Lord & Master (8 page)

“Nothing I shouldn’t,” she assured me virtuously. “He and Mr. Call are friendly. And Mr. Reed is good with animals.”

Her manner told me she might know more, but I didn’t think it right to press.

“Thank you,” I said. “I won’t keep you from your duties.”

~

My initial thought when I saw Mr. Reed atop Damien’s horse was that he must be good with animals because he was one himself.

The paddock was large, with a dirt track around its perimeter similar to what thoroughbreds raced on. Mr. Reed wasn’t racing. He rode his mount alone and wasn’t going fast enough.
Cantering
, I believed was the term for the horse’s gait. Mr. Reed didn’t bounce in the saddle, though he wasn’t motionless either. His body seemed to roll naturally with his steed’s, as if he and the beast were extensions of each other.

My attention arrested by his skill, I took a moment to notice how beautiful the horse was. Even to my inexperienced eyes, the creature was elegant. Its hide was dark brown and glossy, its mane and tail ebony. Its hooves drummed the track as they rounded the paddock’s curve. Damp soil flung up behind its strides, and I heard its breath blowing.

Suddenly, Mr. Reed made a clucking noise, rose slightly in the stirrups, and brought his seat out of the saddle. It was a nice seat, but this wasn’t the reason my breath caught. The horse stretched full out as its rider shifted, its whole body lengthening. The stallion was galloping. Its mane and tail whipped like flags. As Mr. Reed inclined forward over the horse’s neck, his white shirt and tan breeches clung. The shape of his rangy body was obvious. Perhaps it was a strange comparison, but it struck me that the stallion’s build was similar to its rider’s. Both were lean, both their strength wrapped closely to their frame.

No wonder Mr. Reed’s suit had hung on him at my wedding. This was what he’d had beneath it.

When he saw me watching, he pulled back on the reins and slowed. The animal pranced, its energy not depleted by the run. The stable master settled it with half his attention. Once again bereft of a hat, he inclined his dark head to me.

He should have a helmet
, I thought. Did he think no horse would dare throw him?

“Lady Call,” he said politely.

I ignored him calling me
Lady
.

“Where is your helmet?” I demanded.

He smiled. “Tiger is a gentleman.”

“Tiger is a stallion.” I thought he was anyway. I was under the impression people didn’t geld racehorses.

Mr. Reed pretended to look between Tiger’s legs. “So he is. Fancy that. I’ll have to wear a hard hat next time. Promise,” he added, seeing me frown at him. “I hadn’t planned to ride him so fast today.”

I cleared my throat, somewhat abashed to have been sharp with him. “My husband wouldn’t like it if you were hurt.”

“No, your husband wouldn’t,” the chastised man agreed.

My brows drew together. Something in his tone made me feel I hadn’t fathomed his full meaning. “You ride beautifully,” I admitted, deciding to let this go. “I had no idea you . . . or anyone could ride like that.”

“I grew up around horses. I’ve been riding as long I could walk.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“No reason you should, Lady Call.”

He
was
teasing me. I could tell. He said my title—which admittedly wasn’t mine as yet—mockingly.

“I know I’m not a lady,” I huffed at him.

He grinned.
Damn it
, I thought, refusing to admit I understood my own double entendre. He was an employee. He shouldn’t smirk at me.

The horse sidled toward the wooden fence that separated us. Had Mr. Reed guided it to do so?

My eyes chose that moment to observe how Mr. Reed’s white shirt clung to his chest with sweat. He wore no undershirt beneath it and, along with his ribs and muscles, the dark circles of his nipples were visible. This didn’t seem to make him self-conscious. His amusement faded but didn’t disappear.

“I notice you’re dressed for riding,” the annoying man observed.

I looked down at myself stupidly. I’d thought the navy outfit practical for a walk, but I suppose I
was
garbed to ride. The boots were sturdy enough for it. “My maid laid this out for me.”

“Have you jodhpurs underneath the skirt?”

“Yes, but I hadn’t planned to get on a horse. I’m not much of a rider.”

Mr. Reed swung his back leg over Tiger’s posterior, making the process of dismounting look easier than I suspected it really was. “Let’s see if we can change that.”

“Oh no.” I automatically retreated a couple steps. The stallion’s bridle jingled as it bobbed its head slightly. “I’m not getting up on him.”

