A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (34 page)

“I couldn’t see,” Ellie murmured, enjoying the tickle of his breath against her face.

He pressed her against the flat boards of the stall. “Would you like to know what might have happened to Hortense, had I been so inclined?”

She inhaled his heady scent and whispered close to his ear, “Show me.”

His hand moved down her hip, across the worn breeches, to the front flap. He knelt in the straw and kissed her belly as he unbuttoned then pulled the breeches to the floor. The palm of his hand cupped her, his fingers moving in the swamp of her sex. Wet with craving, she moaned with each stroke until his finger entered her place of darkness and salt and pleasure.

He kissed her there, lapped her with his tongue. And still his hand moved in rhythm inside her. Then he touched something deep and primal, a busky cave of warmth that opened her body to the rich sensation, allowed him to devour her senses until she was lost, airborne, abandoned. “Rahhhh,” she groaned. “Rahhhh.” Her head went back as delicious wave after delicious wave of ecstasy shot through her. She shuddered, trembled, shook with pleasure as he mumbled, “That’s my Ellie, that’s my good girl.”

• • •

Rain pocked the stable yard. The eves of the barn wept into pebbled troughs, and puddles dotted the sodden soil.

Toby squinted at the deepening sky. “The track could be a fine bit of mess,” he said to Ellie and Hugh. “I’m for studying the situation.” He swung into the saddle atop a livery horse they’d rented in Doncaster.

Thousands of eyes watched as he approached the track. The stands had filled and a pack of humanity pressed against the rails. Some raised their opera glasses as he pushed the horse into a trot on the track’s shallow turf.

The depth of the horse’s hoof prints troubled him. That deep, the mud would cause resistance on the racers’ hooves. He cantered his mount a short way down the track and then abruptly pulled back on the reins. The horse slipped as it tried to stop. A rut of grass revealed slick mud beneath. He turned the animal and trotted off the track. Time to relay the grim news.

As Toby rounded the corner of the track’s observation tower, a man lurched from the shadows, and, with a flap like a crow’s wing, thrust his arm downward. Something metal flashed. Toby felt a bolt of pain in his knee that split his mind into a thousand shards. Startled, the horse bounded forward. Agony screamed as the man used the animal’s momentum to wrench his weapon sideways and down, cutting through cartilage and bone. Thrown off balance, the horse hit the corner of the tower and staggered sideways. Toby held on though his vision blurred.

He forced himself back to consciousness. Blood soaked the torn cloth of his pant leg like an unstoppable underground spring. The man was gone, but he’d left a sack hook protruding through Toby’s breeches.

“Lank!” Toby cried. Pain rocketed through his body. A wave of nausea cramped his stomach. “Lank,” he said again, as a buzzing thrummed in his ears and pinpoints of darkness appeared. Fighting with every nerve to keep from fainting, he steered his mount back to the barn.

• • •

“Dixon, take a look at these names,” Hugh said, handing his friend a list of entries in the St. Leger. “Who don’t you recognize?”

Dixon ran a finger down the piece of paper. “I’m not sure of this bloke, John Tradescant. He owns Reveler. And there’s Charles Dessault with a horse named Quintuk … no, I’ve met Dessault once, and the rest are legitimate. Tradescant has to be that Lank bloke you’re looking for.”

“You’ll be all right alone with the horse for a minute?” Hugh asked Ellie. “Lank’s got to be caught while we have the chance.”

“I’m calm and happy. Manifesto’s calm and happy.” A look passed between them – Hugh’s eyes sparkled with the memory of the morning’s activities.

Perched on a tack box beside the door to Manifesto’s stall, Ellie studied Hugh’s fine figure as he hurried off with Dixon Boyce. “I’m going to marry that man,” she told the stallion, tickling his muzzle with a piece of hay. The horse snatched the straw from her and munched it down. “You’re a saucy thing for a serious race horse,” she said, kissing his nose. And then a squelching of hooves in the yard caused her to turn toward the stable yard. A man, his face, ashen, looked at her with pain-glazed eyes. “Oh God, Toby!” She jumped to her feet and gripped a pillar for support. “What’s happened?”

He held a cap over his knee. Fingers shaking, he let the hat drop. The knee jutted sideways in the tight breeches like a doll’s broken leg. Blood soaked the fabric and coursed down his boot with the rain until it dripped in the mud. She raced to his side.

“Help me get down,” Toby moaned.

