“Then what is your plan?” Dempsey demanded, pouring himself another glass of port. “We’ve tried it your way, Chalmers, and it’s been a damned failure.”
“Flying Davie cannot go to Newmarket. If the horse can be destroyed, accidentally of course, then we are safe. Surely Rothermere will have his suspicions, but there would be no proof.” Edmund suddenly smiled. “There is another thing, Dempsey. I have Lady Beatrice in the palm of my hand—”
“What part of her lovely anatomy?” Dempsey asked, his voice as leering as his look.
“Shut up, you fool, and listen! Any complications, and I would most certainly use her for protection.” He wondered if he could persuade her to marry him now. Surely then Hawk would have to back off. And the marquess, of course.
“What of the other racers?”
Edmund Lacy sat back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped his steepled fingers. “First we must plan to rid ourselves of Flying Davie. It shouldn’t be too difficult ... with a proper plan.” His hands suddenly clenched into fists. “Damn Nevil anyway! If the stupid sod hadn’t been such a weakling, none of this would be necessary!”
“I quite liked Nevil,” said Lord Dempsey, and Edmund could only stare at him.
Hawk gently pushed Frances’ damp hair from her forehead. Her breathing was still erratic and he fondly gazed down at her still-heaving breasts, and her beautiful dark pink nipples, still taut, lightly tantalizing the hair on his chest. Her shoulder still held faint bruises, but she had no more pain, just a bit of soreness.
“Hawk?”
“Yes, love?”
“You’re still inside me.” He moved convulsively at her words. “I love it when you’re inside me.” She arched up a bit to keep him deep.
He lowered his head and lightly caressed her lips, moist and sweet under his. “Do you think you will still want me inside you in fifty years?”
She gave him a heavy-lidded look. “Fifty years?” she asked. “Is that all?”
He laughed and rolled off her. She pouted, and he was startled at the innocent sensuousness of it. He balanced himself on his elbow, stretching along her side.
He touched his fingertips to her pouting lips. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
The sparkle of fun was back in her eyes. “I watched Viola perfect it in front of her mirror. It drove all the neighboring young men wild.”
“May I request that you pout only for me?”
“Perhaps, if it is truly a request and not one of your lordly orders.”
“I believe that orders should refer to the priesthood, don’t you?”
She grinned up at him, saying wickedly, “You are almost as intriguing after you make love to me as during.”
“Amalie told me quite clearly that a woman enjoys talk after she’d drowned with pleasure, not just snores.”
She punched him in the chest.
“I have only seven years on you, my dear,” he said in a marveling voice. “And you still can’t keep up with me ... verbally, that is. As for the rest of it ...” He grinned down at her, and lay his palm on her belly, grinning more widely at her quiver. “Yes, the rest of it, well, I believe we can safely toss that damned jar of cream out the window.”
That was certainly true, thought Frances. “You think, doubtless, that is because you are a man—your verbal greatness, that is.”
“That and the greater natural intelligence that goes along with masculine endowments.”
“You are tempting me to put some of that horrid horse-colic medicine in your tea!”
He had no retort to that, which surprised her. He said finally, “I should have seen you then. Perhaps not before we were married, but certainly afterward.”
“You did see me! You blanched each time, and looked as if you were in acute pain.”
“No, really seen you. Even on your hands and knees kneeling over the chamber pot, your face a bit green. You weren’t wearing those spectacles then, nor one of those prized caps of yours.”
“I felt too awful to care,” she said, grimacing in memory. “You were going to make love to me that night, weren’t you?”
“I was going to try to,” he said, and lightly moved his open hand up to caress her breast. He felt the slight quiver, and smiled.
“What if I had been truly ugly?”
“Then I would have had to concentrate on your beautiful body,” he said promptly, his fingers now moving quickly downward. She was damp and sticky with him, and he wanted her again, desperately. He no longer questioned his intense need for her, he accepted it now, and reveled in it. A wife, he thought. His wife.
“Oh,” she gasped, unconsciously raised her arm to bring him over her, and gasped again at the twinge of pain.
