Lord of Desire (2 page)

The horseman who at last cams bounding down me wida stone steps of the ducal mansion aiscs contrasted with his noble surroundings—despite his tailored frock coat and si&reiisc.
cravat
of black silk, despite even hi?
claim
to noble birth. The young gsntlemajj was the duke's grandson, but his bronzed skin and hawklike gaze lent him a hard, ruthless air that the refined British gentleman of his class would never attain. There was nothing refined, either, about the way he leapt oa.
the
stallion's bach or wheeled his mount as if he'd been born in the saddle.

Muscles quivering in response to its rider's innate restlessness, the horse strained eagerly at the bit, in anticipation of freedom.

Yet Nicholas Sterling kept the Barb tightly reined as they traversed the smooth graveled drive between two rows of stately oaks; for once he checked his impatience to be away. He could afford this last mark of obeisance, this final show of respect for his grandfather. His interview with the duke successfully concluded, he was at last free to pursue his own life. Ten years. Ten long years in this foreign land, enduring what had felt like captivity. But at last he could shed the trappings of his civilized English upbringing, as well as the English name that had been thrust upon him.

The taste of freedom was sharp on his tongue, as sweet as the spice of fall in the air, as vivid as the oaks turning the colors of autumn. The stallion seemed to sense his mood, for the animal began a spirited dance, nostrils flaring, ears pricked forward, as they passed beneath the canopy of the giant oaks.

The horse never flinched as an acorn whistled over its head and fell to earth, a credit to the stallion's training. Nicholas absently murmured a word of praise, his thoughts occupied by his impending departure from England.

The next instant he heard another faint whistling . . . then a small, dull thud as his silk top hat went flying off his head to land in the drive. Scattering gravel as he spun the stallion around, Nicholas reached for the curved dagger at his waist—a habit learned in youth—before remembering he had no reason to carry a weapon in this tame country. He had not expected danger to be lurking in a British tree.

Or a female, either.

But that was precisely what met his astounded gaze as he stared overhead. She was hard to see. If not for the acorns he would have passed her by; her black gown was nearly hidden in the dappled shadows. Even as he peered up at her through branches and leaves, she defiantly flung another acorn at his fallen chapeau, missing it by mere inches.

The bay stallion, taking exception to this aggression, thrust its forehooves squarely on the ground, tossing its proud head and snorting in challenge. Soothingly Nicholas laid a gloved hand on his mount's neck, but his mouth tightened in anger.

"The first acorn," he said softly, "I mistook as an act of nature. Even the second, when you targeted my hat, I excused as an accident.
But not the third.
Would you care to know the consequences of a fourth?"

When she didn't reply, Nicholas's gaze narrowed. By now his vision had grown accustomed to the shadows, and he could see that the perpetrator perched on the limb overhead was a young girl of perhaps thirteen, with chestnut hair, several shades darker than his own dark gold, styled in ringlets. The hem of her gown was a scant four feet from his head, giving him a glimpse of lace-edged pantalettes. The quality of the material was unmistakable, bespeaking wealth if not current fashion.

Even as he fixed her with a hard stare, the girl tossed her head defiantly, much like his stallion had just done.
"Tuppence for your consequences!
You don't frighten me in the least."

The novelty of her reply gave him pause. He was not accustomed to being challenged by a female, certainly not by a child. Staring at her, Nicholas was torn between amusement and the urge to turn her over his knee. Not that he had ever raised his hand to a woman. But he didn't intend to divulge that particular fact just now. Repressing amusement, he schooled his features into suitable fierceness.

"If you decide to throw another acorn," he warned, "I shall be persuaded to give you the thrashing such willful misbehavior deserves."

In response, the girl raised her chin another notch. "You will have to catch me first."

"Oh, I shall. And I guarantee you won't like it if you put me to the trouble of climbing after you." His tone was pleasant, yet carried a hint of something soft and deadly. "Now, do I disarm you, or will you surrender your weapons without a fight?''

She must have believed his threat. After a moment's hesitation, she let the fistful of acorns drop harmlessly to the ground.

Nicholas was satisfied that she wouldn't again dare hurl one of her missiles at him, but he couldn't leave her to pelt other unsuspecting travelers with acorns. "You should have considered what might have happened," he added more casually. "Had my horse been any less well-trained, he might have bolted, perhaps even sustained an injury or delivered one to me."

"I wasn't aiming at your horse, only your hat. I would never hit an animal. Besides, he didn't bolt. You didn't have any trouble holding
him,
for all that he looks so savage."

"You presume to be a judge of horseflesh? I assure you, this beast is far more valuable to me than any of the pampered animals in the duke's possession."

"Will you sell him to me?"

The sudden question, delivered in such a hopeful tone, took him aback.

"I can afford his price," she said quickly when he hesitated. "My papa was exceedingly wealthy."

Several answers immediately came to mind.
That his horse was not for sale.
That a stallion was not a suitable mount for a young lady. But his curiosity was aroused. "What would you want with him?" Nicholas asked instead.