Ellie looked for help. They’d taken the stable farthest from the track for privacy. No one stirred under the dripping eves of the barn. “I’ll fetch someone,” she said, trying to stop her violent trembling.

Toby shook his head. “No, don’t let anyone see me.”

In a daze, she held the horse while Toby tried to summon the strength to dismount. Rain ran down her sleeves and into her eyes. He couldn’t pull his torn leg over the saddle. She pulled to help him, but he screamed and she let go.

At last Hugh and Dixon strode down the row of stalls.

“Hugh!” Ellie cried.

“He’s John Tradescant,” Hugh said. “Lank is Tradescant. He’s got a whopper of a black … ”

Dixon started to run toward them. “Something’s happened.”

“Hugh!” she called again. Hot tears poured down her cheeks, mingling with the icy rain.

Hugh broke into a run as Toby crumpled in the saddle.

Dixon held the jockey aboard.

“Who did this?” Hugh demanded, his face white as he examined the fractured knee.

“Lank,” Toby said, jagged air whistling through his teeth. “Get me down.”

“Right, of course.” Dixon grabbed Toby around the waist. The jockey couldn’t suppress a tormented scream.

“Let go of the reins,” Hugh coaxed. “Get his hands off the reins.”

Toby’s knuckles were like ice. Ellie uncurled them and pulled the leather straps free.

Hugh, standing at least a foot taller than Dixon, nudged his friend aside. “On the count of three, Toby, I’m going to pick you up and pull you off over your good leg.”

The jockey closed his eyes and nodded.

“One, two, three.” As Hugh hoisted Toby from the saddle, the rider battled to suppress an agonized wail. Ellie fought hysteria as Toby’s voice climbed octaves of pain. The shriek ended suddenly, followed by the rumble of rain pounding the barn roof. Mercifully, Toby had blacked out when the leg flopped over the far side of the horse.

They carried him into an empty stall next to Manifesto’s. “Quickly, find somebody to help,” Hugh said.

Ellie froze in terror. “But where? Who?” She lacked the strength to leave Toby’s side.

Dixon flew to the door. “I know the doctor.”

Kneeling beside her cousin, she forced herself to concentrate.
What would Claire do?
“I need a knife,” she said.

Hugh dragged the tack box into the stall and dug out a knife. Ellie slit the pant leg, and a wave of nausea hit at the sight of the wound. “We need to get the hook out and the leg straight or it will heal crooked … A tourniquet. Fetch me something to tie off the blood flow.”

Quickly, Hugh slipped a leather rein around the injured leg and tied it tight. Using bandages intended to protect Manifesto’s shins, Ellie sopped up blood until she could see into the wound. The tip of the hook disappeared deep into Toby’s flesh.

“Oh, please find a doctor,” she said, praying Dixon would be back soon.

Hugh moved to Toby’s feet. “He’ll have no leg after this, regardless.” He began to clip the jockey’s boot off.

Toby came to. He clenched his fists and shook violently. “Ride,” he said.

“It’s all up, old man,” Hugh told him. “You couldn’t sit in a cart with that knee.”

“Ellie, ride,” Toby gasped.

Her tears dropped on his chest. “La, Toby, I need to care for you, not ride a horse.”

He punched her in the thigh. “Get the silks off me, and ride, Ellie. Ride!”

“No,” she sobbed. “Let me stay.”

He blacked out again.

Hugh scrambled to Toby’s head where he fumbled with the navy and sky blue silk shirt – the Davenport racing colors. Hands shaking, he pulled it from the waistline of Toby’s breeches. “Hurry, or it will be excruciating for him,” he instructed. With a final tug, Hugh had the shirt over the stricken man’s shoulders. “Get out of that damn getup!”

Ellie snatched the shirt from Hugh’s hands. “It’s helpless. Go scratch Manifesto from the race.”

But if Hugh heard her, he didn’t show it. He lurched to his feet and started throwing brushes, halters, and bridles from the tack box. “Toby’s got an extra pair of breeches. Where are they?” He yanked the clothing out from under a pile of horse equipment — leather flew in all directions. Then he came at her. “Take off your pants this instant.”

Ellie backed away. “I’ve never ridden in a race.”

“Neither have I.”

“So, you ride in it.”

“I’m too big.”

“I’m a girl.”

“Only when you’re wearing a dress.”

He had her cornered now. “Fairland is all Toby has in his life. What is that man going to do with a bum leg and nowhere to live?” He flipped her around and stripped smock, coat, and shirt off her. “Hugh!” Ellie squeaked in alarm.

