A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (6 page)

Victory. And he didn’t notice she was the girl he’d met at the ball the night before. Yet, of all the times Ellie donned a pair of Toby’s pants, she’d never once been called out. People just didn’t expect a woman to be so daring. She almost smiled. This was going to be so easy. Once Hugh realized Manifesto was uncontrollable, he’d sell at a bargain price. The necklace ought to cover the family’s debt to Baron Wadsworth, plus the cost of Manifesto. She patted her pocket with satisfaction. The pearls formed a warm bump on her thigh.

Aboard Valaire, Hugh reached down for her. She took his hand, put her foot in the stirrup, and swung onto the horse’s rump, at the same time clutching Manifesto’s lead. Her raw bottom landed as Valaire moved into a springy trot. “Ouch,” she said. “Please don’t trot.” But Hugh ignored her. She had to throw her arms around his waist to stay on. His stomach felt hard and slender beneath the light wool of his jacket. Her breasts brushed against his back. Fearing he’d notice, she reared away, though the position increased the pain to her tortured rump.
Blast him!
she thought.
Before he lays a hand on me again, he’ll rot in hell.

Ellie’s presence in the Davenport barns was unwelcome. The head coachman stalked off the moment Hugh left. Later, she found him standing at the barn door smoking a pipe and complaining about the new trainer demanding his own room.

The head groom, eager for the honor of caring for England’s most expensive horse, grew enraged when Ellie insisted on supervising Manifesto’s stall arrangements. The stallion’s behavior soon changed the groom’s mind, however. The horse left an ugly mark on the man’s arm with a vicious bite.

By nightfall, Ellie sat on a bale of hay outside Manifesto’s stall staring at nothing. Exhaustion from the excitement of the day, the spanking she’d received from Hugh, and bucking the resistance of the Davenport hands had made her ache in every bone. She felt filthy, her bottom hurt, her hair was full of hay, and she still didn’t have a bed.

The barn quieted as the last stable hands left. All that could be heard was the soft munching of horses, the occasional hoofbeat, and the thud of barn cats as they left their hiding places to hunt.

“What would a man do in this situation?” she asked Manifesto. The horse wrapped his neck around her and breathed into her palm. “He’d probably drink, vomit, and pass out.

“So, what would a woman do? She’d bathe, make a bed of straw, and sleep.”

Ellie went to the tack room, found some horse blankets, and built a bed in the corridor outside of Manifesto’s stall. Then she located a kettle, filled it with water, and, finding the blacksmith’s shed, set the kettle to heating over the last coals of the forge. When all was ready, she stripped in Manifesto’s stall and sponged her tired body.

Memories of the walloping Hugh gave her came to mind. She thought about the long ride behind him to Exeter where they fetched her father’s horse. How she despised his broad shoulders and muscled arms. He was a womanizing brute with a flair for pomposity and priggishness.

She sighed. “I’ll have to deal with him until I can pawn the pearls and buy you back,” she told Manifesto. “It won’t be long, my love.”

• • •

Hugh knew he ought to leave the new horse alone. His presence only upset the stallion. But, despite his better judgment, he kept finding his feet heading for the barn. Every distraction had been no use. Now, he tried to bask in the maternal comfort of Sally Hawthorne’s kitchen. All his life, Sally brought him solace when life upstairs turned bleak. Today he found no peace. His mind continually drifted back to Manifesto and that irksome lad.

“Surrender, Master Hugh,” said Sally. “You’ve not heard a word I’ve uttered, that animal’s so bewitched you.”

“You’re right. I put my hands up and lay my pistols down.”

Sally laughed and helped him into his boots. Puffed with pretend put-out, she fetched apples and carrots from the cold cellar, then supervised as Hugh stuffed them in his pockets. He kissed her red cheek, and slipped out the kitchen door into the balmy night air.

As he rounded the corner, he could see light from a lamp in Manifesto’s stall.
The scamp
, he thought.
That lad’s ruining my horse to insure future employment
.

Hugh sneaked to the stall window and peeked inside. Shocked, he stepped back, landed on a stone, and fell into a bundle of wheat sheaves.
By gad!
He shook his head
. No, I’m seeing things
.

Without pausing to brush the chaff from his trousers, he looked again. The lad he’d beaten to a fare-the-well that afternoon leaned against Manifesto, stark naked and drying her perfect breasts. He crept closer to the window. Tendrils of wet hair clung to her white shoulders. Small beads of water ran down her chest, changed course as they reached her brown nipples, and dripped into her curling, blond pubic hair.