“Not him.” The stable master gestured toward an under groom I hadn’t seen approaching. He was short enough to be a real jockey. “Is Bulrush saddled?”

“He is, sir. I’ll bring him out.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“Don’t lose your nerve,” Mr. Reed advised. “Your husband loves to ride. Wouldn’t you enjoy keeping him company?”

“I
guess
I would.”

“You’ll like Bulrush. He’s a good walker. Not too big. Nice gentle temperament. All the qualities a Morgan ought to have.”

Was a Morgan a sort of breed? I didn’t ask. I was too busy pressing my thumbnail against my teeth. The all-black horse the groom led out looked plenty big to me. Probably I was imagining it, but it seemed to stare straight at me.

Did it know I was afraid of it?

Mr. Reed looped Tiger’s reins around a rail and swung over the paddock fence to me.

I jerked in shock when he touched my waist.

“I need to take off your skirt,” he explained.

“Are you insane?” I burst out.

“I’ve never taught a woman to ride sidesaddle. It wouldn’t be safe for me to start on you.” He met my gawk unflinchingly. “You said you were wearing jodhpurs. I promise not to go mad with lust because I see your legs.”

“Fine,” I said after a hesitation. “But this is highly irregular.”

He seemed to find me as amusing as my husband did.

Fortunately, the horse was gentle. Even with Mr. Reed’s leg-up, my knee knocked its flank as I mounted. Bulrush flicked his ears but didn’t move otherwise. I was very high up then, or so it appeared to me. I rather liked looking down on Mr. Reed, though the wide stretch of my thighs around the saddle seemed like something I
shouldn’t
get comfortable with.

“There you go.” My self-appointed trainer patted the horse’s side and then my knee. My entire leg tingled at the contact. I ignored that to glare at him.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding it at all. “I never was one for following the rules.”

My husband had extremely eccentric taste in staff. If Damien hadn’t specifically requested that I treat this man with consideration, I’d have said something brusque. I suspect Mr. Reed knew this. His deep blue eyes twinkled.

“I’ll show you how to hold the reins. Then we’ll try a walk.”

I am ashamed to say it, but when the horse actually moved, I found it alarming. How did people do this? Keeping my balance on Bulrush’s back was as bad as standing in a rowboat. I wasn’t even guiding the horse. Mr. Reed was leading it. No doubt I didn’t look dignified, clinging to the saddle front like a sack of flour.

“Have you
ever
been on horseback?” he asked.

I’d been on a pony. I gathered it didn’t show.

“I like the
car
,” I huffed, feeling dangerously close to tears.

He smiled and patted my knee again. Such was my state that I found this comforting. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I just need to know where to start.”

“At the
beginning
,” I said curtly.

He laughed. “Very well. The first requirement for riding is developing an independent seat. Sit up straight and centered in the saddle. Hold on securely with your thighs but don’t squeeze the horse’s sides. When you squeeze, you tell Bulrush here that you want him to do something.”

I shouldn’t have flushed. I simply couldn’t avoid a memory of squeezing Damien’s naked hips with that part of me.

“Good,” said Mr. Reed, so I assumed I’d done more or less what he instructed.

The lesson had gone on for about half an hour when I noticed Damien leaning casually on the fence. He’d dressed for riding too, the close-fitting clothes showing off his powerful, tall figure. I’d been frustrated by my ineptness for most of the time till then. On spotting my new husband, I felt a rush of happiness that rather astonished me.

I think my expression must have lit up. Damien smiled at me.

“Mr. Reed is teaching me to ride!” I exclaimed.

“So I see. You’ll be leaping fences in no time.”

“Hardly,” I laughed. “I’ll be lucky if I can get down again.”

“Allow me to assist,” he offered, swinging over the fence neatly.

“Are we done?” I asked Mr. Reed, not wishing to seem unappreciative of his instruction.

“Probably we ought to be. You’re not used to this. I wouldn’t want you to end up sore.”

“Indeed no,” Damien agreed. He and my teacher exchanged a glance, causing me to wonder if the two men understood each other a bit too well.

When Damien gripped my waist to help me slide off, I couldn’t call his hold anything but personal.
He
was thinking about last night. Of that, I was certain.

Because I hadn’t ridden sidesaddle, Damien was behind me. His chest bumped me through my riding jacket, his strong thighs brushing my bottom. Jodhpurs weren’t as thick a barrier as skirts and petticoats. I became aware that his groin was warm—and possibly aroused. There seemed a definite harder part nudging me.

