Recklessly Yours (33 page)

Tomorrow, he would ride out and find the herd. He owed them his attention, and he must ensure that they continued to run free and thrive. Then he would gather his most trustworthy servants from the estate, and perhaps a few from the village who still held him in some esteem, and begin his search for the colt.

Turning about, he remembered that he hadn't wished Holly good night. And that left him feeling as empty as the room in which he stood.

 

Holly strode past the stables and continued down the path to the high stone wall that enclosed the farthest borders of Briarview's formal gardens. Using the key the dowager duchess had lent her, she let herself out of the arched gates and emerged onto the estate's forested riding lanes. The duchess had wanted to send a maid along with her on her walk, but Holly had assured her she wouldn't go far, that she only wished a brief glimpse of the moors she had heard about but never seen for herself. Here in the country formalities such as chaperones shouldn't matter so much anyway . . . and she had particular reasons for wanting to go alone.

Following the duchess's directions, she trekked along a main riding path for about another quarter mile due east. There she came upon a cart track, little more than a depression in the encroaching weeds, twisting ivy, and wispy fern, that veered from the Ashworth's cultivated property and entered the open wilderness of the moor, a landscape as natural and wild as the tiered gardens behind her were planned and formal.

She knew she would be safe as long as she kept the rooftops of the manor house within view. The warnings she had received minutes ago from Mr. Hockley, the Ashworths' butler, had proved correct, however. After last night's driving rains, the soggy terrain made for unsteady walking. She employed her closed umbrella, which the duchess had insisted she take with her, as a staff to help her along. The butler had also cautioned her to stay clear of the nearby stream, sure to be overflowing its banks this morning.

Some fifty yards away, that very stream boiled furiously high, tossing up plumes of foam where it dashed around boulders. The impatient current, winding its way between Holly and the greater expanse of the moor, matched her present mood, and she chewed her bottom lip as she regarded the stone footbridge arcing across the water. It appeared solid enough. She angled a glance over her shoulder. Surely neither Mr. Hockley nor the duchess need ever be the wiser.

Once across, she proceeded at a brisk pace from the farther bank, using the exertion to vent her frustrations. She had awakened this morning alone, naturally. Certainly she had not expected Colin to come to her room with his grandmother sleeping beneath the same roof, but the change in him last night had left her unsettled. Disappointed.

Crestfallen.

And very worried about him. No matter his excuses for pulling away, she'd never again believe he didn't care for her. Her doubts had been forever silenced by their night together at his father's hunting lodge, where they'd shared so much more than lust. This sudden cooling of Colin's ardor, she suspected, had little to do with their differing worlds, and everything to do with his fears for his future, his punishment at the hands of an angry queen.

Didn't he realize those consequences didn't matter to her? That she would wait for him however long, no matter the circumstances?

She suspected he did, and he had decided to act in what he believed to be her best interests. Blasted, stubborn man.

She continued on despite a quick scattering of raindrops. As she topped a low rise, a sweeping vista spread out before her, a lush, rolling landscape blanketed in bright yellow gorse and crowned by granite crags gleaming wetly under the cloudy sky. The view stretched on for miles until it dissipated on a misty horizon; it seemed the world had been laid out before her.

Mr. Hockley had informed her that Colin had risen at dawn and taken Cordelier out for a ride, and she searched for him now amid the rugged hills, sudden ravines, and the distant, gold-carpeted landscape. She worried about him, fretted that his burdens might drive him to take dangerous risks. As crows and jays cawed in disharmony above her head, she poked the tip of her umbrella into the sodden ground and tramped over the next hill. If she could only reassure him . . .

Thunder rumbled across the moors. Holly came to a stop and searched the sky. Should she turn around? Only occasional drops continued to fall and no lightning pierced the clouds. Odd . . .

A glance over her shoulder brought a shock. She hadn't thought she'd walked far, but the house had disappeared from view. The thunder rumbled again, or rather, continued to rumble, building from those first, faint tremors to a din that shook the ground beneath her feet.

