Recklessly Yours (39 page)

“Yes, you are.”

Her head tipped, angling to the heat of his mouth until their lips met, easily, inevitably; a perfect fit. The taste of him filled her, and imbued her with the sense of how life could be. . . .

The pain became almost too much to bear until he lifted his mouth. “You may have been right about me,” he said.

“I know I am right.”

“But not entirely. Perhaps I should have had more faith in you sooner, but I didn't know you then as I do now. I couldn't even have fathomed just how much there was to learn about you. But what I could not believe was that there could be a happy ending in all of this. That I could return the colt to Briarview and simply walk away from the crime I'd committed. That my father would no longer have a hold over me.”

“Or that I would stand by your side through it all. You wouldn't believe that, either.”

His embrace tightened. He held her close, his face in her hair, his heart beating against her breast. But when he pulled away again, he was shaking his head. “I won't allow you to sink with me. But—” He broke off, and the look that came over him held her spellbound. “If by some miracle I find a way to extricate myself . . . I haven't the least idea how . . . but if I do . . .”

“Yes?”

“Then I shall be speaking to one of your brothers-in-law.”

For an instant they held each other as joy enveloped them, flowing like golden light around them. But as he dipped his head to kiss her, she saw it in his eyes—that glimmer of doubt that belied his hopefulness. He didn't believe their happy ending would come. He wanted it, treasured the possibility, but in the end, he still didn't believe strongly enough.

Still, she let him hold her, kiss her, allowed their pretense to continue. Desire flamed to life, fueled by the memory of all the things they had shared, the kisses, the caresses, the secrets rendered by their bodies when touched just so.

“Colin . . .” She whispered his name like the desperate entreaty it was.

His own whispered reply tore from his throat. “I only mean to hold you.”

“I know.”

“Damn it, it's not enough. It'll never be enough.”

“No, never.”

The world tumbled, and then the carriage seat pressed her back and the biting muscles of Colin's chest and abdomen and thighs pressed her front. Pressed her painfully, deliciously.

His hands dived beneath her hems and raised them. Without permission or prelude he thumbed his trouser buttons open. Her own impatience beyond enduring, her soft cries filled the carriage as his hips pinned her and the impossibly hot length of his shaft rubbed between her thighs. She instinctively parted for him, her arms encircling his waist, her own hips coming off the seat to meet him.

She braced for pain—it should hurt, she'd been told—but she felt only the gently demanding nudge at her nether lips.

He came to her barrier and stopped. Above her, Colin lay completely rigid as if he feared making the slightest motion, while he pulsed within her contracted muscles, their joined spasms hinting at something greater, a shared communion of pleasure, a completion.

But just as she seized upon the notion and tried to rock her hips to bury him deeper, he began to recede. She gripped his arms, fingernails biting through his sleeves. “No.”

“I must.” He paused as if agonizing over the decision he'd made. “While the future is still so uncertain, what else can I do?”

“Live for now,” she said, “because we don't know what we'll find when this carriage stops and its doors open.”

He shook his head, and without another word he retreated from her. Before she could fully mourn the loss of him and of what her body craved so intensely, he leaned between parted her knees, and she felt the warm brush of his hair against her thighs.

She gasped as his tongue entered her. Yet a protest rose up, and she tugged at his shoulders until he slid off the seat and knelt on the floorboards beside her, his torso within easy reach. His mouth never left her, not even when her hand followed the trail of fine hairs from his navel downward, and her fingers closed around his shaft. As she stroked up and down, his lips moved all the more fiercely against her and his tongue lashed deeper, all in a mounting rhythm goaded by the rocking carriage.

Then she turned her face into the velvet squabs to muffle the sounds of her ecstasy, while his shudders traveled like silent thunder all through her.

M
asterfield Park lay dark and silent when Douglas turned the carriage up the drive sometime between midnight and dawn. Colin didn't have him stop at the house, but ordered him to circle to the stables. With sleepy eyes, Holly nodded her agreement. They would see to the horses before seeking their own comfort.

