Taken by Storm (7 page)

It had been all too obvious that his creditor had something far more dark and ugly planned for him than mere debtor’s prison. And what good would his inheritance, vast as it was, do him? Five months shy of his twenty-first year, he was too young to claim it anyhow. His hands began to sweat on the reins. He should never have told his father about his predicament, should never have expected the old man to react in any way but how he had, should never have put it past Ariadne to steal the one and only means he had of saving his own life . . .

And maybe her own as well.

He gazed bleakly ahead through the mare’s ears, watching them twitching back and forth, her creamy mane rippling on the light wind.

If only it was Shareb-er-rehh I had with me, not some common mare . . . if only I had Shareb-er-rehh. . . .

But he didn’t have Shareb-er-rehh.

Ari did—and she already had a good head-start on him.

He thought again of Clive’s slow, saturnine smile of evil and foreboding, and urged the mare faster, into a canter.

He had to stop her.

But the rolling, triple-timed beat of the mare’s hoofbeats made those final words even louder.

Will be your last . . . .

Her Ladyship managed to harness her own horse with surprising skill, and Colin didn’t know which of the two nobles—the girl, or her equally high-bred nag—seemed more put out by the procedure. It was all he could do not to chuckle with mirth when he directed her to free the stallion’s tail-hairs from the crupper, an action that made her cheeks go pink with embarrassment and Shareb-er-rehh’s head to jerk up with indignation.

Finishing, she turned, folded her arms across her chest, and stared at him with haughty triumph.

“Satisfied, Mr. Lord?”

He eyed her long and hard, until her composure began to falter. “Should I be?”

“Indeed you should. I have finished harnessing him.”

He grinned and held out the driving bridle to her. “No, you haven’t.”

Her mouth tightening, she snatched the bridle and turned her back on him. Suspecting a conspiracy, Shareb-er-rehh eyed it with malice, backed up, and reared. Colin instinctively moved forward, but Lady Ariadne brought the stallion down with a quick yank on the reins.

Gripping the bridle’s cheekpiece, she put her face as close as she could to the horse’s blinkered head and stared into his dark eye. “I don’t like this any more than you do!” she hissed, but in a voice that was clearly intended for Colin to hear. “Now, be good and stop your fussing!”

Instantly the big beast quieted, albeit with a surly look in his eye that belied his seemingly good manners. Then his mistress reached up, deftly removed the hood and bridle, and gave Colin his first full view of the stallion’s face.

His breath caught in his throat. The head was beautiful, classically sculpted, broad across the forehead with a white blaze starting just between the dark, intelligent eyes and widening as it spilled downward so that it encompassed nearly all of the horse’s muzzle.

“Handsome animal,” he said, stretching his hand toward the stallion.

Shareb-er-rehh lashed out and nearly amputated his fingers.

“Loves compliments, doesn’t he?”

“He loves his
dignity
even more.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does. But he’ll have to make do without it until we get to Norfolk. Please proceed.”

“I have never been treated so insultingly in my life.”

“And I’ve never had the liberty of having my horse harnessed and bridled for me. I find I rather like it.”

She shot him a murderous glare, hooked an arm around the stallion’s poll and gently coaxed the bit into his mouth. Shareb-er-rehh stood chomping the metal, working it between teeth and tongue and eyeing Colin with as much malevolence as did his mistress, but otherwise making no further protest as she pulled the bridle into place. Her tiny fingers buckled the throatlatch, pulled the stallion’s forelock free from the browband, ensured the blinkers were adjusted over each eye. Then she walked briskly around the lathering animal, taking off her cap and tossing her hair over her shoulder as she swept past Colin in what could only be a deliberate attempt to tempt and taunt her human companion.

Her efforts found their mark. Colin caught the scent of lavender, and with it an engaging blend of soap, horses, and femininity. Heat flashed through him, riding a wave of desire.

She went to the stallion’s head, turned, and eyed him with feminine triumph.

“I really think that we should make an effort to get along, if this trip is to be at all pleasant,” she announced.

“I’m glad we are of like mind.”

“Therefore I expect you to show me a modicum of respect.”

“And I would desire the same.”

