Things between her and O'Ryan were becoming too complicated. She wasn't sure what she wanted anymore or what was important.
Damn the man to eternal perdition! She couldn't look at him without feeling his hands on her—without wanting him to push her back and make love to her all over again.
She patted Jersey's spray-dampened neck as water rose over her riding boots and wet the hem of her habit.
O'Ryan was a rogue and a scoundrel, a man who admitted to an unsavory past. She simply would not allow herself to become a fool over him. She knew what he wanted—what he'd wanted from the first day they met. She knew what their arrangement was. Their partnership had never been intended to last beyond their immediate needs.
So why had discovering his letter to Kathleen hurt so much? "My dearest Kathleen," he had begun in a bold, elegant hand. "I think of you and your little son every day. Soon—"
Was this the letter a caring brother might send to his sister, or was it more? Could O'Ryan be her lover and the father of her child?
And then there was the big question. When he'd made love to Anne had he been wishing she was Kathleen?
Chapter 16
O'Ryan's fingers tightened on the fence rail and blood pounded in his head. Dust flew as the lead horse and rider pounded past the beribboned maple tree in the first lap of the annual Talbot County race. Nate Greensboro's gray gelding pressed hard for second place with Swan's piebald and Jersey hot on its heels.
Two more completed the complement of top contenders while a half dozen lesser horses and ponies trailed behind. Men leaped out of their seats, shouting, and cheering for their favorites.
"Nate! Nate!"
"Another twenty on the gray!"
"Give him his head, Josh! Give him his head!"
The morning was clear and bright, the sky a cloudless blue. An hour before noon, the sun was already hot, but no one seemed to mind. Planters, servants, and tradesmen cheered and swore foully in delight amid the frantic barking of hounds and the stamps and whinnies of the onlookers' mounts.
But the raucous clamor was only a dull roar in O'Ryan's ears. His whole being was focused on Anne as she flashed by him. Her expression was grim, her body tensed. And the sight made him curse himself for a coward and a blackguard.
Why had he ever risked her safety in a race against the best of the Tidewater's riders? She looked like a child on the big chestnut's back. One misstep and Jersey might go down. If Anne fell off, or if the horse stumbled, the horses directly behind her wouldn't be able to avoid colliding with them.
Sweet Mother of God! He'd seen just such an accident in Belfast. A horse had snapped a leg on a tight turn, and three other beasts had crashed into the fallen animal. The jockey's chest had been crushed and both legs mangled. The lad hadn't been lucky enough to die instantly; he had lingered for three days.
This was a race without rules. First rider across the finish line wins, no holds barred. What was he thinking of? Damn the money and the plantation. None of it was worth an English piss if any harm came to Anne. He could have ridden the swiving horse. He should have ridden him.
Why had he let her persuade him to ride in this race? She wasn't even riding sidesaddle. This morning, when the stable boy had led Jersey out of the barn, he'd not been carrying Anne's sidesaddle; a tiny racing saddle sat on the stallion's back.
"You wanted less weight, didn't you?" Anne had said. "And I'll be much safer with two stirrups than on my sidesaddle."
That alone had caused eyes to widen when she first appeared at the starting post. Not that men wouldn't have been staring at her anyway. Anne was stunning in her Lincoln green riding habit and saucy cocked hat.
She'd braided matching green silk ribbons in Jersey's mane and tail. But after the first lap, her silk banners were a dirty gray, as were her skirt and jacket. Even her auburn hair was a dull brown from the churning dust.
He wanted to lunge onto the track and grab Jersey's bridle. He wanted to tell them all that he'd made a terrible mistake.
But he knew that he could never stop the chestnut. And if he tried, she'd never forgive him for shaming her so in front of her friends. Bad enough to defy social custom—but worse to fail in the attempt.
O'Ryan strained to hear the sounds of the returning horses. It was too soon, but he listened anyway. The track ran across an open meadow, down a hill and through a small stream, then uphill through a narrow wood before widening into the hard-packed lane that would carry the racers back to the finish line. The race was two laps, and this was the last.
