Recklessly Yours (12 page)

The continued speculation sent fresh waves of heat climbing from her chin to her hairline.

The earl raised his hands to her again. “If you please, then.”

“Oh, yes. How silly of me.”

This time she set her hands on his wide, sturdy shoulders. He seemed to bear her weight with no effort at all. As he lowered her to the ground, she leaned more fully in to him—she couldn't help herself—and her thighs brushed his, and then her breasts briefly grazed his hard chest, sending a shock of awareness through her.

“There you are,” he whispered. Her feet touched the ground, but he didn't release her. They stood toe-to-toe, bodies no longer touching but close enough for his heat to penetrate her clothing, for his breath to graze her cheek, for her lips to feel drawn to his as if by a magnetic pull.

His chin lowered a notch. “Will you do something for me, Miss Sutherland?”

She inhaled his starchy, masculine scent and nodded. “Anything.”

“Sabrina? Oh, my darling girl!”

The shouted endearment sent Lord Drayton stepping away. The sudden loss of his bulk in front of her left Holly feeling as though she might fall on her face. She braced her feet and struggled to regain her composure as the Duchess of Masterfield swept into the paddock. Lord Shelby was already at his niece's side, and now Lady Sabrina was enfolded in her mother's arms.

“I was still down by the track with some of our guests when someone came running to tell me your horse had gone stark mad.”

“Not mad, Mama. Just a bit nervous. Please don't make a fuss.”

“Why, my only daughter is nearly thrown and trampled by a mad horse, and I am not to make a fuss? Come. We are going to get a nice cup of strong, hot tea in you.” Her arm securely anchored around her daughter's shoulders, the duchess walked her out of the paddock. Lord Shelby followed them, but he went no farther than the grassy aisle between the paddocks. Holly could hear him reassuring the guests that all was well.

Lord Drayton gathered the colt's reins. Just as he reached for the filly's, a groom ran to relieve him of both animals. The earl turned back to Holly. “That favor, Miss Sutherland.” A flick of his chin indicated his sister and mother, the pair looking very much alike from behind, though the younger woman's hips were more slender and her hair gleamed a brighter gold. “Will you go with them?”

Did he long for her to be gone? The notion sent her heart sinking to her knees. She glanced again at the Ashworth women, proceeding slowly toward the house, Sabrina's head on her mother's shoulder. “I'm not sure my company would be needed just now, my lord.”

“It would, Miss Sutherland. I assure you it would. Please go.”

Please go.
The words jabbed at her heart, especially the
please
, as if he could scarcely wait to be relieved of the embarrassment she must have caused him. To keep her chin from trembling, she clamped her lips together. Then she lifted her chin and swept out of the paddock. Ignoring the raised eyebrows and whispers of the guests was easy. She simply let their disparagement shoot like dull-tipped arrows over her head. But Lord Drayton's censure weighed heavily, unbearably, even after she'd put considerable distance between them.

W
ith a cautious step Willow entered the veterinary wing of the Ashworth stables. She had expected dark, cavernous rooms where it might be dangerous to be caught alone with a man, but she instead encountered whitewashed walls, scrubbed stone floors, and high-set windows that let in generous sunlight.

Two stable hands cast her curious glances, and one seemed about to question her when Lord Bryce followed her through the doorway. The redheaded youth tipped his cap and resumed his chores. Immaculate stalls lined the long room. Though many stood empty, some half dozen were occupied by animals boasting the Ashworth traits of dark chocolate coats and black points, and white markings on their brows.

She crossed to the nearest animal and reached out to stroke its nose. “Are these horses ill?”

“Several were colicky but are better now,” Lord Bryce said behind her, the echo of his voice booming in the tiled room. Willow only just managed not to wince. “That one before you has a strained tendon.”

“Is that serious?” The horse jerked its head up and out of her reach, but instead of pulling away, she remembered what Holly had told her about remaining still and calm, and gaining the animal's trust.

“Nothing that time and care won't heal. My brother has instituted a new form of therapy that uses electrical stimulation.” He gestured into a room that opened onto the one they occupied, and, craning her neck to see inside, Willow saw a jumble of machinery and wires.

