“Until one day Jock rode his hunter down to the encampment with the latest load of books. My father was in a drunken rage. He’d found the books and was calling my mother a whore. The men were all up at McLachlan’s, so only the women were there to protect her. I was strapped to her back, and she had turned to face him to protect me. He was flailing at her with a buggy whip and swearing to kill her and me both.”
“My God!”
“Jock rode in like an avenging angel, grabbed her arm, dragged her up behind him on the saddle with me still strapped to her back and tore off for home. He swears my father shot at him. Needless to say, I don’t remember.”
“What happened?” Vic reached for her coffee and realized it had gone stone cold. She made a face at it and set it down.
“He told Uncle Hamish to bar the doors because the men would probably try to get her back. They waited all night with the dogs and shotguns across their laps, but nothing happened, and in the morning the whole caravan was gone. My uncle Vlado—my mother’s younger brother and a hell of a horseman—showed up midmorning to say that my mother was now a widow. That’s when Jock told everyone—my mother included—that he intended to marry her that very day by special license and adopt me the first moment he could.”
“Boy, talk about putting your money where your mouth is!”
“Both families were horrified. Gypsies did not marry gaja, and Scottish lairds did not marry Gypsies with babies, and that’s ignoring the age issue. But they did it, and I don’t think they ever seriously regretted it, although Jock became a pariah to some of his social set and my mother had to learn to be a gaja lady. She worked hard at it.”
“She certainly looks elegant in that picture.”
“She was wearing a designer suit. She learned, all right.”
“So Jock brought you up as his own?”
“He did. And when my half-brother Robert was born two years later, Jock promised me that I’d remain his firstborn son all my days. Is it any wonder I worshiped the man?”
“Is that what sent you on your travels? Grief?”
“Something like that. That’s enough storytelling for one night. We Gypsies are masters. We’ll spin a tale that’ll take you from September straight through until May, given half a chance.” He pushed his chair away from the table. “Come on, lass. Morning starts early.”
As they passed among the tables of the restaurant toward the front door, a voice from the shadows called, “Victoria!”
She groaned, pasted a smile on her face and turned to meet the tall graying man who came toward her with hand outstretched. “Hey, Vach. Jamey, this is Vach Connaway. Vach, Jamey McLachlan. He’s doing some training and exercising for me while Liz and Mike are in Florida.”
Vic could see it was dislike at first sight.
Vach ignored Jamey, but smiled down at Vic and said, “I’m having my big party Saturday night You ought to be getting your invitation in the mail tomorrow if my secretary managed to get them finished today. You’ll come of course.”
Vic pasted a social smile on her face. “Saturday? I’m not certain...”
“Don’t you be silly, girl! Nobody misses Vach Connaway’s big party. You dress yourself up real pretty and come on over. We’ll have us a ball.”
“Sure, Vach.” Vic sighed. “Nice to see you.” She moved away quickly before he could stop her again. Behind her she heard Jamey’s booted feet hitting the wooden planks of the floor with more noise than they had coming in earlier.
“You two were acting like a pair of dogs sniffing each other,” Vic said with disgust as she backed her truck out of the parking lot.
“Only because there was a lovely bitch in the middle,” Jamey replied.
“I believe that’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received—at least this week. Vach is an old friend. I hate big parties, particularly his. Everybody from the hunt clubs, the horse-show people—anybody and everybody who owns horses within three counties will be there dressed to the nines, drinking and eating much too much, dancing until dawn and occasionally slinking off with somebody else’s husband or wife. Unfortunately those people include a lot of possible clients. I have to go.”
“Sounds like fun to me.”
“Fine. Then if I have to go, you have to go. You have a suit in one of those duffel bags of yours?”
“Needs pressing, but yes. And I might run to a white shirt and even a tie if forced into it. You sure you want me? I can guarantee that Vach doesn’t.”
“Tough. I hate going to these things period, but I especially hate going to them alone. You can be my date. Consider it part of your duties.”
“Aye, aye, boss-lass.”
“Good. That’s settled.”
Later as they climbed the porch stairs to Vic’s front door, Jamey stopped her with a hand on her arm. “About what happened tonight?”
“What in particular?”
“You know very well what I’m talking about, woman.”
“Oh, that. Think nothing of it.” She continued up the stairs and opened the front door. The dogs raced down to welcome Jamey and practically ignored her.
He sidestepped them and stopped her as she reached to turn on a lamp. “I think of precious little else. That’s the problem.”
“Isn’t there an old Scottish saying, something about not fassing yourself?”
“I’ll bother all I like. Don’t you play glib with me, Victoria Jamerson. You invade my thoughts and muck up my mind because you’re a beautiful desirable woman and I’m man enough to desire you and then some.”
“Oh.” She gulped.
“It’s all I can do not to come charging down these stairs and break down the door of your bedroom. But I’ve other promises to keep that get in the way of that. If I were heart whole, I’d... But I’m not. Maybe I never will be.”
“Oh.”
“But whatever else I do to you or for you, I swear before God that when I leave this place, you’ll be watching me from the saddle with a good horse under you. Good night.”