“Careful, love. Do you want me to drive you crazy with more pleasure?”
She nodded, knowing quite well that she wanted him, all of him.
“You are mine,” she said, and lurched up at the incredible sensations created by his fingers.
“Yes, and I intend to be until I curl up my toes and pass to the hereafter. Now, where was I?”
He eased himself between her thighs, parting them widely. She blinked at him, feeling a moment of embarrassment at being so exposed to his eyes, but he merely shook his head, smiling at her. His eyes, darker now with building desire, studied her, following his caressing fingers. “So beautiful,” he said.
Her muscles tightened, then slackened. “You know how much I want you, don’t you, Hawk?”
“Yes,” he said on a deep satisfied sigh, “yes, I do, love.”
“Then why do you continue to tease me?”
“Tease you? Hmmm. Actually, I’m simply ensuring that you are truly gentled and weak and silly before I give you what you want.”
“You bounder!” Then she gasped, and her eyes glazed. “Hawk!” she cried, and brought him into her.
Later, when Frances was asleep in his arms, his mind returned to the miserable problems they faced. They were to leave for Newmarket on the morrow. He was frightened; he admitted it to himself. And he felt helpless, no matter all the precautions he’d taken. He thought of Mr. Samuel Uckley, the Bow Street runner, and smiled into the darkness. A most unprepossessing little man was Mr. Uckley, like a ferret blessed with a hook nose.
“I don’t like this, milord,” Mr. Uckley had informed him as he tugged on his left ear. “I wants to bring my friend Mr. Horace Bammer in on this. Horace can stay here and poke about and I’ll come with you to Newmarker.”
And that was that, thought Hawk. He wouldn’t have objected in any case. Mr. Bammer would provide more protection here at Desborough Hall.
He felt Frances’ fingers tangle in the matt of hair on his chest. He felt her warm breath against his shoulder. He wondered if she would remember in the morning the words she’d shouted at her climax. “Do you truly love me, Frances?” he asked quietly. She murmured something in her sleep, and he was pleased. But worry continued to nag at him. How to keep her safe? His body grew taut the more he thought about the damnable situation. He had suddenly thought of the captain of the Keymark, Nevil’s yacht, while he reviewed everything he knew with Mr. Uckley. He couldn’t remember the captain’s name. Nor had he ever seen Nevil’s yacht, now his yacht, he’d realized with a start. But it was true, as Mr. Uckley had pointed out, that if there had been foul play, the captain had to know of it, and that meant, of course, that the “blinkin‘ cove” had been bribed to keep his mouth shut. Hawk decided then to send a message to Southampton to the Keymark and demand that the captain come to Newmarket. Then he would get answers by hook or by crook.
Hawk cursed softly and Frances said quite distinctly, “Alicia, did you feel ill when you were with child?”
Good God, thought Hawk. Unfortunately, the absent Alicia didn’t answer Frances’ question.
On the edge of sleep, Hawk had his own endless stream of questions, and none of them with answers. Why did they want the Desborough stock? Why did they want Flying Davie dead? Ah, Edmund, I think
you are one of the villains in this, but dear God, I hope Beatrice isn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought that his sister could actually be involved.
Was Frances pregnant?
The Desborough procession pulled into the courtyard of the Lame Duck Inn the following evening at six o‘clock. Situated on the outskirts of Doncaster, near the Doncaster racing tracks, the inn boasted a stable of requisite size, enough rooms for the fifteen members of their party, and a private dining room.
The day had been warm and Frances had hated every minute spent inside the stuffy carriage. Agnes wasn’t the most stimulating of companions, her conversation consisting primarily of comments on each village they passed through, regardless of its claim to the unique or, more likely than not, the commonplace. This, of course, for her Scottish mistress, who had never seen England and required constant edification. Frances wanted to throttle Agnes by the time she alighted from the carriage. All her stubborn husband’s fault, of course.
“You will not ride with your shoulder still sore,” Hawk had said, and Frances cajoled, pleaded, shouted, and cursed, all to no effect, blast him!