She smiled.

He gave her the same unflappable stare that had once placated his admiral.

And she turned quickly away, stroking the stallion’s nose and blushing furiously. “Furthermore, I’ve been thinking that
Mister
Lord simply will not do. It is far too ordinary, and not indicative of the great miracles I believe you are capable of performing with regard to healing animals. Therefore, I shall call you ‘doctor’ instead. Yes,
doctor
. Besides, if I go one hundred miles having to address you as ‘Mr. Lord’ I shall wear out my tongue!”

“That would be a blessing,” he murmured, picking up his trunk and shoving it under the seat of the chaise so she wouldn’t see the twinkle in his eye.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, that would be an unusual form of ad
dressing
—” he looked up and gave an innocent grin—“me.”

“Oh. I thought you said something else.”

“I would never insult my lady so.”

“I should hope not. So, do you like your new title, Doctor Lord?”

“You flatter me, Lady Ariadne, but veterinarians are not regarded as doctors.”

“Indeed they are not. But you are
my
veterinarian and if I want to consider you a doctor, I will.” Her eyes sparkling, happy that she’d gotten the upper hand in at least something, she put her hands on her hips and made a small circle around him, immensely pleased with herself and reminding him of a happy queen who’d just raised one of her subjects to the peerage. “Besides, you rather
look
like a doctor, especially when you wear your spectacles, as you were doing yesterday when you saved that poor dog. By the way, where are they? You haven’t forgotten them now, have you?”

“No,” Colin said, his concentration swinging from her to the task at hand as he picked up the shafts of the chaise and brought the vehicle directly up behind the horse. The big animal stiffened and turned, regarding him warily. Already, the dark eyes were rolling, the ears back, the nostrils flaring with trepidation. The horse was no idiot, and obviously suspected what was to be asked of him. Colin tossed a blanket into the chaise. They’d be damned lucky if they weren’t all killed.

“Good. You rather look like a University graduate, all brainy and highborn with them on . . . I do hope you shall wear them often for me, just so I’m reminded that I have indeed purchased myself a veterinarian worthy of my stallion. I mean, at twelve thousand pounds you had better be worthy!”

“Perhaps next time you should shop around for a bargain,” he said drolly, as he directed her to back the horse into the shafts.

“Are you sporting with me, sir?”

“Me, sport with you?” He widened his eyes and gave her his most innocent smile as he fastened the traces. “I would not dream of it. You are
far
too important a personage to make sport of, and I would be less than a gentleman if I were to insult you so.”

“Good.” She raised her chin and regarded him with a cool hauteur that was effectively destroyed by the mischief in her eye. “Because I would take great offense, I think, if you were to make sport of me without my knowing. That would be unforgivably rude and impertinent behavior on your part.”

“Oh, yes. Unforgivably.”

They stared at each other, both trying not to grin. Then her chin came down a notch, and he saw the helpless sparkle in her eye, the deviltry in her expression.

“So, are you going to wear your spectacles or not?”

“I wear them for reading.”

“You weren’t reading when
I
saw you in them.”

“I wear them during surgery, too. Or, for anything that requires strict attention to detail. Or when I’m tired. Or when—”

“Surgery!” She clapped a hand across her chest and went a bit green. “Do you mean . . .
cutting
things?”

“Not ‘things.’ Flesh. Skin. Muscle—”

“How utterly
ghastly
. Pray I shall never have to see anything more disconcerting than what you had to do to that poor, bloated dog yesterday! Imagine, stabbing it in the belly with a needle—”

“You should have stayed a bit longer,” he couldn’t resist adding, with a teasing grin. “The stomach tube procedure that followed was even more impressive.”

She blanched. “
Stomach tube
?”

“Aye. A long, snakish thing of wire wrapped with leather. One must push it down the esophagus and into the stomach so as to relieve the excess—”

“Never mind, Dr. Lord, you may talk of such things
after
we eat breakfast! Which reminds me, would you like a blackcurrant tart?”

