Taken by Storm (6 page)

“I can see right now that this is going to be one miserable journey.”

“Only as miserable as you choose to make it.”

“Know something? I’m beginning to wish I’d never hired you.”

He shrugged and began stripping the tarpaulin cover from the chaise. “It is not too late to change your mind.”

“What, and have you go running straight to Weybourne House to tell Tristan that I’m still near at hand? Oh, no. You know too much as it is, and you’re coming with me whether you like it or not, Mr. High and Mighty Animal Doctor!”

“And
you
are going to hitch that horse to this chaise whether
either
of you like it or not, Your Spoiled and Sassy Ladyship.”

“How dare you insult me so!”

He merely grinned, leaned insolently against the side of the chaise and gazed calmly up at her.

And as the first fingers of daylight breathed color into the morning, she saw that his eyes were a clear, unusual shade of lavender shot through with gray.

Beautiful, arresting, keenly perceptive, eyes.

She wasn’t supposed to notice things like that. Not when her future belonged to another. She jerked her gaze away, staring at the shoddy stone and brick buildings instead.

“Very well, then,” she snapped. “Finish uncovering the thing.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him touch his brow as though in salute, turn, and resume where he had left off. The temptation was too much, and despite herself, she slowly twisted her head to look at him, ready to jerk her gaze away in case he straightened up and caught her watching.

For a lowly commoner, Colin Lord possessed no small degree of charm and dash, and he issued orders as though doing so came second nature to him. She didn’t like the way he was already taking over command of this venture. She didn’t like the feelings he evoked in her, didn’t like the fact there was something about him that didn’t quite ring true, didn’t like the hot prickle of sensation that swept her blood every time their eyes met. There was no reason he should affect her so.

None at all.

She watched as the fat little mongrel sidled close to her master’s legs, cocking her head at the sound the night’s rain made as it rolled off the tarpaulin. Yapping, she dove at the droplets trickling to the ground, inciting a burst of laughter from her master before he playfully shooed her away.

Losing interest, the tiny creature came up to the stallion. Then she went down on her forepaws before him, barking happily and looking up at Shareb-er-rehh with sparkling, mischievous eyes. Her tail waved madly; Shareb pricked his ears and took a step forward, blowing softly through his nose. Then his head went down, the reins slipped through Ariadne’s fingers, and the mighty stallion touched his nose to the little dog’s.

Bow
, the veterinarian had called it. Part of a boat. What kind of a name was
that
?

“Your chariot awaits, Lady Ariadne.”

Startled, she raised her head to look. The chaise, a white, two-wheeled contraption with a collapsible top and a red leather seat, was barely large enough for two people. Ariadne gauged the size of that seat, and felt suddenly uneasy. She’d have to sit closer to this man than propriety, her liking, and her own betrothed status would permit.

Yes, beautiful, unusual eyes. Broad shoulders, a handsome face, and a very well-made form.

His hand rested on one wheel, and it was then she noticed the ring on his left forefinger. She wondered if he was married.

If he, too, was promised to another, had a sweetheart, someone whom he loved.

Stop it, Ariadne!

He leaned over to pull a harness and bridle from just beneath the seat. Beneath his coat, she could see the muscles stretching taut across his more-than-capable shoulders. Sudden warmth coursed through her. Did Maxwell have shoulders that looked like that? After all, she’d never really thought to study them—

“Well?” he said, holding the tack and looking expectantly at Shareb-er-rehh.

“What I don’t understand,” she said loftily, “is that you have a chaise but no horse of your own to pull it.”

“I
did
have a horse to pull it.”

“Well, why don’t we hitch
him
to the chaise, then?”

“Because he died three days ago.”

“Lovely. You’re a veterinarian and your horse
died
. Oh, I feel supremely confident now about hiring you to look after
my
animal, truly, I do.”

He had been reaching into the chaise to wipe a bit of dampness from the seat; she saw his back go stiff, and he turned around slowly,
too
slowly, and met her gaze with that direct and unnerving stare of his. “My horse,” he said softly, “was twenty-nine years old.”

Ariadne swallowed hard and she looked down at Shareb’s mane, her cheeks flaming. Twenty-nine years was a long time for a horse. He must’ve looked after the animal quite well indeed.

Unable to meet his eyes, she murmured, “I’m sorry, Mr. Lord. That was very unkind of me.”

“Yes, it was. “

She bit her lip and glanced at him. He merely stood there, the harness and bridle slung over one arm and a little smile playing across his face to soften the awkwardness of the moment. She tried to smile back, and felt small and insignificant in the face of his gentle patience.

“Friends?” he murmured, raising one brow.

She looked down, feeling terrible. “Friends.”

“Very well then. Let’s get our equine nobleman hitched up to the chaise, shall we? It will be dawn soon, and I think it best to get out of London before the city awakes.”

She nodded, dismounted, and holding the bridle, watched worriedly as he approached Shareb, the mass of leather straps and buckles hanging over his arm. Sure enough, the stallion took one look at the harness, flung up his head, and backed away.

“He’s not going to let you put that thing on him, Mr. Lord.”

But the veterinarian murmured softly and stretched out his hand toward the horse.

Shareb took another step back, broke out in a hard sweat, and turning his blinkered head, gazed beseechingly at his mistress.

