivered, which made her suspect another source for his discomfort. She leaned against his shoulder and lifted one hoof--a bar shoe, already rusting. The bar had a special tongue attached, bent upward so that it brushed the inside of his hoof on the sensitive frog. It must be torture for the creature. "Get me a rope harness, Paddy," she snapped. "I want Jack right now."
Grumbling, Paddy left.
"I'm going to have those taken off," she told the horse. "So think kindly of us here."
He nuzzled her shoulder and sighed. Paddy returned and handed a rope harness over the stall door. Imogen looked the horse in the eye, and then slid the harness up and over his muzzle. "Trust me."
The horse followed docilely when she took him over to the work area the farrier used when he visited. A gray-haired horseman who'd been at the farm nearly as long as Paddy, Jack could turn his hand to almost anything. He produced a pair of pincers and pulled off the shoes. He frowned over the odd design, but tossed them into a pile in the back with other old shoes and scrap. "Didn't know anyone used iron shoes," the wiry hand said to Paddy.
Imogen didn't comment. She took the horse back to his stall, led him inside and removed the harness. The horse lipped her sleeve, but after a moment hung his head as if too tired for even that. But the shivers had passed, so she left him there and walked with Paddy back up to the house.
"Shouldn't have done it, girl," he repeated under his breath, like a litany.
"We have troubles enough, Paddy. Don't borrow from tomorrow. It was the right thing to do, and you know it." She left him at the door and went on to the office where she could sit and stew over the investment she'd just lost. That horse would have been valuable at stud--or so she'd thought.
***
The house's office was one of the few places where Bella's fripperies hadn't invaded. Imogen had always liked the room. She settled at Henry's desk and tried to concentrate on the account ledgers and all that needed attention: bills for feed, bills for the kitchens, paychecks to be written out. Instead she found her eyes drawn to the far wall and the tall white bookshelves there.
Most of the books had come from the previous farmhouse, carefully packed away by Mother Hawkes herself. Imogen had borrowed many of these very same volumes as a girl. After making certain that the office door was closed, Imogen dragged over a heavy chair and climbed up onto it to retrieve a volume from the top shelf: The Fae, by Armstead Winston-Howell. The book was worn, its fabric cover of burgundy paisley frayed along the bottom and corners. Imogen had first read it when she was eight, although her mother would have objected strenuously if she'd known.
Eugenia Villiers Smith had told Imogen very little about her father, wanting her daughter to follow in her footsteps, not his. Imogen had grown up knowing only his name, Finn, and that he was a puca--a fairy of sorts. From him she'd gotten her cream-colored hair, dark eyes, and that tendency to make things come apart. According to the book, that was part of a puca's mischief, a talent for wrecking things.
She turned to the page in the book that addressed the puca. Only a single column, it hadn't given the eight-year-old Imogen much to build on. The puca, the book informed her, is one of the Lesser Folk who can take on many shapes, most common of those being a dark horse with glowing eyes. The book went on to describe a creature who loved to entice unsuspecting humans out for midnight rides. Most folk claimed that such rides ended with no more harm than the fright given to the rider, but in a few counties in Ireland, it was held that a puca would then try to drown his rider in the nearest lake or pond. The author, however, kindly explained that they were possibly being confused with kelpies in those instances. Imogen's mother certainly hadn't been drowned.
She read through the entry again and shook her head. The Fair Folk weren't even supposed to exist in the United States, to some extent because the ocean trapped them in Ireland. Supposedly, they couldn't cross moving water. Imogen closed the book, scowling. As a baby, she had crossed the ocean herself, although according to Paddy she'd been sick the whole way. Evidently that stallion out in the stables had somehow managed as well.
Pondering the path that must have led him to her farm, Imogen went to bed that night, her mind still in a whirl.
***
In the morning, she donned her aged brown riding habit and headed out to the stables to face Paddy first. When she told him about the mortgage, he said a few colorful things about Hammersly. As Paddy had never liked the man, Imogen wasn't particularly shocked by his language.
"He's always wanted to get his hands on this land," Paddy finished, and moved straight to the only solution. "I'll get Tommy up on Blue Streak, and we'll work on his times. And by the by, the fence in the west meadow washed out night before last. We need to get that fixed, girl, or we'll lose horses onto Hammersly's land."
Yet another problem, Imogen thought ruefully. It was as well she'd intended to make a tour of the fences that morning.
The dark horse nickered when he saw her emerging from the tack room with a length of rope over her shoulder, so she stopped to check on him. The irritated spots on his cheeks and under the forelock seemed to be improving, far more quickly than they would have on a normal horse.