As though on cue, the stallion’s ears shot forward and he craned his neck and stared at his mistress’ pocket. Odd behavior, Colin thought, frowning. The little noblewoman reached into her coat, pulled out a thick wedge of paper-wrapped pastry, and pushing aside Shareb-er-rehh’s questing muzzle with her elbow, offered it to Colin.

He took it and thanked her, not realizing how hungry he’d been until the sugary, flaky pastry filled his mouth. The stallion eyed him flatly, one ear forward, one back; then it banged its head against Lady Ariadne’s shoulder, hard, at the same time that Colin felt paws against his knees and looked down to see little Bow, begging, drooling, and staring at him with desperate eyes. Hungry as he was, he broke the pastry in half, gave the bigger piece to the dog, and when he glanced up, noticed the stallion was munching something and regarding him with haughty triumph.

He frowned. Dear God, he hoped she hadn’t fed pastry to the horse . . .

Early morning traffic was beginning to clatter past on the street beyond the buildings, and overhead, two chaffinches flitted amongst branches dressed in green. It was apparent that if they ever wanted to get out of London, he’d have to get this venture underway. He made one final check of the harness, lifted Bow into the chaise—

And saw his employer giving something to her horse.

“What are you feeding him?”

“Pastry.” She smiled lovingly at the stallion as it lipped the last crumbs from her palm. “A blackcurrant tart, to be precise.”

“I forbid it.”

She stiffened, her chin coming up. “Dr. Lord, you’ll not
forbid
anything. Shareb
likes
pastry and ale—”

“
Ale?
”

“Yes,
ale
. Are you hard of hearing? Or do you forbid that, too,
Doctor
?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. As your horse’s veterinarian I cannot allow him to have pastry and ale, no matter how much he enjoys them. Surely he can subsist comfortably well on hay, bran, oats and corn, like any other horse—”

“Dr. Lord, you don’t understand. Shareb-er-rehh is not ‘just any other horse’ and he deserves special treatment. Besides, I’ve been feeding him pastry and ale since he was a little colt. Now please, be reasonable . . . you’re already forcing him to pull that dreadful chaise. The least you can do is allow him some small recompense to atone for this grievous assault on his pride.”

Another wedge of pastry on her palm, Ariadne turned her back on him, held out her hand to the stallion once more—

And felt her wrist caught in the veterinarian’s grip.

“I said,
no
.”

He was no longer teasing her, and his tone was hard and commanding and brooked no argument. She froze, staring at his fingers. How small and fragile her wrist looked, caught in that broad, masculine grip; how white and dainty her skin was, how tiny her bones in comparison to the breadth and strength of his hand. She felt the warmth of his thumb against her pulse, the calluses of his palm against her flesh, and once again saw the mastiff, and he leaning over it, these very same hands coaxing it back to life . . .

Her head jerked up and she stared straight ahead, her mouth set. “Dr. Lord. I did
not
give you permission to touch me.”

He didn’t let go.

Her voice rose. “Did you hear me, sir? Kindly remove your hand from my wrist.”

The pressure only seemed to tighten and tension crackled between them. “No more pastry,” he ordered softly.

She set her jaw. Her breathing quickened, and a pulse began to beat in her ears.

“Your promise.
No more pastry.
”

Ariadne took a deep, steadying breath, slowly turned her head, and glared angrily up at him.

He was so close that she could see the starbursts of gray radiating from the lilac depths of his irises, feel his breath against her brow, sense the solid, unbending strength of his will. She noticed a curious, vertical dimple-line faintly clefting his chin, strands of bleached gold running through the fair hair that tumbled over his brow, the long, pale crescents of his lashes, the firm shape of his mouth.

His mouth . . .

Smiling coyly up at him through her lashes, Ariadne touched her forefinger to the corner of his lips.

“You have very beautiful eyes . . . Dr. Lord.”

Her remark, combined with that single touch, was enough to stun him into shock, which was precisely what she’d hoped to accomplish. Quickly jerking free of his grasp and pressing home her advantage, Ariadne pushed the pastry into his palm, making sure her fingertips lingered against his skin a second or two longer than was necessary. His mouth hardening, he snatched his hand away, dropped the confection, and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

“Really,” she said, dark eyes flashing with laughter and triumph, “I think you are over-reacting.”