Recklessly Yours (32 page)

The last thing Holly expected was the grin that split the duchess's aged countenance. “Well, I've every confidence that eventually you'll bring him home.”

A few words from Colin produced curtsies and bows from the servants. Then footmen and maids scampered back up the stairs and into the house. Colin took the duchess's hand and placed it in the crook of his arm.

“Grandmama, there is someone I'd like you to meet.”

“Oh, indeed, dear. I've been wondering about the exceedingly pretty lady sitting atop the mare. Is that Maribelle, by the way?”

“It is, Grandmama. You haven't lost your eye for horseflesh, have you?”

Leaning heavily on his arm, the duchess moved stiffly at his side. When they came to Maribelle he released her and reached up to help Holly down. Once her feet were firmly on the ground, Colin removed his hands from her waist and reclaimed his grandmother's hand. “Grandmama, this is Miss Holly Sutherland. You remember my good friend Simon de Burgh. Miss Sutherland is Simon's sister-in-law.”

“A great pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

Holly curtsied and managed a polite answer that she herself couldn't hear over the roaring in her ears. How on earth would Colin explain their having traveled all this way together? Would he lie and claim she was staying somewhere in the area with her sisters, perhaps in a neighboring village? Surely he wouldn't—

“Miss Sutherland has been kind enough to offer her help in recovering the colt,” he said. “And we had him, Grandmama, for a brief time. I'm afraid he's been taken by highway thieves.”

What?
No honor-preserving pretense? No white lie to spare the elderly woman from an unseemly shock?

“My goodness, but that
is
dreadful.” Despite the duchess's pronouncement, she didn't look nearly as distressed as one would suppose. On the contrary, she leaned slightly forward and surveyed Holly with what appeared to be an amused and speculative gleam. She might as well have been ogling Holly through a quizzing glass, her scrutiny burned so deeply. “You are very lovely, my dear.”

Holly tried to smooth away a puzzled frown. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Tell me, have you any lofty connections?”

“Lofty?” Holly blinked. What could the duchess mean? Could she somehow know of the Sutherlands' friendship with the queen? Uncertain how to respond, she looked to Colin for help.

“Miss Sutherland is an orphan, Grandmama,” he said gently, “raised by an uncle who, too, has passed away.”

The duchess's silver eyebrows rose in sympathy. “Oh, I am most sorry to hear it.” Slipping an arm through Colin's again, she linked her other with one of Holly's. “I suppose one shouldn't stand outside on the drive all day, should one? Ah, here is the groom to take your horses. Let us go inside and take tea, and you may regale me with your adventures. Between the three of us, we'll devise a way to find the colt. By the by, Colin dear, have you explained to Miss Sutherland about the Exmoor curse?”

“G
ood night, Colin. Miss Sutherland.I shall see you dears in the morning.”

Colin watched his grandmother as she made her way out of the drawing room, her cane thudding against the rug. Her voice drifted from the hallway as she greeted her lady's maid, come to help her to her room and to bed.

He made use of the interval to take a fortifying sip of his brandy as Holly rose from the settee with an angry rustle of her skirts. Well, Sabrina's skirts; Grandmother's maid, Anne, had found a gown that fit Holly well enough after some adjustments. The flowered muslin swished around her ankles as she took a stride toward him. “Was it your intention all along to make a fool of me? To make a fool of the queen?”

Outside, a light rain pattered against the windows. Colin stared down into his brandy, cupped between his palms. “Of course not,” he said calmly. “Don't you think I'd have prevented all of this if I could have? My father took the colt and gave it to the queen without my knowledge.”

“Perhaps. But then to concoct such an absurd story. An ancient family curse, cast by a Celtic priestess who'd been jilted by her lover? What manner of simpleton do you take me for?”

“She was a princess and hereditary mistress of the ponies, and when her lover spurned her for another, he left behind a butchered Exmoor pony to dissuade her of any notion that he'd ever be back. My grandmother—”

“Is silly and misguided if she believes the spirit of this priestess . . .”