A haggard-looking Mr. Peterson met them in the cobbled forecourt as Colin handed Holly down from the carriage. “It's not like anything I've ever seen before, my lord. One or two horses at a time, yes, but not an entire stable full.”

“Tell me exactly what the symptoms have been, starting with the earliest ones.”

“First we noticed a slightly unsteady gait on some of the horses, and a tightening of their flanks, as though they were holding their bellies. The intestinal symptoms began soon after, and I've noticed dilated pupils on some.”

“What about the guest horses?” Colin asked.

“All moved elsewhere, at the first sign of illness. But your family's personal mounts are fit as fiddles—so far. It's the racehorses and hunters that are affected.”

“And you've tried all the traditional cures for colic?” Holly asked.

Peterson's gaze traveled up and down her cloaked form, and Colin experienced a moment's remorse in having exposed her to speculation. The expression of concern never slipped from the veterinarian's features, however. If he found anything unusual about the two of them having traveled through the night together, he didn't show it.

“That we have, miss.” The man gestured to the archway that separated the two wings of the stables. “The grooms have been alternating the sick animals, walking them all night long. I've ordered extra water and they've had nothing to eat but the purest hay.”

“Has anyone inspected the grain?”

“Yes, my lord. It appears sound, but . . .”

Peterson trailed off. He and Colin both knew that a blight might not be apparent to the naked eye. “I want samples brought to my office.”

“Lady Harrow ordered samples sent to London, sir, to her husband.”

“Good.” Colin pinched the bridge of his nose and attempted to blink the fatigue from his eyes. “Still, I'd like to run my own analysis. Bring me clearly labeled samples of the hay and the water. I need to know exactly where each sample comes from.”

“The water comes from our own wells, my lord.”

“Even so. Wells have been known to become poisoned.”

Holly shot him a sharp look but said nothing.

“My lord, the horses are all fed from the same sources. If there was a contagion of some kind, they'd all have fallen ill.”

Colin thought a moment, and then a notion struck him. “Are you sure all the horses are consuming the same feed? Didn't some of our guests bring their own feed formulas for the horses they boarded here for the races? Could some of it have been left behind and gotten mixed in with our own?”

“My word, sir, it's possible.”

“Get me those samples.” Colin filled his lungs with misty, predawn air and gazed up at the house. “Where is my sister?”

“Retired, I believe, sir, though she was here helping direct the grooms until long after midnight. I caught her yawning and insisted she get some rest. Your brothers helped as well. We needed as many hands as possible to keep the horses moving.”

Colin nodded, glad to hear the family was getting much-needed rest. Exhaustion dragged at his bones, but not merely due to the present crisis. He'd spent his lifetime holding his family together, mediating, consoling, encouraging, protecting . . . only to be faced now with circumstances that stretched beyond his control. What would happen should events continue careening down their present course? What future would there be for the Ashworth family? Financially, they would remain unscathed, for the bulk of their fortune came from other sources. But these horses provided so much more than money, rewards such as pride and a sense of accomplishment.

He extended his arm to Holly. He found himself needing the support of her stubborn spirit, her frankness; heaven help him, even her rebukes bolstered him, forced him to admit the truth and take action, rather than brood and accept defeat.

He needed that now. Needed to believe, as she did, that they could fight their way to happiness. As if sensing his need, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm and walked with him across the forecourt to the heavy door that led directly into the office he kept here in the stables. Before they went inside, he turned back to Peterson. “Would you send one of the grooms up to the house to ask that tea be brought down, please?”

“The kitchen sent down some fresh buns and oatcakes not a quarter hour ago. I'll have some brought in to you.”

Inside, a groom appeared and lit the brazier. Some minutes later Peterson himself brought in a tray of refreshments. Holly had removed the cloak she'd borrowed from the dowager duchess and stood warming her hands in front of the hissing coal heater. Colin dragged the only other chair besides his own closer to the desk.