''I shall need a horse when I run away.''

He raised an eyebrow at her. The rebellion was back in her tone, echoing a sentiment that was familiar to him. "Where do you intend to go?"

"India, of course."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm afraid you cannot ride a horse to India."

"I know that! But if I am to find a ship to take me, I must first travel to a seaport. And I cannot
steal
a horse, you see."

"Ah . . .
no, I fear I don't see."

"I am not a thief!" She sounded indignant. "And if I were to steal one, they would discover it missing and come after me sooner. Well," she demanded as he silently pondered her logic, "will you sell him to me or not?"

"This particular horse is not for sale," Nicholas said, managing to keep the laughter from his voice. "And in any case, I expect your parents would be rather concerned if you were to run away."

He expected her to be disappointed, but to his surprise, the girl suddenly swung down from the tree limb with a flurry of skirts to land on the low stone wall beside the drive. There she stood for an instant, staring back at him.

She was an intriguing child, with huge storm-gray eyes that seemed too big for the rest of her plain features. Eyes
that were
angry, defiant . . . anguished. He caught the reflection of tears in those haunted eyes, before her defiancé crumbled. "I don't have any parents," she whispered in a grief-stricken voice.

The next moment, she leapt down from the wall and fled across the manicured lawn, to the shelter of a copse of willows.

So strong was the impression of a wild young creature in pain that Nicholas had to follow. Reining back his mount, he urged the stallion over the low wall, then cantered across the lawn and skirted the willows. He found her lying facedown on the grass beside an ornamental lake, sobbing as if her world had shattered. Unexpectedly, he felt guilt. Had he caused her tears?

Dismounting, Nicholas sank down beside her and waited. Not moving, not touching her, merely letting her feel his nearness, the way he would one of his horses. She didn't acknowledge his presence in words, yet he knew by the stiffness of her shaking young body that she was aware of him. And after a while, her sobs lessened enough for her to speak.

She didn't want to answer his probing questions, though. Her first reply, when he asked her what was troubling her, was a husky "Go 'way."

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a young lady in distress?"

"I am n-not in distress!"

"Then why are you filling the lake with your tears?"

She didn't reply; she only curled her knees up more tightly and buried her face in her arms, in an effort to shut him out.

"Tell me what the trouble is and I will go away."
Again no answer.
"I can be very patient," Nicholas warned quietly as he settled back for a long wait. "Why do you not have any parents?"

He heard a watery sniffle. "They . . . they died."

"I'm sorry. Was it recent?"

After a moment the girl gave a faint nod.

"And you miss then?"

Her nod was a bit more vigorous this time, but still she didn't volunteer any answers.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Nicholas prodded. "I would like to hear what happened. Was it an accident?"

It took some time, but by gentle persuasion, he learned the cause of her grief: her parents had died from cholera in India, and she had just been sent back home to England to attend boarding school. That was why she was dressed in mourning. That was why she was sobbing so bitterly.

Nicholas remained silent, understanding now. He had once felt the same anguish, a grief so deep it seemed fathomless.
Grief and a fierce hatred.
He knew what it was like to be orphaned without warning. To have childhood abruptly ended in one brutal, mind-branding moment.

"I should have died, too!" she cried in a voice muffled by her arms. "Why was I spared? It should have been me. God should have taken me."

Her desolate plea brought the memories crowding in on him. Her death wish was something Nicholas also understood.
Guilt for having lived, for having cheated death when loved ones had not escaped.
He had seen his father struck down by a French bayonet, his mother brutalized and murdered by soldiers who were no better than ravening jackals.

''I hate England!'' the girl exclaimed suddenly, fervently. "I despise everything about it! It's so cold
here . . ."

Cold and wet and alien, he thought. The constant chill had bothered him, too, when, against his wishes, he had been sent to live among his mother's people ten years ago. England was so very different from his native country—the vast deserts and rugged mountains of North Africa. Watching the girl shiver, he wanted to console her. He fished in his pocket and found a monogrammed handkerchief, which he pressed into her hand.

"You will grow accustomed to the cold," he said with quiet assurance. "You've only been here . . . what did you say? Two days?"

Ignoring his handkerchief, she sniffed. "I like hot better." Lifting her head then, she turned those huge, gray, glistening eyes on him. "I
shall
run away. They shan't keep me here."

Seeing her mutinous expression, he was struck again by the passionate nature of her defiancé. She was a strong- willed, rebellious child . . . Not so much a child, really. Rather a young girl on the brink of womanhood, a bud beginning to unfold. And just as intriguing as he had first thought. Hers was a plain little face, true.
Plain and piquant and rather incongruous.
Nothing matched, and yet it was arresting on the whole. Given a few years she might be fascinating. Her heavy, straight brows gave an exotic, almost sultry look to those haunted eyes, while her sharp little chin indicated a stubbornness that boded ill for anyone who tried to control her.