“Briannon, and don't speak ill of Grandmama.”

“I'm sorry, but if Her Grace believes this Briannon lives on through the ponies, waiting to visit her fury on all who dare to harm or separate any animal from the herd . . .” Scowling, she left off and tossed her hands in the air. “What am I to think but that the dowager duchess, however gracious, has taken leave of her senses, while her grandson makes convenient use of her delusions?”

She raised a valid point, but that didn't prevent Colin's indignation from surging. He set his brandy on the table beside his wing chair and stood. As he started toward Holly, her eyes widened and she backed a step away so quickly that he doubted she realized she'd done it.

“I will not tolerate anyone speaking of my grandmother in such terms.”

Her gaze, boldly adhering to his up till now, abruptly dropped. Her bosom rose sharply and she nodded. “Again, I'm sorry.”

The frock had rendered a profound change in her bearing. Her riding attire had lent her an air of authority, even strength—aided, of course, by the presence of the revolver in her purse. But the gown brought out her most feminine traits, setting off the flame of her hair, the green of her eyes, the flawless white of her shoulders, arms and . . . he swallowed . . . the swell of her breasts. The broadcloth habit had concealed all that Sabrina's evening gown, with its shoulder-hugging décolleté and tiny, delicate sleeves, revealed in ways that were sure to keep him ruminating long into the night.

The dress also reminded him of how young she was. She looked so vulnerable, peeking at him from beneath her lashes, he nearly retreated to his wing chair. He didn't wish to frighten or intimidate her; he merely wished to make her understand. He felt it as a pressure in his chest, this urge to gain her approval and wipe the distrust from her features.

“As for me making convenient use of anything,” he said, “can you conceive of anything convenient about stealing a horse from the queen? Was riding all this way, only to lose the colt, convenient? Did those jeers from the villagers strike you as being at all convenient?”

He savored the gradual lowering of those glorious breasts as she released a breath. “No, I suppose not. But surely, as a scientist, you should be able to explain to your grandmother and the villagers how the world works. That the forces of nature are not propelled by ancient Celtic curses.”

He laughed softly. “This is Devon, a land of legends and superstition. The beliefs held by the villagers go back countless centuries. Do you think they'll easily relinquish those beliefs to scientific treaties founded on mere decades of research? And as for Grandmother . . .”

He shoved a hand through his hair. Holly watched him intently, a little crease above her nose, her pretty lips unconsciously pursed and kissably plump. How could he explain to her that his grandmother had taken refuge in the old beliefs as a way to escape the realities of her life? Colin's father hadn't arrived in this world eager to torment, humiliate, and occasionally bruise those who fell under his authority. No, Father had learned such behaviors from his own father, and he from his father before him. And so it had gone in the Ashworth family, for many generations.

In Devonshire's archaic mythology Grandmama had found a certain comforting order, a stability based on matriarchal traditions, until a sudden apoplexy had freed her from her tyrant of a husband.

“Grandmother hasn't always been happy,” he said softly. “Her life hasn't always been easy.” He paused as comprehension etched pain across Holly's countenance. “Believing in mystical powers, including that of the Exmoor ponies, has provided her with a sense of her own power.” He shook his head. “Does that make sense?”

Holly came closer, clouding his thoughts with the heat of her skin. Her small hand closed over his sleeve. “Yes, oddly it does. You aren't like them, you know. Your father, your grandfather. Not at all.”

His reply was to pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair.

When he released her, her eyes narrowed until her lashes framed shards of green. “You don't believe it, do you? About the ponies?”

“That they are cursed? No. My scientist's brain wouldn't allow it. But logic and science offer an explanation that may sound just as fantastical.” At her quizzical look, he warmed to his explanation, which he had never shared with another living soul. “I believe that just as matter cannot be destroyed, only converted, so too may hereditary traits become dormant, but never die out. The Exmoors and the colt project a magical quality because of traits that are thousands of years old, and which no other breeds share.”