“I will not take a single chance that your horse could become excited and you hurt your shoulder again.”
“Damnable, overbearing, arrogant—”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Oh, nothing, Agnes! I am just bored sitting here doing nothing. The day is so very fine, not too hot, save in here, of course. That dratted man ...”
Frances found no fault with either the Lame Duck Inn or its proprietor, Mr. Smith. Lord and Lady Rothermere were treated with great deference and provided a meal that tested Mrs. Smith’s culinary abilities.
When their meal was over, Hawk rose, kissed Frances, and said, “Why don’t you get some sleep now, my dear?”
“And you, Hawk?”
“I am your gallant knight. I will stand outside your door, lance in hand.”
“I should rather have you inside my door. About that lance—”
“Frances! You shock me!”
“I but speak the way you do, husband,” she said, gazing up at him through her thick lashes.
He felt that inevitable surge of lust for her, and it required all his strength of purpose to leave her. He contented himself with a kiss that left him breathing hard.
He slept near to the stable, Mr. Uckley’s loud snores dinning in his ears. They managed a fairly early start the following morning, their destination that day the King George Inn in Grantham.
Hawk slept in his saddle, a trick he’d learned in his army days on the Peninsula. Marcus, saddle-sore, rode with Frances in her carriage.
That evening, Hawk again left Frances and took himself to the stables to keep guard.
He was drowsy, his eyelids very heavy. Something was wrong, he knew it. He heard Belvis snoring. Something was very wrong....
Shouts of “Fire! Fire!” jerked him awake. He stared blankly at the flaming roof of the stable, then shook his head vigorously to clear his dulled mind.
“Oh God,” he said, and began to shake Belvis violently.
He heard the screams of the horses and bounded to his feet.
His movements were at first sluggish. Men were filling the courtyard, flinging buckets of water on the stable roof, and bravely trying to save the horses within.
Suddenly the heavens opened and it rained torrents. Within moments, the fire was out, leaving only dismal trails of smoke weaving upward.
Hawk, his face blackened with smoke, looked at Belvis. “We were fools,” he said. “Complete fools.”
“Drugged?” said Marcus.
“I’m the one to blame,” said Mr. Uckley, looking so abashed that Hawk hurried to reassure him. It was Marcus who was holding Flying Davie’s halter, the horse quivering with fear, his eyes rolling wildly, but otherwise unhurt.
“Frances!” Hawk suddenly sent frantic eyes toward the inn. “See to Clancy’s Pride!” he shouted over his shoulder, his long legs eating up the distance.
She was sleeping soundly, a drugged sleep, and he shook her until she finally opened groggy eyes.
“You weren’t the target, Frances,” he said slowly, stroking her hair. “Someone drugged our food and set the stables on fire. We’ve been saved by an act of nature. It’s raining so hard the roads will probably be flooded.”
“The horses?”
“Safe, thank God. Belvis is seeing to them. It was Marcus who brought Flying Davie out unharmed.”
Inquiries made of the owner led nowhere. He knew nothing, indeed was indignant at such a suggestion that the food was drugged. No, no strangers had slipped into his kitchen. Of course he would make further inquiries, but Hawk placed little reliance upon his doing anything.
The roads were very muddy the next morning, but not impassable. Hawk elected to continue to Newmarket. They arrived. bone-weary, at nearly ten o‘clock the following night at the Queen’s Inn. The marquess was waiting for them, his face alight with pleasure.
“I’d hoped you’d push on,” he said, embracing his son, then Frances.
Hawk told him what had happened, and the marquess looked ready to explode with fury. “It’s too much, dammit!” he yelled. Frances, afraid that he would expire with apoplexy, offered him a glass of Madeira. “Incidentally, Hawk,” he said after a moment, “I’ve sent a message to Captain Anders of the Keymark, asking the fellow to join us here.”
Hawk smiled. “I did also,” he said, “only I didn’t know the fellow’s name.”
“I should have thought of it sooner,” the marquess continued, upset with himself. “Damn, I’ve been a blind fool!”