“Look at that,” he whispered, shaking his head, “the lad is a lass.”

She leaned down to dry tapered ankles and delicate pink toes, and then turned her back to him. A pang of guilt shot through Hugh at the sight of her bruised backside. But even black and blue, her bottom took the prize as the finest he’d ever seen: squared at the hips, rounded with muscle, plump at the bottom and melding into well-formed thighs.
She must think I’m dreadful
, he thought
. Actually, I am. Stop gaping at her.
He tried to walk away but his legs refused. He closed his eyes and then opened them a second later.

Mesmerized, he watched as she slipped back into her dusty clothes, tucked her hair into a floppy tri-cornered hat, and kissed Manifesto on the nose. Then she left the stall, blew out the hurricane lamp, and disappeared in the darkness.

She’s an Albright, that’s certain. The spitting image of the one I met at Mortimer’s. But what daughter of an earl would steal a horse? Besides, that delicate damsel couldn’t ride astride if her life depended on it.
Mother said Sebastian Albright loved to have his tow-headed bastards ride with him. Girls too, apparently.

As he wandered toward the house, his booted toe hit the wall of a garden fountain and he came within a hair’s breadth of capsizing into it. “Bloody hell!” he snapped at the burbling nymph in the fountain’s center. He’d strayed from the path, which split in a decorative circle around the pool.

And then it struck him, the perfect way to teach her a lesson for trying to steal his horse “I’ll toy with her,” he told the nymph. “If she wants to play stable boy, I’ll play master.”

• • •

The morning sun had just poked over the horizon when Hugh pulled open the barn door. He half hoped the girl would be gone. But there she was, sound asleep outside of Manifesto’s stall.

She looked like a child, lying there with the floppy hat pulled over her ears. Now that he knew, he couldn’t believe he’d ever mistaken her for a boy. Her smooth skin glowed like fine china. Pink lips, slightly parted, ushered a soft sigh as she dreamed on her bed of horse blankets and straw.

Hugh didn’t wish to startle her.
It would scare the dickens out of any wench, waking up with a strange man looming over her,
he thought. Instead, he went back to the barn door, opened it, and slammed it closed again. She didn’t move.

Filling a bucket with grain, he shook it as he walked down the aisle. Horses whickered in excitement as he gave each a handful. It made a satisfying racket. Still, the girl slept. Hugh gave up. He stood over her. “Up, Toby,” he said. “Manifesto’s eager for his feed.”

Nothing. He reached down and gently shook her. “I said, wake up, boy. It’s time to start the day.”

• • •

Ellie opened her eyes, saw Hugh, and pulled the horse blanket over her head.
Where am I? Why did he call me “boy”? Where’s Mama?
As the fog of sleep cleared, she lowered the blanket and peeked over its edge.

“Good morning,” said Hugh, smiling. “Sorry, we Davenports are early risers.”

“I can see that,” Ellie said.

Suddenly realizing where she was and why she was there, she corrected herself. “Ummm, ay. I see,” she added, in her best imitation of a country lad.

She kicked off the blankets and rose stiffly. Her bum gave her a good deal of pain. She wished Hugh weren’t there so she could give it a rub. “You can leave Manifesto’s grain. I’ll feed him.”

“That’s all right,” Hugh said. “The horse has got to get used to me someday.”

“Ay, but day one is perhaps a bit too soon. He needs a chance to settle.”

“I couldn’t disagree more. You want to tame a horse at the same time it’s settling. That way it understands its circumstances.”

“Manifesto’s a bit more high-strung than the Davenport breed.”

“Blast it all, a man pays five thousand pounds for an animal, he ought to jolly-well give it a bit of grain. Clear aside, lad.”

With the greatest reluctance, Ellie stepped out of the way.

The stallion dashed to the far side of his stall and turned a threatening rump toward Hugh as he walked in the half door.

Ellie grabbed his arm to pull him back. “I wouldn’t … ”

“You’re just fine, Manifesto,” Hugh said. “I’m not going to … ” A hind hoof lashed out. Hugh leaped back and bolted from the stall. “Gad,” he said, looking down at himself. The horse had shredded his jacket and shirt, missing his chest by a fraction.