He lipped at her ivory braid over the stall door. Imogen pulled her hair free and scowled at the creature. "Don't get any ideas."
She felt sure he could leave if he wanted to. Without iron to bind him in that form, he could simply walk away with a glamour wrapped about him to hide himself. Then again, he might not feel well enough to leave. She didn't k
now how long he'd worn those iron shoes, but the fact that he'd been racing in Boston for three years suggested it had been at least that long. She couldn't imagine what that had done to him.
He snorted and tossed his head, shaking out his mane.
"No, I'm not taking you anywhere," she told him. "I'm not that much of a fool."
She scratched under his forelock. Then she had the horrified thought that she shouldn't be touching him--not encouraging him in any way. He wasn't a horse. She climbed down off the door and walked away without looking back.
At the gate, one of the hands already had Captain saddled up for her. "Thank you, Billy," she told the young man.
Billy nodded his dark head. "Is it true, ma'am? Hammersly's trying to force us out?"
One thing she knew, the hands were all fiercely loyal to Paddy, and thus to her. "I'm afraid so. We'll weather this, Billy."
He helped her up into the sidesaddle, nodding grimly. "Yes, ma'am. Whatever we need to do."
It made Imogen feel better to have loyal workers on her side, but she was responsible for them as well. She nodded to the young man and started off on her survey of the property's fences, starting to the east of the drive and going round the entire property. She checked on the currently empty cottage and found it locked up tight as it should be. She came back up through the paddock where the yearling fillies gamboled out in the July sunshine, and finally rode through the main paddock and down the meadow to the west edge of her land.
Paddy was right about the fence. She tied Captain to a sadly leaning post and went to survey the damage. A narrow stream ran through her land there, sloping down several feet as it crossed onto Hammersly's land on its way to one of the local lakes. The fence had followed the terrain, but now four posts were missing, washed out by the stream's swelling. They would have to be completely replaced, and the posts on either side already leaned. The rails between them were down. She felt lucky none of her mares or foals had wandered through the gap and onto Hammersly's land. She'd never see them again if that happened.
She could take a couple of hands off the training schedule for a day to fix it, or hire it done, but they really couldn't afford either just now. So for the time being, she would have to make do. She unbuttoned her riding jacket and left it over one of the rails. Then she tucked her skirt up into her belt and waded back and forth across the stream--shuddering involuntarily as she did so--to fix the rope across the gap. She wished she'd thought to wear her Wellingtons, but her half-boots were ancient anyway.
Once finished, she let down her damp skirt, and turned back toward the stables just in time to see the new stallion using his teeth to tug loose the slip knot in Captain's reins. Freed, Captain simply stood and waited for her. The stallion snorted at him. Captain jumped like a startled grasshopper and took off toward the stables.
Leaving her alone with the dark horse, who turned one eye on Imogen's bedraggled form and then lifted his muzzle toward his bare back.
He'd let himself out of his stall; Imogen had no doubt of that. He'd either jumped the pasture's fence or opened that gate as well. Then he'd sent Captain packing like the lowliest servant. She could see the stable yard from the meadow, so she grabbed up her jacket and pulled it on. "It's not that far. I'll walk."
She started back and heard the horse following, his hooves squelching in the soft earth. After a moment, she felt his breath on her neck and he started lipping at her collar. She turned to fix him with a stern look. "I know what you are. I know better than to ride you."
He nickered at her and bumped her chest with his nose, but she kept her hands at her sides, resisting the urge to scratch him. "My mother made that mistake once," she said. "I know better."
He tugged at her shirt and then, with a clear 'snick' of his teeth, sheared off one of her buttons. He spat it onto the damp grass. Sighing, Imogen fished the button out and stuffed it into a pocket. She walked on, buttoning her jacket over her gaping blouse as she went and cursing her luck under her breath.
The horse followed at a distance this time.
***
After reviewing the farm's books, she decided they would have to fix that fence themselves. Unfortunately, if they did a poor job of it, Hammersly would know exactly how tight her finances were. She didn't want that.
She could sell a couple of the yearlings. That would be a last option, she decided after discussing it with Paddy. Once one started selling off stock out of season, all the other stable owners knew there were money problems. Hammersly would find out within a day if she resorted to that.