She whispered to his retreating back, “Well, thanks a whole heap.”
CHAPTER NINE
FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS Jamey was all business. He mucked out stalls, he exercised horses, he charmed the clients, and in the evenings he worked with Vic, but somehow the closeness that they had shared was gone, even though he held her in front of him on the saddle as he had before. She still felt the frisson of pleasure when his arms encircled her, but he seemed oblivious to her.
She wondered if his coolness was a ploy to push her to progress more quickly. If so, it was as successful as everything else he did. She felt as though she’d been standing in front of an impenetrable glass wall for twenty years and with Jamey’s help, she’d cracked it.
Why had he been able to accomplish what no one else had?
No one else had held her in his arms securely on top of a horse. For twenty years she’d tried to get up on a horse alone. She’d failed, despite the treatments and the drugs. But Jamey took all the responsibility on his shoulders. She clung to him while his strength flowed into her.
And suddenly the glass shattered and she was through. Just like that. She still felt anxiety, but her fear had a rational base now. Her mind remembered her skills, but her body had forgotten. Her balance was wonky, her legs weren’t strong enough. Physical things. And fixable. Now she could show Jamey McLachlan what she was made of.
No way was she going to take shelter in his arms and against his body if all he felt was professional courtesy.
The third night he slid back to perch on the cantle of the saddle and offered her his hand.
She dug hers deep into the pockets of her jeans and shook her head at him. “Get down.”
“Now, lass—”
“If I’m going to ride alone, I am definitely not attempting it in a saddle that’s broad enough for both our behinds. So get your behind down here and tack up that mare using Angie’s saddle. It’s in the tack room.” She backed away a few steps, her ha
nds still in her pockets. So long as she kept them there, maybe he wouldn’t see how badly they were shaking. She could feel his eyes boring into her back. She knew she sounded peremptory, but if he was going to act as though they were merely employer and employee, she’d reinforce that even if it killed her.
She’d expected a comment from him. “I’m proud of you” would have been nice. But he slipped down, pulled the saddle off the mare, handed the reins to Vic and went in search of Angie’s saddle without a single word. Vic clenched the fingers of her right hand into the mare’s mane.
She felt as though she’d suddenly developed a fever, but the sweat that rolled down her back beneath her windbreaker felt icy. She didn’t watch as Jamey tacked up the mare, then handed him the reins. “Bring her over to the mounting block for me, please, and hold her still. I don’t want to have to chase her all over the arena with one foot in the stirrup.”
She glanced at him coolly as she mounted the steps and organized herself to swing into the saddle.
And almost fell off the block. His eyes were full of naked concern. She’d seen that same look in Kevin Womack’s face whenever Angie tried a higher fence or a hotter horse. She’d seen it on Mike Whitten’s face the first time his daughter, Pat, showed off for him, and the day he watched Liz fall into the dirt after a missed fence.
That suspended breath—almost suspended animation. And eyes that said, “I want you to do this because you want to, but I’m scared to death for you.”
She set her jaw and swung into the saddle. The mare ignored her.
She picked up her reins.
The mare drooped.
“Okay, troops, let’s move out.” She tightened her legs on the horse and walked away from the block and from Jamey.
She realized she’d completely lost her peripheral vision. Her eyes were surrounded by jagged bits of black glass that threatened to blind her. She felt that blasted whimper rise in her throat and swallowed convulsively. “I will do this,” she said under her breath. “I will ride this horse and other horses and I will not throw myself into the dirt like a total idiot. From here on in, nobody pities Vic Jamerson.”
“I never pitied you,” Jamey said.
“You heard me?”
“Well, lass, you were pretty nearly yelling your head off.”
“I was?”
“You woke the mare up. Now that you’re up there, it’s about time you started retraining your body. From here on in, every time you say ‘I can’t’ you have to give me five more minutes.”
“Who made you drill sergeant? I’m supposed to drop and give you five?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what drill sergeants say to young recruits who screw up. Push-ups.”
“Ah. Well, for you it’s sit and give me five.”
“Forget it.”
“I’m a very fine trainer, Mrs. Jamerson, both of people and horses, and now finally I’ve got a fine rider to train. I’ll have you up on that stallion before you know it.”
“You and what army?”
“Me and you, lass. Now that you’re up there, you’ll push yourself a lot harder than I would. I saw you ride at Hickstead. Fundamentally you’re the same person you were then—a hard-driving competitor who wants to win.”
She moved the mare over to him. “You saw me ride?”
“Jock and my uncle Hamish took me out of school for the day.”
Oh, lovely. She’d been twenty-three or four at Hickstead. He’d still been in high school. Talk about robbing the cradle.
“I’m not in the cradle now,” he said.
She’d become so used to his expressing her thoughts that she didn’t react any longer.
“Nor are you,” he continued. “You’re in a saddle again and it’s about time you started working on the muscles you haven’t used in a while.”
No matter what he asked, and he asked an incredible amount, she tried to respond. It was as though he could con, cajole or bewitch her into anything with that whistle and that low Celtic hum. Her cold sweat turned hot. Her thigh and calf muscles screamed, her back felt as though someone had stuck a hot poker up her spine, but by heaven, she would not quit if it killed her.