Even in the worst of storms, thunder didn't roll on and on without pause. The longer she listened, the more she realized the drumming came from the earth itself. Mystified, she hoisted her skirts and scrambled up the side of the nearest granite-crested mound for a better view.

She gasped at the sight before her. About half a mile away, a herd of sturdy, bay-coated ponies, their darker manes and tails streaming behind them, coursed over the landscape as if with the will of a single being. Exhilarated, she pressed a hand to her mouth, so entranced that she didn't at first notice the flash of gold amid the dark-coated ponies. Then she recognized the significance of that flash, and her pulse hammered all the more. Colin was galloping amid the herd, not on one of the ponies but on powerful, sleek Cordelier, who stood several hands taller than the rest.

She detected other differences among the trampling herd, horses that stood taller, whose flanks rippled with the musculature of Thoroughbreds, though they streamed over the terrain with the same nimble grace as the ponies. With their bay coats and the distinctive Ashworth star flashing white above their eyes, these, she realized, were the other crossbreed horses—siblings and cousins to the missing Prince's Pride.

Her breath quickened as she realized that Colin wasn't herding the animals, but rather riding with them, swept along in the tumult of their flight. He wore only breeches, boots, and a shirt whose fine linen caught the wind and arched like a sail away from his back. He seemed transformed, no longer the duke's heir burdened by the misfortunes of his family, but as free and fearless as the Celtic warriors who once inhabited this land. Suddenly a powerful arm, bared from the elbow down, shot into the air, the hand fisted in a gesture of jubilation. His shouted whoop echoed across the moor.

The spirit of his madcap ride infected Holly until she, too, might have been galloping wildly across the countryside without a thought to the risks posed by the unpredictable ground. She should have been alarmed at the very real possibility of Cordelier stumbling, of Colin falling and breaking his neck, but somehow she trusted, as he apparently trusted, in the ponies' collective instinct. The prospect left her giddy and laughing, with a wordless exclamation dancing on her tongue.

The umbrella dropped and forgotten, she lifted her skirts and sprang forward, breaking into a run. Raindrops splattered her cheeks and forehead and clung to her lashes. Sodden grass and gorse streaked beneath her feet. Puddles splashed her legs. A gust of wind pushed her bonnet backward until it slid off and hung by its silken strings down her back. She laughed louder and shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, she started. The herd had surged closer to her, and the earth beneath her shook, rattling her very bones. Colin and the Exmoors were heading straight for her, his expression fierce, indomitable, his eyes riveted on hers. She wanted to back away, to turn and run, but her feet wouldn't move. It was as if his forceful determination had changed her to stone, leaving her no choice but to await her fate at his hands.

Her fear suddenly dissolved and she no longer wished to run. Standing straight and tall, her chin lifted, she longed for the ponies to engulf her like a rushing tide. She yearned for the instant Colin would reach her side, his powerful body leaning low, one strong arm sweeping down to lift her off her feet. She wasn't afraid of being trampled or of falling. She had no doubt that within seconds, she would be cradled in the saddle before him. He would carry her off and, oh, she would let him . . . she would happily be this wild warrior's captive.

But as she stood waiting, her eyes and heart wide-open, the herd veered and streamed eastward, taking Colin and Cordelier with them. They pounded over a hill, and disappeared down the other side.

Soon the only sounds were those of the wind and the rain hitting the ground. Holly stared into the emptiness where the horses had been, her body tingling, throbbing, as if the echo of the Exmoors' riotous gallop lived inside her still. As if Colin had somehow swept her up and had his way with her, tantalizing every inch of her body before setting her down again.

A sense of foolishness swept through her. Nothing about the last several seconds had been real outside of her imagination. All had been a figment of her lusty desires, her unquenchable fascination with Colin Ashworth. Mortified, and all too thankful the man couldn't read her thoughts, she covered her face in her hands. Despite the chilly breeze and the cool rain, her skin felt hot. Her fingers shook. Her legs barely supported her as she turned about and searched the sodden grass for the duchess's umbrella. At last she found it.