"Here they come!" cried a black boy from his precarious perch in the top of the maple tree.
"Who's in front?" demanded Swan. The older man's face was red; his hands clenched as he hopped up and down in excitement. "Who is it?"
"Spots! I see spots, Master Swan!"
Tree limbs swayed ominously.
"It's the piebald!" the servant roared. "Damn! Damn! Damn! Here he come!"
Sweat broke out on O'Ryan's face. It should have been him in the saddle, him taking the chances in the mad charge for the finish.
"An' the Jersey horse!" the boy called. "I see the lady! She's on the outside. She's comin'! Damn but she's comin'!"
O'Ryan shoved through the crowd onto the track. Far down the field he could see two animals thundering toward home. The one on the left a half-length ahead was Swan's Choice, but the other... It was Anne! And Jersey was eating up the ground, closing fast on the leader.
"Annie! Annie!" he shouted. "Come on!"
Jersey edged closer and closer. The two were neck and neck. Anne was only a green blur on the stallion's back.
"Yes! Yes!" O'Ryan screamed.
The other men were all on their feet. He heard Anne's name burst from a dozen throats as Jersey's powerful legs plunged like pistons, driving him on. The stallion's head thrust ahead of the piebald's.
"Go, Annie!"
Suddenly, Swan's horse veered right and crashed into Jersey's shoulder. The chestnut missed a stride and staggered away.
O'Ryan's world stopped.
"Foul!" the man behind him cried.
"Son of a bitch!"
The piebald streaked ahead. O'Ryan held his breath as he watched, waiting for Anne to go down. But Jersey recovered his balance and lunged ahead, fiercely fighting to catch the spotted horse.
Anne was still in the saddle, clinging to Jersey's mane as they raced past the marker a single length behind Swan's Choice. Boos and curses rose from the crowd. They surged onto the track, converging around the grinning winner.
But Anne wasn't able to rein Jersey in. The big horse galloped on, leaving the track and taking a low fence to race on toward a low swampy area.
O'Ryan didn't hesitate. He vaulted onto a fresh horse and tore after her. He didn't catch up to them until Jersey splashed down a grassy bank and into the cattails.
"Anne! Anne!" he shouted.
She sat, slumped in the saddle, head down, reins still clutched in her gloved hands. She straightened as she heard the sound of his horse.
"Michael." Wearily, she turned the exhausted Jersey back to solid ground. "We lost," she said huskily. "I let him get the best of me. I've failed you."
"Failed me?" He leaped from the saddle and ran to lift her down. Trembling, she leaned against him. Her hat was gone, her carefully braided and pinned hair undone and hanging. Her heart-shaped face was covered with sweat and dirt.
He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wiped futilely at her nose and cheeks. "You didn't fail," he said. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn't dare.
Keep it light, he told himself. Bend one inch and you'll crumble.
"I lost the race, didn't I?"
Her eyes were teary but he could feel the strength in her.
"I almost had him though, didn't I?" she said.
"Annie Davis O'Ryan, you're the best woman rider I've ever seen. And he's got more heart than..." He trailed off. "You didn't fail. You came in second."
Her eyes widened. "B
ut the bet?"
He laughed. "I never thought you could win. My money was on you coming in second."
"What?" She pushed him away. "You didn't think I'd win, and you let me—" She uttered a sound of pure feminine disgust and placed two balled fists on her hips. "You Irish bastard!"
"But we won close to three thousand dollars."
"Fine!" she snapped. "And what did you use for betting? Did you bet without having the money to cover it if you lost?"
"No. Swan wants to buy your violin for his grandson."
"You sold my grandfather's violin?"
He shrugged. "No, I didn't, but we had the option if our plan went awry. Desperate times, Annie. A man must do what a man must."
"Well, just you remember that that works two ways!" she retorted. Turning her back on him, she gathered Jersey's reins and started to walk him up the bank.
"Leave him," O'Ryan said. "You can hardly stand. Let me put you up on this horse and—"
"Ride with you?" She grimaced. "I'd sooner ride with the devil."