“Come and sit. Have something to eat.”

“We've been sitting for hours and hours.” She sent a rueful glance over her shoulder, but then turned and approached the desk. “But something hot and filling sounds heavenly.” She unstacked two cups and placed them on their saucers. She poured tea into both, spooned in some sugar, and added trickles of milk. Then she selected a treacle bun from the platter Peterson had brought.

Colin perched on the corner of the desk and drained half his tea, not caring that the hot liquid burned his tongue. The brew was black and strong, precisely what he needed to start his mind working. All he required now were the samples.

He held out a hand. “Come here, please.”

She popped a remaining morsel of bun into her mouth and set her teacup down. When she came to stand in the V of his knees, he drained the last of his tea, set it aside, and encircled her waist with his arms. “I'm sorry for the way I behaved on the way here.”

“For which behavior?” Her eyebrow rose in a show of censure, while the twitch of her lips hinted at humor. “The dismissal or the ravishment?”

Her forthrightness drew a laugh from him in spite of everything. “Both, I suppose. Holly . . .” He ran his gaze over her—her lovely figure with its athletic curves, her straight, brave posture, her beautiful face with its endearing blend of fortitude and innocence. He reached up to caress her cheek. “The time isn't right for us.”

Her eyebrow arched higher. “Do you think there will ever be a perfect time?”

“Perhaps, someday . . .”

She pressed her fingertips to his mouth. “First we have horses to diagnose and cure.”

As if on cue, a knock at the door separated them. She returned to the heat of the brazier; he opened the door and admitted three young grooms, their arms filled with sacks, scripted notes pinned to each. A fourth groom carrying a bucket half filled with water followed them into the room.

“Your samples, my lord,” one of them said.

Colin helped the lads arrange the parcels on the long table against the far wall of the office. They exited single file and shut the door behind them. Colin opened a cabinet and reached inside.

Behind him, Holly exclaimed, “Oh, is that what I think it is?”

He drew out the wood and brass contraption, which appeared much like a short telescope mounted on a wooden stand, and set it on the table. “It's a microscope.”

She heaved an appreciative sigh and joined him at the table. “It's beautiful. Even Simon doesn't have one as grand as this.”

“It's my own design.”

She bestowed upon him perhaps the proudest smile anyone had ever afforded him . . . the sort of approval a young boy longs to see on his father's face, but which, of course, he never had.

“May I?” she said with a note of awe. With a forefinger she reached out, nearly but not quite touching one of the brass brackets. He gestured his permission, and she leaned over to place an eye over the viewing lens. She wiggled the small round mirror set in the base. “I don't see anything.”

“That's because you need more light, and something to examine.” He'd already moved across the room to the shelves where he stored the small lanterns he had designed specifically for this purpose. With polished steel reflectors that directed the light exactly where he needed it, he could illuminate the tiniest particle brightly enough to be explored through the telescope's lens. Returning to the table, he lit the lanterns and reached for the first of the samples. “I'll need your help,” he said.

“Of course. Anything.”

He nodded toward his desk. “You'll find a notation tablet and pencils. Bring them here. You're going to record my findings.”

“Yes, sir,” came her enthusiastic reply, followed by a delighted little laugh. “This is how Ivy must have felt the first time she assisted Simon in his laboratory.” Her gaze met his and her face immediately fell. “Colin, I'm sorry. This is no time for merriment.”

He smiled sadly. “No. But I do understand. I was once a young science student.” After selecting a scoop from an assortment hung on the wall just above the table, he opened the first of the sample bags, poured a small amount of grain into a mortar, and ground it into a powder. From a drawer he took two glass specimen plates, sandwiched a pinch of powder between them, and set them into the base of the microscope. “Now then, let's see if we can't determine what the devil is going on here.”