Conscious that Mr. Reed was watching, I stepped away hastily.

My thighs were more fatigued than I expected. I stumbled, obliging both men to catch me by an arm. The current that streaked through me at their double hold was hot enough to startle.

Evidently, I liked being touched by the pair of them.

“Careful,” Mr. Reed cautioned. He let go and looked at Damien. “Perhaps you should carry her to my cottage. It’s close by and I’ve liniment there.”

“What?” I said, shocked by the idea of being treated with liniment. “I’ll be perfectly fine once I walk the stiffness off.”

“No need for that,” Damien said in a cheerful tone. He swept me up in his arms without more ado, bouncing me a bit to balance my weight—or perhaps to prove that he could. “Mr. Reed can get the gate and I’ll carry you.”

The men settled it between them. I was to have no say.

“You’ll pull something,” I predicted, half hoping that he would. “You’re not a strongman at a fair.”

“Balderdash,” he demurred. “You weigh no more than a feather.”

Though I was small compared to him, this was nonsense. I rolled my eyes but clung to his shoulders as he toted me across the paddock. We continued through the gate and along a well-tramped dirt path. As I’d prognosticated, Damien was soon breathing more heavily, sweat gleaming on his chiseled face despite the crisp weather. Luckily, Mr. Reed’s cottage appeared before my new husband’s energy ran out.

Admitted curious, I studied the residence from my moving perch.

The walls of the stable master’s abode were stone. On the roof, thatch formed a thick and picturesque covering. Adding to the impression of country charm, late roses bloomed in the tiny garden, where a green hedge and a swinging gate lent privacy. Ivy curtained the deep, diamond-paned windows.

“It’s like a storybook,” I said admiringly.

Seeming amused by Damien’s feat of strength, Mr. Reed opened the door for him. He had to bend. The lintel was for shorter people than either of the men.

“I’m glad you approve,” he said as Damien grunted and ducked inside.

The living space was a single room. Though two cozy armchairs faced the hearth, Damien carried me to the bed. This was a single man’s sleeping place. Its frame was iron, painted white but peeling. A strap I assumed was part of a bridle draped the head rail. Perhaps Mr. Reed had been mending it?

Damien dropped me abruptly, causing my bottom to bounce on the mattress.

“Jesus,” he said, shaking his strained arms.

I tried not to laugh at him.

“Sorry,” he said, seeing my expression. “You’re really not heavy.”

“It was a long journey,” I acknowledged solemnly.

He crouched in front of me. His gaze met mine, and my heart gave a funny swoop. Though he seemed to understand I spoke in jest, he answered with sincere warmth. “I forgot to carry you over our threshold.”

“Consider it done then.”

My voice was soft—caressing, I could have said.

Hearing this, Damien’s breathing deepened in a new way. I remembered that sound from last night, when we’d been making love. As if he were recalling the same events, he wet his erotic mouth. I wished then we’d been alone, that we could have repeated our previous activities, perhaps at greater length. Damien’s hands covered both my knees and stroked.

“I’ll get that liniment,” Mr. Reed interrupted distantly.

Damien’s eyes darkened. I couldn’t prevent myself from squirming beneath the smolder in his gaze.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

“Don’t what?” my husband teased.

“Look at me like that when we’re not alone.”

“Jake knows what married people get up to.”

It was
Jake
now, was it? “He doesn’t need to watch us get up to it.”

Damien’s dark gold lashes fell, his gaze dropping to some part of me I probably didn’t want to think too hard about.

“Are you sure you’d hate that?” he asked so softly I thought I must have misheard him.

I didn’t get a chance to ask. Mr. Reed returned with a squat glass container of liniment. He handed it to Damien, who unscrewed the lid and sniffed. I expected a strong smelling, nasty concoction. To my surprise, the scent that emerged was pleasant.

“Lavender,” Damien said.

“Mrs. Sweets mixes this balm herself.”

I don’t know why, but something in the stable master’s tone led me to believe he knew our housekeeper in a Biblical sense. Without thinking, I sent him a sharp look. Jake crossed his arms and grinned. Was he always this smug? Actually, it occurred to me he might be flirting. The gleam in his intense blue eyes certainly suggested it.