Finally he nodded. “Come on, bring her in. I ran into town earlier, and I’ve got us a steak up at the house. And tonight, there is a bottle of champagne to go with the fresh strawberries for dessert.”
Twenty minutes later she limped out of the barn. He followed and walked to her truck.
“No,” she said. “You drive.” She pointed to the motorcycle.
He grinned, nodded and swung aboard. “Remember the drill, lass. Plaster yourself against me and off we go.”
She lasted through dinner before her muscles began to howl again. When she stood, she had to push up from the table with both hands. “Forget the champagne. I’m going to bed.”
“Thought you overdid it a bit,” he said. “You have a robe or something? You need a massage or you’ll never get out of bed tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine after a hot shower.”
“No, you won’t. From here on in, you think of me as your chef d’équipé—your trainer. If I say you need a massage, you do. And I’m very good at it.”
The look she gave him was dubious.
“It’s either that or you drop and give me five.”
She groaned. “Not even one.”
“I’ll be back in about five minutes. I’m off to the barn for some liniment.”
“Horse liniment? You’ll fry my skin.”
“Trust me. I’ll make a magic potion out of it. You won’t feel a thing.”
Won’t feel a thing? With Jamey’s strong hands all over me? Fat chance. She stripped down to her underwear and put on a short but extremely modest housecoat with a zipper all the way up to the chin.
“Face down,” he said when he returned. “Arms by your sides. And try to relax. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to use both hands. I put on one of the rubber gloves from the medicine chest. You won’t notice my scars.”
“I don’t give a hoot about your scars.”
“I do. Now lie down and shut up.”
She smelled the pungent odor of horse liniment but overlaid with something else—something sweet. Cloves, maybe? In any case, the scent was pleasant. She began almost to look forward to his touch. She needed some pampering. She deserved it.
The instant he dug the pads of his fingers into the arch of her left foot, she felt as though she’d landed in a medieval torture chamber run by a master torturer devoted to improving his craft.
“Ow!” she yipped as his fingers began to knead.
“We work on a scale from one to ten. One feels rather pleasant. Ten is where you scream and levitate to the ceiling. I’ll try to keep the pain level around five or six.”
“What’s the level where I turn around and deck you?”
“I’m too fast for you in your present condition. Shut up. It’s for your own good.”
“People always say that just before they ruin your life.”
JAMEY CONCENTRATED on kneading the soreness from her muscles without allowing himself to think of the way those muscles were connected. He fought to keep his fingers working deep when what he really wanted was to stroke her, caress her.
The pungent odor of all the items he’d added to his mixture rose from her body and his warm hands. Medicinal, hardly sensual, yet he knew he’d never be able to smell them again without remembering the way her flesh felt under his fingers. He worked his way up her calves and thighs, stopping just short of where he wanted to stop.
“Can’t you pull down that sack thing you’re wearing so I can get to your back?” he asked. “I won’t attack you, however much I’d like to.” She sat up and glared at him.
He grinned. “I would like to, you know. But this is business.”
“Fine. Turn your head.”
When he looked back she’d pulled the robe off her upper body and lay facedown clutching it around her. “You have a
lovely back.”
“Me and Bruce Lee. It’s all that mucking and toting. I’m first on the Green Bay Packers draft list for defensive lineman.”
“What’s a defensive lineman?”
“Never mind. They’re big and they’re mean,” she said.
“Ah, like our rugger front forwards. Except we don’t wear all those fancy pads and helmets and such. Sissy stuff.”
“Don’t say that around here if you expect to return to Scotland with your head attached to your shoulders. Ow! One more like that and I start to levitate.”
“Sorry. Turn over.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could be you’re right. Might be dangerous, much as I’d like it. Ah, well, I think I got the worst of the kinks out. Go stand in a hot shower and get some sleep. I’ll feed the horses tomorrow morning. We’ve got a heavy day.”
She looked back over her shoulder. “In what way?”
“Tomorrow we try you on a couple of horses with some spunk.” He smacked her lightly on the behind, then before she could react, he bent and brushed his lips across the nape of her neck. He felt her shiver and heard her catch her breath.
He reached for her shoulders, ready to turn her over and kiss her. Then he glanced at the rubber glove on his damaged hand, clenched his fists and backed away from the bed. “Night,” he said from the doorway. His voice sounded choked.
He strode out onto the front porch with both dogs at his heels. The night had grown blustery, the stars had disappeared under a layer of thick cloud.
The weather was changing. He could smell snow. Perhaps ice or sleet. If the heavens opened up after the temperature dropped, they could be in for a slick time of it within a day or so.
Despite the cold, he sat on the top step of the porch and rubbed the ears of the dogs clustered at his feet.
He should walk away now while he could. Forget the horse. Go back to Scotland and start breeding a great sports stallion from scratch. He had located the mare who had sired Roman and managed to get her back to the yard. Roman’s sire was dead, but there might be others equally good.
Mr. Miracle (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 10