“Stand still. Your family’s future is at stake and you’re squirming.”

“It’s no use. Manifesto and I are too green. We’ll never win.”

“You don’t have to win.” Hugh feverishly loosened the front fall buttons on her pants and let the garment fall to the ground, then, before she could defend herself, he whipped her shift over her head, stripping her naked.

“Gorgeous. Just gorgeous,” he said, eyes feasting on her body. “Now put this on.”

“No! I’ve done impetuous, willful things all my life and it’s done nothing but harm. I’ve sworn to improve my nature. You’ll be happier with me.”

Hugh wrapped his arms around her, pressing her tight to his chest. “Do you know why I love you? Because you’re impetuous and willful.” He held her at arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “You’ve got more courage than any woman, serving class or upper class. Now, my beautiful wife-to-be, put some pants on.”

Something stiff and frightened drained from her soul as she stared back into his eyes.

“Hand me the breeches,” she said, her temper skittering between fear and uncertainty.

“Don’t get panicked,” Hugh warned. “Stop thinking.” He tossed her the pants.

“But these are beige,” she said.

“They’ll be fine.”

“All the other jockeys are wearing white. People will notice.”

“They may, but they’ll still think you’re Toby Coopersmith, as long as you stay calm.”

Ellie drew the jodhpurs on. Hugh steadied her as she balanced on one foot to put on her boots. “Put Manifesto out in front early and keep him there,” he told her, as he pulled the silk shirt over her head. “You won’t get boxed in by the other horses that way.”

A jolt of horror rocketed through her. She chased it from her mind. “Yes … ” she whispered, concentrating on his words.

Hugh took her trembling hand and brought her out of the stall. He tacked up Manifesto and led the stallion into the rain. The moment Ellie saw the horse’s eager, intelligent eyes she knew he would run his best. All she had to do was stay on — anything beyond that, she didn’t even hope for.

As if he heard her thoughts, Hugh kissed her forehead. “Good girl. Now listen — I will love you if this horse limps in dead last. Just show him for the champion he is, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Ellie said again, not taking her eyes from the perfect formation of muscle and sinew beneath Manifesto’s gleaming coat.

Hugh gave her a boost onto the stallion. She felt lighter than air and could barely feel the cold rain soaking her back. “Dixon will find a doctor for Toby. He’ll be fine. And you won’t need skill in this race. You’ve got Manifesto.”

In the distance, the trumpet played “Boots and Saddles.”

“Show ’em how it’s done, horse,” he said, giving Manifesto a quick pat. “Now go!” He ducked back into the stall to care for Toby.

Ellie pressed her knees to the horse’s sides. There was an excited spring in Manifesto’s step, while she felt stiff with fear.
Relax, breathe,
she told herself over and over.

The crowd roared as the line of horses filed onto the turf. She didn’t recognize the sound. Instead, she felt it. A disembodied excitement tingled in her veins. She worried that her muscles had stopped working. Near panic, she squeezed the reins, then her knees on the saddle leather.
Relax, breathe
. She could feel, but distantly.

Manifesto, head high, nostrils flaring, pranced toward the gate to the track, eager for the run. Just as he went through it, someone shouted. The stallion skittered to the side, clearing the gatepost by less than an inch. Ellie slipped in the saddle as the crowd surged toward her. Men shouted, “Stop your yawking, you’re scaring the horse!”

In confusion she scanned the faces. Lank stared at her, his features stiff with rage until a smile of recognition lifted his lips.

“It’s Lank,” Ellie said to no one. “It’s Lank. He’s going to report me.”

She fought an urge to dismount and run. Instead, she signaled Manifesto to trot, moving him swiftly away from the crowd, toward the starting line.

The rain softened to a mist that soaked everything. Ellie wiped her eyes with her sleeve, praying she could see throughout the race.

Manifesto stopped at the starting line. His ears cocked back toward her, waiting for the signal.

A black horse to their right reared and snorted. The beast had to be turned around and led back to the line where it fretted, already foaming at the mouth. “Ay, Reveler, stand to,” cried the black horse’s jockey.
Reveler. Lank’s horse
.

A bay whinnied and backed up. Its jockey landed a vicious kick. The horse leaped forward, bumping into a chestnut in line next to it. Jockeys began to curse. Horses tensed and broke ranks. Manifesto threw his head and pawed the muddy track. “Stay calm, big boy,” Ellie whispered. “No sense in getting silly like the rest of them.”