“Look what you’ve done now,” said Ellie. “You’ve upset the horse. It’s no use, you and your grain. He needs time to figure out where he is.”

Hugh grunted and thrust the bucket into her hands. “Very well then. It’s a busy day. I hope you’re prepared.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Anything you want.”

No sooner had Ellie fed and watered Manifesto than Hugh shoved a pitchfork into her hands. “I’d like you to muck out a few of these stalls. We’re short of grooms today.”

“Ay, I don’t mind. Which ones?”

Hugh swept his arm in a gesture that encompassed the entire barn.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” Ellie exclaimed, “but I came on as a trainer, not a dung raker.”

“That may be so, but at the Davenport stables we expect everyone to pitch in when there’s a need.”

“At the Albright stables, we never lost so many hands the trainer had to clean the barn.”

“Then you couldn’t be sure your trainers could care for your horses, could you?”

“Perhaps not, Lord Davenport but we sure knew they could ride ’em.”

Hugh coughed and glared.

“Be that as it may,
laddie
, I like my men to know everything about their mounts, including how to care for them. Get going with that pitchfork. After that, you’ll need to unload enough hay for the night and move a few bags from the granary. And finish by eleven
A.M.
sharp. I’ve got some business with Manifesto and obviously I’ll need your assistance.”

Itching to toss a dagger-loaded response, Ellie clenched her teeth, and appraised the fifteen stalls waiting to be cleaned. Her gaze circled back to Hugh. An unpleasant curl dressed the corners of his lips. Suppressing an urge to belt him, she saluted. “Got it, captain.” She hoisted the pitchfork.

“At the Davenport stables, I’m used to my stable boys saying, ‘Yes, my lord,’” replied Hugh.

That smile, that smug smile.
Ready to spit fire, Ellie replied, “Yes, my lord.” She made a long, low bow and held it until he sauntered by.

Hugh harrumphed as he walked through the opened barn door.

“Blackguard, rogue,” she muttered. “I’d like to plant him a facer … Clean fifteen stalls? In a trice.”

Ellie put the horses out to pasture, rolled a wheelbarrow into the first stall, and jabbed the pitchfork under a pile of dung, imagining it was Hugh’s soft underbelly. She’d scarcely dumped that forkful when a parade of grooms ambled by. They snickered and walked on. One lingered in the door, grinning. Ellie nailed him straight in the jowls with a pile of fresh muck.

“Hey, ya bloody rotter!” he yelled.

“Sorry, governor,” Ellie replied. “Didn’t expect a fellow to be loitering in the door. Thought it more likely he’d help me clean up this barn.” The groom dashed away. After that, no one bothered her until Hugh showed up again.

“How are we doing there, Toby my lad?”

“We’re just about done with the barn … my lord.”

“That’s excellent. Why don’t you put that pitchfork down for a bit?” Ellie dropped it in exhaustion, grateful for the respite.

“Good, now let me show you the grain I need carried over.”

Arms aching, she followed Hugh with a wheelbarrow. “We need five bags taken to the stallion barn,” he announced when they’d reached the granary. Then he stood back, leaned against the wall, and lit a pipe.

Steaming with unreleased hostility, Ellie grabbed the burlap corner of a bag and dragged it off the pile. Whump! It hit the floor, wrenching her muscles, the thud shuddering through her. Pivoting the bag first on one corner then the other, she walked it to the edge of the wheelbarrow. Using the last of her strength, she inched it onto her toes, then hoisted the bag just enough to get a knee under it, and with a mighty effort, tipped it into the wheelbarrow.

Except for raising one eyebrow, Hugh didn’t move.

“Good show, Toby,” he said cheerfully. “Only four to go.”

Ellie gritted her teeth and trundled off with her first load.

By the fifth bag, her arms were rubber, sweat soaked her clothes, and the floppy hat itched. She longed to tear off the topper and dive her face into a bucket of cold water. Straining and grunting, she hauled the fifth bag onto her toes and heaved it one, two, three inches in the air. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t get the bag high enough to shove a knee under. Her arms kept giving out. And the harder she tried, the more it enraged her that Hugh stood there cool as a cucumber, watching her struggle.

She stopped, panting and glassy-eyed.

At last, he pushed off the wall and pointed a booted toe at a grain bag. “You know, at the Davenport farm we put one bag on top of another. That way you don’t have so far to lift to get it into the wheelbarrow. Try it. You might find the technique useful.”