Wishes in the Wind (8 page)

“I don’t see why Tyreham would hire a jockey he means to stash away, Coop,” Archer commented, scratching his head. “Maybe Aldridge really is in Scotland.”

“Maybe.” Coop abandoned his task, dragging a scarred forearm across his brow, and veering slowly to face them. “But we know damned well he’s not hurt. Scared probably, but not hurt.”

“Who cares?” Parrish shrugged. “Wherever he is, he’s not racin’. So who needs him? I say we let him rot.”

“
You
say?” A warning flashed in Coop’s eyes. “You’re not paid to think, Parrish, you’re paid to act. And
I
say we try a different approach to unearth Aldridge.”

Parrish scowled, failing to hear or heed the implicit threat in Coop’s reprisal. “There’s no point,” he persisted. “Aldridge is useless to us if he’s not in the saddle. So why are we wastin’ our time …”

He never completed his statement.

In one motion, Coop whipped a blade from his boot and shoved Parrish against the wall, the knife at his throat. “Shut up, you stupid fool,” he hissed. “Or I’ll carve you into little pieces. I said I want Aldridge. More specifically, our employer wants Aldridge—no matter where he is or what he’s doing. The reasons don’t matter, the outcome does. So, if you both want to stay healthy”—his glance darted to Archer, watching him flinch as the blade nicked Parrish’s skin, drawing a drop of blood—“you’d better find him. Fast. Have I made my point?”

“Yeah, Coop. You made it,” Parrish squeaked.

An instant later he was freed, and he leaned against the wall, snatching up a nearby cloth and pressing it to his neck. “You want us to go to Glasgow and search?”

“Search where, you dimwit? Glasgow is a city, not a village. What would you do, comb the streets asking each passerby if he’d seen a wayward jockey?”

“What about startin’ with Aldridge’s relatives—you know, the cousins of his dead wife? Wouldn’t he be stayin’ with them like the rumors say?”

“First of all, rumors are rarely fact—especially if they’re started by a man who chooses not to be found. Second, our employer has used all his resources to uncover these supposed cousins. They’ve vanished from the face of the earth, if they ever existed at all. So, we’re back where we started. Even if Aldridge is in Glasgow, we don’t know where he’s hiding. He might very well have assumed a disguise and a new identity to keep from being found. Besides”—Coop’s lips curved into an ugly smile—“my guess is there’s a much easier way to get our hands on him. Rather than scour the whole British Isles, we’ll simply get him to come to us.”

“And how do we do that?” Archer asked cautiously.

“Through Sullivan.”

“Sullivan?” Parrish blinked. “He’s Aldridge’s best friend. He’s sure as hell not goin’ to help us find him.”

“Not willingly. But with a bit of persuasion.”

“You want us to rough him up a little?”

“No, I want you to rough him up a lot. And not only with your fists. Use whatever tools you need. Make it messy, but not fatal. We need Sullivan alive. I want news to reach Aldridge that, just to discover his whereabouts, you thrashed his buddy within an inch of his life. As for Sullivan, I want him coherent and so terrified that, if he does know where Aldridge is, he’ll happily furnish us with the address. Or at the very least, he’ll wire Aldridge on his own and plead with him to reemerge.”

“What if Sullivan doesn’t know Aldridge’s hidin’ place?”

“Then we wait. It shouldn’t take long for Aldridge to get wind of Sullivan’s brutal beating. I expect he’ll be on the next rail home.”

“You think so?”

“I do indeed. Remember, Aldridge has just two weaknesses, his daughter and his old pal Sully. And since the little chit Nicole is tagging along with her father, Sullivan is our only remaining bait. Further, devotion aside, you know how
honorable
”—the word was a bitter sneer—“Aldridge is. If he won’t throw a race, he sure as hell won’t sacrifice his friend’s life to save his own neck.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I
know
I’m right.” Pensively, Coop regarded the tip of his blade. “Grab Sullivan at home, not the stables. That would be too risky, especially given how thorough a job you need to do and how much time it’ll take to do it right. You know where he lives.” His gaze shifted back to his henchmen. “Now get on it.”

Glancing at Archer, Parrish shifted uncomfortably, still holding the cloth to his neck. “Uh, Coop—I know you’re busy”—he wet his lips—“but you did say we’d get our money after we finished with Tyreham.”