That evening, she opened her bedroom windows to let in the cooler air. She changed into her nightgown, pulled on her old apple-green housecoat, and lay down atop her covers to read for a time. Her mother had always favored improving literature and forbade the reading of novels, claiming they weakened both the mind and moral fiber. That hadn't kept Imogen from borrowing the occasional volume from Mother Hawkes. Since she hadn't had time to get to the library in town recently, Imogen had been rereading the Austen novels. She fell asleep with Persuasion still in her hands.
In her dreams, the horse lipped at her collar again. His lips turned to her own then, and the absurdity of that thought jolted her awake--only to see a man leaning over her in the dim light.
She drew a breath to scream, but his hand settled firmly over her mouth--strong enough to give her pause. And then she realized who he was.
A lock of dark chestnut hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes were the same shade of brown. Patches of reddened flesh marred his cheeks, and his skin was pale, as though it rarely saw sunlight; she suspected it might not have for some time. His hand lifted after a moment, and he regarded her with a raised brow.
He made an attractive man, his deep chest translating into broad shoulders and his powerful haunches into well-shaped thighs, currently on display since he had somehow entered the house still nude. She hoped no one had seen him.
He said something to her in what must be Gaelic--not a question, she guessed from his tone, just a statement. He stepped back, putting enough distance between them that she didn't feel threatened. She still didn't know how to handle him. Her mother's many rules failed to provide instructions for this situation. "Do you speak English at all?" she managed.
"Well enough," he said--with an accent that sounded much like Paddy's.
Imogen was determined not to back down in front of this creature, not inside her own house. Even so, she scooted over and got off the other side of the bed, putting it between them. She gathered up the crocheted throw draped across the curved footboard and tossed it at him. "For heaven's sakes, put that on."
He caught the bundled throw and, with an amused look on his face, wrapped it about his waist. "You know, darling, I've been standing in that stall naked for the last two days. You said nothing about your bashfulness before."
"It's not the same thing," she said, hoping to dismiss the subject.
His dark brows lifted, but he didn't answer. Instead he settled on the upholstered chair by the window. Imogen edged around the bed, and then went to the door and held it open. "Go."
"Now, darling," he said, "I only came to beg a favor. No need to make a fuss."
A favor. Imogen clenched her jaw. She should never have spoken to him at all. He would want to make a bargain, and she knew she wasn't clever enough to beat one of the Fair Folk at that. On the other hand, she really didn't have any means of throwing him out, short of summoning all the stable hands. And the presence of an unclothed man in her bedroom would be difficult to explain, even to the most loyal of employees. Imogen shut the door, but stayed there, far out of his reach. "What is your name?"
"Whirlwind," he said.
For a second her breath wouldn't come. Mother Hawkes will find that absolutely hilarious, Imogen thought.
She cast a glance at the window and wondered if climbing out was a viable option and then shook her head, reckoning that this must be the time when her actions would determine the outcome of w
hatever Mother Hawkes had foreseen. "Is that your real name?"
He shrugged. "Not my true name, of course. As real as any other."
Knowing the true name of one of the Fair Folk granted great power over them, the reason Imogen never spoke her birth name aloud. Even half-blooded as she was, it would give the speaker an advantage she didn't like to contemplate. She and her mother had always used the surname Smith instead her mother's family name--Villiers. "I understand the concept," she said.
He leaned back and put his hands behind his head as if he intended to stay. "And what is your name, darling?"
"Imogen," she told him.
His expression suggested that he didn't approve. "Imgen?"
"Im-o-gen," she said slowly. "I know what you are. I don't want you making any trouble here. We've tried to be hospitable. We have enough worries right now without your compounding them with foolishness."
He looked scandalized. "Foolishness?"
"Broken fences, leaking buckets, pregnant housemaids."
"No, never," he said, laying one hand over his heart.
"Do you mean, no, you won't cause trouble?"
His eyes narrowed.
"No, you won't cause trouble for this household," she clarified further, hoping he wouldn't take it in his head to terrorize the neighboring farms either--well, perhaps Hammersly's, a little. It would never do to say so, as asking one of the Fair Folk to do something malicious was doubly dangerous.
"Deal?" he asked.
Unfortunately her mind, once started on that track, clung to it as a matter of nature. She could no more refuse an offer to bargain than he could. She heard herself say, "What would you ask in return?"
His soft lips curved. "One night."
Imogen shut her eyes and leaned back against the closed door. He would keep to the word of his bargain. If she agreed with his terms, he would refrain from causing trouble, although possibly only within the strictest interpretation of her words. If she refused, he would leave, but then he might not feel any guilt over stirring mischief. That was what his kind lived for, her mother had warned.
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