“That is why Victoria insisted her colt was so extraordinary,” she said excitedly, “and how she recognized the replacement colt for what it was.”

Colin nodded. “And why you sensed the colt's remarkable nature as well.”

She remained quiet for a moment, frowning pensively. “But even if the ponies
were
magical and the curse existed, Prince's Pride carries only a small fraction of Exmoor blood.”

“Prince's Pride?”

Her smile held a trace of irony. “Victoria's name for him. He is—was—to be given as a gift to Prince Frederick of Prussia, to forge stronger relations with the future king. And to help Victoria regain her ministers' confidence and her people's regard. Her first two years as queen have been . . . shaky at times.”

“Christ.” Colin raised a hand to his eyes. “This gets worse and worse.” He dropped his arm to his side and met her gaze. “But as for the colt's Exmoor blood, it doesn't matter how little runs through his veins. A single drop is enough to render him part of the herd and cloaked within the terms of the curse. I knew this when I created the crossbreeds, but I never intended for any of them to leave Briarview. Not for many more generations. They were meant only for my private scientific pursuits.”

Or so he had told his younger, more cavalier self nearly a decade ago when he'd first conceived the idea of crossbreeding an Exmoor stallion with a Thoroughbred mare. Then, he'd dismissed the curse as so much balderdash. He still did . . . except that whether it was real or not, the damage it inflicted still took its toll.

“‘I charge the lords of this land with the safekeeping of the ponies, forever and always, or you and yours shall know my wrath.'”

“What?” Holly tilted her head in puzzlement.

“Those were supposedly Briannon's last words,” he explained, “before she took her own life and scattered her soul among the herd.”

“Such a tragic story. Briannon . . .” Holly repeated the name silently, her lips moving. “Is that where Briarview's name came from—the beginning of her name?”

He nodded. “Her legacy is everywhere.”

“Legacies can be altered.”

“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “Without the colt I have very little chance of altering the downwardly spiraling fortunes of this place. But it's getting late. You must be exhausted from our ride today, not to mention the very odd greeting you received upon arriving.”

Her eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Grandmother ordered the rose bedchamber opened for you,” he said to make it clear where she would be spending the night.

“Colin . . . we haven't talk about . . .” She compressed her lips, then released them. Red and moist, they parted gently.

Again, he shook his head. “No, Holly. What we did—”

“A mistake?” When he didn't immediately answer, her head went down.

With two fingertips he raised her chin. “Under any other circumstances, no, it would not have been a mistake. But surely you see that my life is not one I can share with an outsider.”

The color drained from her face, and he realized his mistake.

“What I mean is . . .” His fingers grazed her jawline, her cheek, then smoothed back a wisp of hair. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that she deserved better, but if he'd learned anything about this woman in past days, it was that she could be as stubborn as the most spirited filly. If he were to deter her from the feelings that even now made him ache, he must deny them himself.

“We are from very different worlds. I have obligations, not the least of which is to calm the villagers' fears and restore order to Briarview. I haven't time for . . .” He stroked her cheek again—one last time—and turned partly away to stare at the reflections of the room in the night-blackened windows. He died a small death inside as he concluded, “For dalliances.”

He saw her scowl reflected in the windowpanes. “You're a terrible liar, Colin Ashworth, and I'm suddenly suspecting you're something of a coward.”

It was all he could do not to spin around and react to that statement.

“Far be it for me to interfere with your self-inflicted martyrdom,” she said tightly. “Good night.”

Good. She could rely on that stalwart pride of hers until he could safely return her to her sisters. Her words continued to mock him.
Was
he a martyr? Perhaps, in a way. He was an Ashworth male, latest in a long line of arrogant sots who had put their own needs and desires before those of the people in their care. He wouldn't be like them. He would
not.
Nor would he allow Holly Sutherland's spirit to wither away among this family, as his mother's spirit had, leaving her a shell of the woman she might have been.