“No,” Coop corrected, a paralyzing gleam reigniting his eyes. “I said you’d get a
portion
of your money after you finished with Tyreham. How much of it depended on how much information you unearthed—which, in this case, is nil. What’s more, I have a strong aversion to greed, especially when the bastards who display it haven’t done a thing to earn their keep.” His grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles were white. “And I have an even stronger aversion to being pressured.”

“C-Coop …” Sweat broke out on Parrish’s brow.“—we didn’t mean …”

“Don’t do it again.” Coop shoved his free hand into his pocket, extracting several five-pound notes. “Here.” He tossed the money at Parrish’s feet, waiting until the frightened thug had snatched it up. “Split that with Archer,” he commanded. “It’s all you’re going to see until you’ve finished this job. Now get the hell out. And don’t come back until Sullivan’s been taken care of and Aldridge is on his way home.”

“Okay, Coop.” Archer had already begun backing off.

Parrish glanced at Archer, then at the meager amount he held. Hastily, he straightened, abandoning all thought of arguing the insufficient sum. “Thanks, Coop,” he muttered, inching away a hairbreadth behind Archer. “We’ll take care of everything.”

“You’d better. I react even more violently to being failed than I do to being pressured.” With callous deliberation, Coop stared down at his scarred forearm, kneading the disfigured skin. “Needless to say, so does our employer.”

“P
APA, I’VE TAKEN CARE
of everything.” Nicole glanced out the cottage window, noting that the sun was beginning to peek its head up over the horizon. “Why are you behaving like an ornery tiger?”

“Because I feel like one, that’s why.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Nicole tucked the final pin into her upswept hair, tugging at her cap to make certain it wouldn’t budge.

“Why not clamp your hair down with steel bands?” Nick muttered, glaring at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “You’ve already done that to your chest.”

Nicole bristled, unused to her father’s disapproval—or his explicit references to her figure. “I’m doing what I must.” She eyed herself critically, making certain the binding beneath her shirt was doing its job. Satisfied that her curves were totally concealed, she crossed the cottage’s small but cozy kitchen and poured herself some coffee. “What’s more, you knew what I intended when I responded to the marquis’s ad. Disguising myself as a boy was a crucial part of my plan. I wore this binding when I left for my interview yesterday, and you did no more than grumble. So why have you been ranting since I returned with the news that I’d gotten the position?”

“Because a few unexpected changes accompanied you back from Tyreham,” Nick retorted, slamming his cup to the table. “None of which I had time to consider during our flight from the inn. Hell, I scarcely had enough time to wire our new address to Sully. But I’ve had plenty of time to think since then. And I’m furious at myself for allowing you to push me into this insanity.”

“Papa, I thought you’d be pleased with this cottage. It’s more than adequate for our needs, and Lord Tyreham has generously offered it free of charge.”

“I’m not talking about the cottage and you know it. I’m talking about the reasons why we had to move here in such a blasted hurry. If you remember, your plan in trying to get this job was to buy us time—and wages—until I could resurface from this bloody seclusion I’m confined to. We agreed you would train in my stead
to pretend to
compete in the summer meetings.
Pretend,
Nickie. I made it plain that I refuse to allow you to actually enter those races. So what happened? Lord Tyreham was so impressed by my letter and your skills that he decided to speed up our schedule. To have you run the Derby.
This
year’s Derby, the one that’s taking place in three weeks. Needless to say, you were thrilled and agreed straightaway, without even consulting me. Like a tempest, you whirled us up, swept us off to Tyreham, and now intend to begin full-time training in”— he glanced at the clock—“a quarter hour. Well, dammit Nicole, I’m still your father. And I can still forbid it.”

“But you won’t,” Nicole replied softly. “Because you, better than anyone, know how much running the Derby means to me. Oh, Papa, it’s been my dream ever since you sat me on my very first horse. I can feel it, taste it, savor the sensations of crossing that line. It’s one race, Papa. How dangerous can it be?” She gave him an impish grin. “Besides, if I’m half as extraordinary as you claim, maybe I’ll win.”