"Don't take this personally," he soothed. "We needed the money, didn't we?"
"Maybe it would be worth losing the plantation to be rid of you," she flung over her shoulder.
* * *
Halfway across the meadow, Nate and two friends met them. Nate was riding a fresh horse and brandishing the race trophy. "We took it away from Swan's jockey," he shouted to Anne. "We took a vote, and you win!" He slid down off his horse and covered the space between them in three quick strides. "You're a hero," he declared.
Anne looked into his plain, round face. He was covered in dust and had streaks of sweat smeared across his forehead and chin. "If I look anything like you do, I think I can sneak home with my reputation intact."
He grinned and rubbed at the dirt, making the mess worse.
Anne laughed. "The cup and the race go to Mister Swan's piebald. I knew the rules before I started. It's very gallant of you all to offer me the trophy, but when I beat you, I want to do it on my own."
Nathaniel chuckled. "Suppose you're right, Anne. But Swan feels rotten about the whole incident. I heard him tell his jockey that he'd never ride on the Eastern Shore again, not for anyone who called himself a gentleman."
"Good. The rascal deserves that. He could have injured Jersey." She patted the horse's neck as O'Ryan joined them.
"We tried to make her the winner," Nate explained. "But she won't have it."
"I agree with my wife," O'Ryan said, slipping an arm familiarly around her waist. "Second place is good enough for us."
Anne flashed him a warning glance, and he winked at her.
"Here, let Walter take your horse," Nate offered. "He needs cooling off. Mrs. Bevins has extended a personal invitation for you. She said to tell you that she'd asked her girls to ready a hot bath. I'm sure she has a dress for—"
"I brought a change of clothing with me," Anne replied. "And my husband can walk Jersey." She tilted her head to offer him her sweetest smile. "He's so particular about his animals. I know he'd worry if he didn't see to the horse himself, wouldn't you, dear?"
"If you won't accept the prize, you'll be the guest of honor at dinner," Walter Irons insisted. "Uncle will want to extend his most sincere apologies for what happened."
"Please tell your uncle—Mr. Swan—that I in no way hold him responsible," Anne said. "But perhaps next year, he'll be willing to give me a rematch. I really thought Jersey had his piebald beaten on the stretch."
Back at the palatial home of their host, Squire Bevins, Anne found herself the center of attention as, one after another, riders and spectators congratulated her. Leaving O'Ryan to look after the stallion, she hurried to bathe and change before the race dinner.
On the whole, Anne was pleased with her showing. The thrill of the race had been wonderful. When she was little, she'd always wished that she were a boy so that she could do exciting things. She'd long given up the desire to be male, but beating the men at their own game was spectacular. And if Michael's lack of confidence in her horsemanship still smarted, at least they had acquired a substantial amount of the much-needed money.
Dinner was a feast of game, seafood, beef roasted over an open pit, and all manner of hearty delicacies. Anne excused herself after the dessert course and joined Mrs. Bevins in the gazebo on the lawn behind the house. With her were her two married daughters and the few other ladies who had attended the festivities.
"Absolutely outrageous," her hostess proclaimed with a twinkle in her eye. "I'm too old for such tricks, but I do admire you for your courage." She patted Anne's hand. "And I've told the squire that next year, we must have a second race just for the ladies."
"I thought you were wonderful," Jenna Raeur said.
Emma Irons fluttered a delicately painted ivory fan. "Trust Anne to liven up any frolic," she said archly. "But I do say that your new husband is more liberal than my dear Walter. He would never think of allowing me to ride astride, let alone ride against men."
"Mr. O'Ryan is an Irish gentleman," Anne lied smoothly. "In his homeland, riding astride is considered quite the fashion among the titled ladies."
"So soon after your poor father's passing," Emma twittered.
"Yes, it is soon." Anne sighed regretfully. "But I'm sure our hostess would agree that Papa would be the first to encourage me to go on with my life as best I can."
Emma sniffed and reached for a chocolate. "I do hope there's nothing to the rumor that he left you practically penniless."