“Oh, yes. I'm quite familiar with the technique. My brother-in-law Simon has a laboratory at Harrowood that houses nearly identical apparatus. He says electro-stimulation of muscles has yet to be fully accepted by the scientific community. Many of his peers consider it hardly more valid than alchemy. What do you think, my lord?” She peeked over her shoulder at him, and discovered him standing much closer than a moment ago. His strong features and piercing eyes filled her view, prompting her to swing her chin forward again.

“The results speak for themselves,” he said in a murmur that prickled her nape and tingled down her spine.

“Oh, I—I agree. My sisters and I have seen those results for ourselves, for Simon served as his own first subject, regenerating his shoulder muscles that were all but destroyed last autumn.” The horse, having kept his eyes on her all this time, finally lowered his head, so low, in fact, he began nuzzling the silk bow at the front of her dress. “Please don't eat that,” she said with a chuckle.

“That sounds like Simon de Burgh,” Lord Bryce said, “to experiment on himself.”

“Oh, that is the least of it, much to my sister's dismay.” But instead of elaborating on matters she'd been sworn to keep secret, she reached up and scratched around the horse's ears. She couldn't hide her pride as she added, “Did you know my sister helped him develop the process?”

He nodded. “My brother is grateful they shared their research with him.”

Something in Lord Bryce's tone made Willow stop petting the horse, her hand hovering in midair. Did he have some reason to disapprove of his brother's efforts when it came to the care of the Ashworth herds? “Are you a horseman, my lord? I noticed you neither raced nor showed any of the hunters.”

His loud footsteps startled her as he strode away from the stall. His failure to reply any other way to her question reinforced her opinion that Lord Bryce was indeed a strange man, not open and steady like other gentlemen, but shuttered and dark, changeable and unpredictable. Giving the horse one last stroke, she forced herself to follow in his wake and keep him talking. “I'm sorry, my lord. Did I say something wrong?”

“Perhaps we should be getting back to the others, Miss Sutherland. Your sisters might be wondering where you are.”

Did he wish to have her out of the stable? Was there something beyond this room he didn't wish her to see? Maybe his sudden reticence had nothing to do with her question and everything to do with the process of electro-muscular stimulation. Perhaps a certain colt was even now undergoing that very process, right here in this building. Now that she thought of it, the results of electrical stimulation could have been why the colt had appeared so extraordinary to Victoria—and could very well be the secret to the Ashworths' remarkable successes on the racing circuit.

Good heavens, perhaps this mystery had less to do with one missing colt, and everything to do with Colin Ashworth having devised a means of cheating, of giving his Thoroughbreds an unfair advantage in the races. Or was Lord Bryce the culprit, a man who appeared to have little or no interest in horses. Who would ever suspect him? Maybe not even his own brother.

Lord Bryce stood waiting, scrutinizing her with his own inscrutable gaze. She tried to smile, to shrug as if she hadn't a care; as if the mood between them hadn't inexplicably changed. “Oh, well, bother my sisters. And we've been gone only a few minutes. I long to see the rest of your facility here, Lord Bryce. I find it all so . . . fascinating.”

Would he balk? Make excuses? Surely that would be as good as an admission of guilt. She held her breath, trying not to let her eagerness—or suspicions—realign so much as a muscle in her face.

“As you wish, Miss Sutherland. This way, then.”

He led her into the surgery, a room lined in shiny white tiles and filled with steel instruments that flashed sunlight into Willow's eyes. He explained how some of those instruments were utilized, making Willow scrunch her eyes closed and shudder. From there they entered a square room, smaller and darker than the previous ones, the floor strewn with straw and the windows curtained in rough brown cloth that emitted scant light.

“This is nothing like the other rooms,” she remarked with a twinge of unease.

“This is the breeding room, Miss Sutherland.” His deep voice hung heavy in the quiet, and Willow realized she could no longer hear the lads working in the main room. She was now very much alone with Bryce Ashworth.