“You
are
extraordinary. But you’re also a woman, whether or not you care for the idea. You’re also my daughter”—his voice faltered—“all I have left in the world. And I know you, perhaps better than you know yourself. You think running the Derby will satisfy your passion, but it’ll only feed it, make you want more. It’ll whet your appetite, sink into your blood like a heady dose of brandy. And, speaking of brandy, let’s not forget that you’ll be gallivanting about with a bunch of raucous jockeys who believe you’re one of them. You’ll also be prancing onto the racing scene at the precise time when those crooked bastards who threatened my life are avidly seeking a new target and in hot pursuit of their old one—me. According to what you told me last night, they’ve gone so far as to threaten Lord Tyreham—at his own home, no less—should he ever consider hiring me.”

“Papa,” Nicole squeezed his hand, “even if those animals happen to be at Epsom when I run, it won’t matter. They’ll never realize you and I are related, much less that I’m your daughter. They’ll never even suspect I’m a woman. As for their illegal offerings, should they approach me, I’ll make it clear from the start that I cannot be bought. And, as the Derby will be my one and only riding event”—she gave her father an I-promise-you look—“they won’t receive a second chance to twist my arm.”

Nick sighed, his heart weighted by a foresight his daughter had yet to acquire. “Let’s put aside the issue of your racing but once,” he said lightly. “Apart from all the possible danger, you have one hell of a task ahead of you—readying this thoroughbred for the Derby. I needn’t tell you that if he’s really as skittish as the marquis says, he’ll require calming in order to be tacked and mounted, much less raced.”

“I know, Papa. And I’ll use all the skills you’ve taught me. I’ll make you proud, you’ll see.”

“I’m already proud, Elf. But I’m also worried. Not about the horse—if anyone can bring him around, it’s you—but about the situation.” Tension drew grim lines about Nick’s mouth, cast shadows of doubt across his face. “You mean the world to me, Nickie.”

“As you do to me. I’ll prevail, Papa. I promise.”

“You’ll be alone. Neither Sully nor I will be there to watch over you.”

That did it. Feeling her father’s pain, his need to simultaneously offer his blessing and withhold it, Nicole knew what she had to do. No, she silently amended, what she
chose
to do.

All night long she’d tossed and turned in her new bed, grappling with whether or not to tell him the truth: that Dustin knew precisely who—and what—she was. Her instincts had screamed yes. Her father deserved to know. She’d never before kept anything from him, and she so badly wanted to divulge the details of Dustin’s kindness, his vow to protect them. It would put her father’s mind at ease and, at the same time, somehow validate the unfathomable emotions Dustin evoked inside her.

Yet, her intentions could backfire. Given Dustin’s reputation, her father might balk when he learned that the womanizing marquis of Tyreham had realized from the start that his new jockey was female. Worse than balking, he might order her away—from Tyreham, from the Derby … and from Dustin.

The very thought spawned an unwelcome constriction in Nicole’s chest, one that had nothing to do with her binding and everything to do with her emotional and physical attraction to Dustin Kingsley. With great difficulty, and for the umpteenth time, she tried to squelch her flustered uncertainty. Flustered because—after but two kisses—she was already in over her head. Uncertain because, not only was she treading in uncharted waters, she was doing so with a man so devastating, so proficient in his charm, she could scarcely stay afloat.

“Nickie?” Her father was gazing expectantly at her, a myriad of questions in his eyes.

Abruptly, Nicole returned to the here and now, accosted by a cold dose of reality.
This
was what mattered, her conscience cried out, guilt rearing its ugly head. Her father’s safety, their future, her commitment to the weeks ahead. She had no room in her life for a casual dalliance. Especially now. And especially with the man who’d just hired her and now held her fate in his hands.

Once again, reality intruded, refusing to allow such self-deception. Who was she kidding? Nicole thought with a resigned sigh. A casual affair? She? Under any circumstances? Even with a man as sinfully tempting as Dustin? Never. The prospect was as inconceivable to her as lying or stealing, as unnatural as the corset she’d been forced to wear. Essentially, she was just too honest, too principled.

Too provincial.

And Dustin, warm and intuitive though he might be, was anything but provincial.
That
she’d deduced instantly, despite her sexual innocence. One didn’t need firsthand experience to recognize charisma like Dustin’s. It was a tangible entity—innate, unmistakable, bone-melting. As was the self-assuredness of his technique. The resulting message was clear: Dustin Kingsley
knew
women—intimately and often. In contrast, Nicole was a green schoolgirl, one who understood only the kind of fidelity and commitment her parents had shared, and who wasn’t equipped to handle the aftermath of Dustin Kingsley.