“Don’t distress yourself further, Father. Now, would you like to join us for a late dinner?”
Newmarket was a town unlike the others they’d passed through, Frances saw the following morning. It boasted many inns and shops and stables, since for many years its livelihood had been dependent on the races.
“ ‘Tis the Duke of Portland who owns much of Newmarket Heath,” the marquess told her as they strolled along the main street. “He has plans, I hear, to clear off acres of the furze and scrub and lay down grass for training grounds. Costly, though, probably will take him years to get it done, if ever.”
When they reached the stables Hawk had rented for the horses and their trainers, Frances grinned to see many gentlemen clustered about the horses’ traveling stalls.
“Fascinating idea, my lord,” one gentleman was saying to Hawk. “You are to be congratulated.”
“Actually, it was my wife’s doing. She was the one who found the smithy in York.” He looked to see her, and beckoned. “Here she is, gentlemen.”
Frances was quite aware that the gentlemen found no favor with her contribution.
“I say, my lord,” Sir Johnathon Luddle said, “this one stall has been damaged. Fire?”
“Yes, there was an unfortunate ... accident on our way here.”
“Your cattle all right?” asked another gentleman.
“Yes,” Hawk said.
The man snorted. “Damned nonsense, if you ask me, and I’ll wager it was anything but an accident! We’re all paying fortunes to protect our cattle from villains. Did you hear about Ashland’s problems?”
There were many ladies in Newmarket and Frances quickly discovered they were all as interested in gambling as the gentlemen. Gambling, flirting, and gossip as well, in equal portions, she quickly amended to herself. As for herself, she had fifty pounds. It would all go on Flying Davie. Only her husband would be the recipient of her flirting.
There was a party that evening at the Golden Goose, the entire inn having been hired by Lord Delacort, a very elderly gentleman with gout who held court from a mammoth chair in the center of the large parlor, his leg propped up on several pillows. A nervous-looking man, reed-thin, stood by his shoulder, ready, Frances thought, to spring into action when Lord Delacort so much as whispered a command.
“I should own the damned inn,” Lord Delacort was complaining in a lo
ud, quite carrying voice. “Ridiculous to make old Neddy, the proprietor, rich as Croesus. Timmons, you will see to it tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Timmons quickly.
Lord Delacort appeared to ruminate on this for a while, then beckoned imperiously at Frances. “Come here, girl!”
“Don’t worry, Frances,” the marquess said in her ear, “the old codger doesn’t bite—at least I don’t think he’s taken that up yet. When he was twenty years younger, though, I wouldn’t have put anything past him.”
Frances merely grinned, saw that Hawk was caught in close conversation with a good half-dozen gentlemen, and started toward the imperious old man.
“Oh dear,” said the marquess suddenly. “Beatrice!”
“And Edmund?” Frances asked in a low voice.
“I don’t see him. Oh dear, what the devil shall I do?”
“I think, sir, you should greet her naturally. I shall see what Lord Delacort wishes.”
“Who are you, girl?” Lord Delacort asked instantly the moment Frances curtsied before him.
“Why, I am Frances Hawksbury, Countess of Rothermere.”
“Ah, so you’re the chit responsible for those traveling horse stalls. Can’t imagine how ye’d do that. A chit and a woman, after all.”
“That is certainly true, my lord, and for the other, why, what does it matter?”
“Quite a quick tongue you’ve got, young lady,” Lord Delacort said, bushy brows raised at her.
Frances smiled back limpidly.
“Bring me a glass of port, Timmons,” he commanded in the next breath.
“But, my lord!”
“Shut your stupid trap, Timmons, that fool crack-bones hasn’t a brain in his rattling head!”
“I think I shall have some punch,” Frances said. “Would you care to join me?”
Lord Delacort glared up at her, the bushy gray brows now a straight line above his eyes. “Think to wrap me around your finger, do you, girl? Just like that husband of yours?”
Frances laughed at that. The thought of Hawk succumbing to any blandishments from her was vastly amusing. Well, perhaps not all that amusing, she added, smiling wistfully to herself.
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