She began walking, hoping she had pointed herself in the right direction. When, after several minutes, the peaked roofs and stone chimneys of the house failed to rise up into view, a smidgeon of panic blossomed inside her. She hurried her steps, and felt a burst of relief when the sound of voices reached her ears.

She heard the rushing waters of the stream, but still no sign of the house or the entrance to the riding lanes. With no other choice, she followed the voices. A ragtag band of village men came into view, about seven or eight of them gathered beneath an alder tree. Their voices were raised, some of their fists as well.

“I don't care who them Ashworths think they are,” growled a man with heavy, bullish features. Holly remembered him from yesterday. Had he been the one who threw the first rock as she and Colin passed through the village? “The colt don't belong to them. It belongs to the herd, and'tis us 'n' ours that'll suffer.”

A tall, lanky man with a tattered scarf wrapped round his neck ran his fingers through his wet hair, making it spike. “I damn near died when he rode in yesterday without the colt.”

“Lord Drayton never had no business fooling with those ponies,” another asserted.

“Didn't matter, so long as those crossbreeds of his stayed here where they belonged.”

“He swore he'd bring the colt back,” a youth said in whiny tones. “I remember it. He stood on the village green and swore.”

“Yeah, and he'll pay for this,” the bulldog said. “Them Ashworths'll be made to pay. Today, if we have anything to say about it. 'Tis time we pounded on their door.”

Oh, dear. Holly began backing away, retracing her steps even at the risk of becoming lost on the moor again. She'd rather take her chance among the granite crags than with this hostile band. If she could just retreat over that last hill without their seeing her. . . .

“You there!”

Incensed faces blurred in Holly's vision as she whirled and ran. Behind her, footsteps hammered the ground while cries of “She rode at his side yesterday” and “Get her!” nipped at her heels. For one daft moment she considered wielding the duchess's umbrella in their faces. Idiot. There were too many of them; they'd surround her in seconds and ply the makeshift weapon from her hands. Fervently wishing she had thought to bring the revolver instead, she ran as hard and as fast as her legs would take her—legs toned and strengthened by her many years of riding. The scoundrels kept up their pursuit, but Holly maintained a distance between them.

Behind her, a voice barked out a demand that the village men leave off. She couldn't make out the words, only the commanding tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed. She slowed her steps slightly to cast a glance over her shoulder. Her pursuers had been brought to heel, but not by Colin or Mr. Hockley or anyone else she recognized. As the ragged men tossed malice-filled stares at her, another, clad in the calf-length greatcoat of a gentleman, positioned himself between them, his arms outstretched as if to act as a shield to protect her.

His intervention should have brought reassurance, yet it didn't, especially not when, after a final word to the villagers, he turned and strode toward her. The gunshots on the road, the missing colt, and even the incident at the Ashworths' ball all urged her to run faster. Dropping the duchess's umbrella once again, she gripped her skirts, raised them high, and pumped her legs as fast as they'd go.

Beyond a doubt, she had taken a wrong direction. As she raced around the rheumatic twist of a dead rowan, the stream, foaming furiously, wound its way across her path and brought her to an uncertain halt. Some dozen yards to her left, a very different footbridge from the one she'd first crossed spanned the flooded banks. This one, made of wood, appeared much older and narrower. She sprinted to it only to discover the planking to be faded and splintered, even broken in places. The structure hardly looked trustworthy.

Another glance behind her revealed no sign of either the villagers or the man in the greatcoat. Had they given up their pursuit, or slipped into hiding to await her next move? She scanned the horizon ahead of her and to her great relief detected the corner of a chimney scraping the sky. The rain began to fall harder, obscuring her vision.

Grabbing hold of the rail, she gingerly placed a foot on the first plank. The bridge trembled slightly but otherwise seemed solid enough. The way across couldn't be more than a dozen yards, a stone's throw. If she went quickly and remained light on her feet . . .