Anne fixed her with a warning glance. "Nonsense, Emma. You've been listening to servants' gossip again. Mr. O'Ryan is quite—"
"Anne! Anne!"
"Isn't that your husband calling?" Jenna asked.
Anne rose and hurried down to the lawn. "If you'll excuse me," she said hastily, walking quickly toward O'Ryan.
Something was wrong. She could read the tension in his face, hear it in his voice.
He took her arm and turned away from the curious ladies. "A rider has just come from the jail. Abraham and Ivy have been captured. I have to go there right away. Nathaniel's offered to see you home. I—"
"I'm coming with you," Anne said. "They're my people. It's only right that I be present."
"Are you certain? This may be unpleasant."
"They are my responsibility."
"Aye, I suppose you're right."
"You admit it?" She looked at him in surprise.
"I only wanted to protect you, Anne. But maybe it's best if you saw for yourself just how dirty a business slavery can be."
* * *
Ivy sat on the ground in the darkened root cellar, arms locked around her bent knees, rocking back and forth in absolute misery. The earth was damp, filled with the scents of stored potatoes, carrots, and turnips. The only light came from the cracks in the board-and-batten door.
No one had hurt her, but she had still wept until she had no tears left. Abraham had put up a fight when the white sheriff came for them. He'd struck one man, knocked him flat before the law put a pistol to her husband's head and cocked it. Cold chills ran through her as she remembered the ugly sound of that metallic click.
"Don't hurt him!" she'd cried. "Please, sir, don't hurt him! He won't be no more trouble. Will you, Abraham? Will you?"
The look Abraham had given her was a haunted, lifeless stare, as if he didn't even see her. She knew that he'd given up for her sake. For his own, he didn't care if they shot him dead. Maybe he'd even wanted it.
Rough hands had shoved and bound him in irons. They cursed him and locked him in the single cell Talbot Courthouse possessed. Then a stranger had ordered her to come with him.
She'd been near crazy with fear, but he'd only taken her behind a house and shut her behind this thick door. She didn't know how many hours had passed. No one had come, and no one had told her what they were doing to her Abraham.
She'd prayed until she was hoarse. "Please, Lord, don't let them hang him. I can stand anything so long as I know he's alive." That had bee
n her plea, over and over. But she didn't know if she'd been truthful with God. She didn't know if she could live without Abraham—if she could raise her coming child without him.
The silence was broken by the bark of a dog close by. Then Ivy heard the murmur of voices. She recognized Mr. O'Ryan's Irish way of talking and then her mistress's quieter tone.
The door banged open.
"Come out of there."
That was the man who'd locked her in. Blinking, cautious, Ivy crawled out and stood, shielding her eyes from the sudden light.
"Ivy," Miss Anne said. "I'm so sorry this had to happen."
Ivy hung her head. She couldn't meet the lady's eyes, not now. She knew how she was supposed to act, but her fear was fast fading to be replaced with righteous anger.
They expected her to be sorry that she and her man had run off. She was sorry, right enough: sorry they'd been caught. But it wouldn't do to show her thoughts, not if there was any chance of saving Abraham. She muttered a contrite, fragmented apology.
"Follow us," Mr. O'Ryan ordered. He nodded to the man. "We appreciate your help," he said.
"My boys are the ones who spied them sleeping in the old Quaker meetinghouse," the stranger said. "If there's a reward, I reckon they—"
"They will be suitably rewarded," Anne put in. "Ask them to come to Gentleman's Folly on Monday next. I will show them my gratitude—our gratitude—at that time."
"Should I bind this woman's hands?" the man asked. "She may try to run again."
The mistress shook her head. "That won't be necessary. Mr. O'Ryan will see that she does not."
Ivy shuffled after the three of them down an alley and onto the main street. They didn't speak another word to her. But they led her back to where Abraham was still held in the cell.
"You're fortunate," the sheriff said. "If those boys hadn't seen the broken grass and weeds outside the meetinghouse, your slaves might have been miles away by tomorrow morning." He gestured toward Abraham. "This one deserves whatever punishment—"
The Irish Rogue Page 18