“The breeding room,” she repeated, for no other reason than to fill the silence that felt more than awkward, but . . . wrong. And then it hit her.
Breeding room.
Where stallions and mares were brought to . . .

“Oh, my.”

“Is something wrong?” He eased closer than she deemed proper or comfortable. Had bringing her here, to this breeding room, been a prelude to improprieties he imagined he might take with her? Her heart jolted at the thought, and fear climbed into her throat.

His eyes, that peculiar dark shade—a deep, stormy ocean blue—that none of the other Ashworths shared, held her immobile but for the sudden trembling of her fingertips. The stern slash of his mouth promised nothing good, nothing favorable. He stole her oxygen, then rendered it back to her laden with the scents of starch and wool and something mysteriously, disturbingly male.

“I—I think perhaps you were right,” she stammered. “My sisters must be searching for me . . .”

“We'll go in another moment, Miss Sutherland. I just remembered something I believe might be of great interest to you. Come.” He held out his hand, and even in the dimness, she once again saw the scars that crossed the knuckles and stretched nearly to the wrist, the skin mottled and twisted as if it had been held to an open flame. What had happened to him? Ivy had told her only that an accident had occurred when he was a boy.

Willow shivered, her mind a maze of uncertainty. “What—what is it you wish to . . . er . . . show me, sir?”

“A surprise.” His height and the width of his shoulders crowded her, making her feel vulnerable. The touch of his thumb and forefinger sent a sparklike charge to her chin. “I think you'll like this very much, Miss Sutherland.”

He released her, and she clutched her hands before her. Gracious, would he show her Victoria's missing colt? No, that could hardly be his intention. Her instincts urged her to flee. She stepped backward, nearly tripping over her hems.

Yet there she stopped, or rather her feet stopped and wouldn't budge another inch. Deep, deep inside her, a longing rose up to stay, to learn what, if anything, he wanted from her.

He beckoned with a forefinger as he turned and opened a door, leading her into an even darker room. Against her better judgment, Willow stepped into the twilight of a space also strewn with hay, the windows also shielded from the sun. Lord Bryce stopped in the center of the room, waiting for her to advance beyond the doorway. Clutching the doorframe, she was about to turn around and flee when a faint mewling sound reached her ears.

“Is that . . . ?”

Lord Bryce nodded and did something that stole Willow's breath, clutched her heart, turned her knees to jelly, and contradicted every disagreeable quality she'd ever accused him of possessing. He smiled—a full smile that smoothed away the severity of his features and brought a youthful handsomeness to his face. His hand came up toward her again, and this time she crossed to him and grasped it, hardly noticing the bumpiness of the scars beneath her fingertips.

He brought her to a shadowy corner, where the straw strewn about the floor had been piled into a little nest. A fat yellow barn cat lay stretched on her side, while half a dozen kittens, their eyes still closed, squirmed and prodded one another as they each vied for a teat.

“Oh . . . oh . . .” One hand still warm in Lord Bryce's hold, Willow pressed the other to her lips. “How precious! How old are they?”

“I can't say exactly. I noticed them yesterday.”

“Oh, my goodness . . . they're darling, just darling!”

“You like kittens, Miss Sutherland?”

“Oh, more than anything. More than horses or fine frocks or . . . or anything. Oh . . . they're so tiny and new. I don't suppose we should touch them just yet?”

“Perhaps just a light stroke or two would be all right. Their mama doesn't appear overly disconcerted by our arrival.”

He was right. The mother cat peered up at them from beneath sleepy, half-closed lids. While her hungry brood pulled and pushed at her tummy, she appeared to take it all in stride, even, perhaps, slightly bored by her progeny's antics. Willow knelt down and ran a fingertip down the back of a yellow-and-white-striped kitten. It took no notice, but went on suckling greedily.

Willow released a contented breath and rose to her feet. “Lord Bryce, thank you. Why, I'd thought . . .” She'd thought all manner of unseemly things, from the theft of the colt to Lord Bryce attempting to steal her virtue. When all along, all he'd wanted to do was—Oh, imagine her thinking he might be attracted to her, that he found her alluring.