“Oh, Shareb . . .” Ariadne caught the cheekpiece of his bridle and pulled him toward her. Giving the animal doctor a long-suffering look, the horse lowered his head and buried his face against his mistress’s chest, keeping only his ears on Colin while Ariadne murmured and consoled. “It’s all right,” she crooned, threading her fingers through his mane. The small ears remained pointed at Colin. “That big, bad horse doctor is not going to hurt you . . .”

“This big, bad horse doctor thinks it’s getting late.”

“He doesn’t want to pull the chaise. Look at him. He’s sulking, Mr. Lord.”

“He’s not sulking.”

“Well, what do you call it then? Look at his face. He’s
sulking
. I told you this was a foolish idea.”

“Have you a better one?”

“Well no, but . . . “

“Then stop delaying and let’s get him harnessed. Unless, of course, you don’t really wish to reach Norfolk before the decade is out . . .”

“Mr. Lord, you are the most irritatingly practical man I have ever met!”

“And you, my lady, are the slowest moving fugitive I have yet to encounter. Now harness the horse while I hold his head.”

“
Me
, harness a horse? I haven’t the faintest idea how to harness a horse. Even on those rare instances when I did any driving, a servant always did it. I’ll hold his head and
you
harness him.”

“No,
you
harness him and
I’ll
hold his head.”

“You’re giving orders again, Mr. Lord.”

“Indeed I am. Here.”

“I don’t like it when you give orders.
I’m
running this adventure!”

“No you’re not, you’re financing it. Now harness the horse and let’s get this escapade underway.”

She had no time to protest further before he was thrusting the tack at her. Their fingers accidentally touched, and the heavy mass of leather fell to the ground with a thud.

Simultaneously, they both bent to pick it up. Brows rapping painfully, they jumped back and away from each other, he letting loose with a curse and she coming up with the harness.

“Sorry,” she said, blushing.

“No, no, ‘tis my fault. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right, I have a very hard skull. Father used to tell me that all the time, you know—”

“And no doubt, he was correct,” he said, ignoring the sudden burst of angry color across her cheeks. “And I see that you have consented to harness the animal after all. They say that patience is a virtue, but I far prefer obedience. Especially when it comes to dealing with spoiled young noblewomen.”

“
Spoiled?
” she retorted, drawing herself up to her full height. “You’ll watch what you say to me, sir! And I’ll tell you right now that I prefer my servants to display a reasonable amount of respect. Had I known you were such a boor I would never have hired you!”

“I am not a boar, I’m a man. Boars have tusks.”

“What?”

He plucked the breastpiece and neck strap from her suddenly nerveless hand, shook it out, and directing her to put it over Shareb’s head, grinned innocently at her. “So, for that matter, do walruses.”

“You are unforgivably impossible! Stop teasing me!”

“Am I?”

“You are, and I order you to stop it!”

“And I order
you
to put that harness on that horse under my tutelage, or I shall go back inside, have my breakfast, and allow you to figure it out by yourself.”

They faced each other, she holding the leather straps and glaring angrily at him, he merely looking at her with little crinkle-lines of amusement fanning out at the corners of his eyes and the side of his mouth turning up in a lopsided, boyish smile that did dangerous things to her heart.

And Shareb-er-rehh—pricking his ears, arching his neck, and sniffing curiously at the strange leather in her hands—was no help at all.

Sputtering and fuming, Lady Ariadne St. Aubyn began to harness her horse.

# # #

“Really, Tristan . . . I expected more from you than miserable excuses.”

He gripped the edge of the table, hard, and leaned forward over his white knuckles. “They are not excuses, milord—”

“Sit down, Tristan.”

“But you must believe me!”

“I said, sit down.”

Sweating and terrified, he obeyed.

Clive sat regarding him calmly, one dark, hypnotic eye fixed unblinkingly on his face, the other, blinded long ago and now an eerie milky blue, making him want to shudder. A signet ring glowed dully on one long finger, every hair was in perfect, impeccable place and, dressed in his habitual black, he had never looked more sinister.

“I suppose I should’ve known better than to expect so much from one who seeks to pay off the gambling debts he owes me by amassing even bigger ones.”

Tristan sank a little lower in his chair, and only that fixed, one-eyed stare held him upright and kept his suddenly nerveless body from sliding right down beneath the table.

“But I’d been so lucky at the card tables, I really didn’t think—”

“No, you are far too young and stupid to think. Which is why you find yourself in this predicament, isn’t it, Tristan?”

He was terrified; fear curled around his kidneys and squeezed his heart within his chest. “I’ll come up with the money I owe you, my lord, I swear it!”

Clive leaned back in his chair, his face without compassion, pity, or soul. “Ah . . . and what brilliant plan have you now, my young friend?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll ask my father for my inheritance.”

The earl regarded him with bored impatience. “And what shall you tell him, Tristan, when he asks you for what purpose you need the funds? Hmm? I suppose you might just come right out and tell him you owe me some money . . . to the tune of twenty-one thousand pounds.”

Tristan went white. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple cutting into his crisply starched necktie, the thick lump of fear catching in his throat and hanging there. He clasped his hands beneath the table and forced his breathing to remain steady. His creditor was playing with him like a cat with a mouse.

“I suppose if you were a truly callous and enterprising young man, you could rather . . . shall I say, force your inheritance.”

“You mean . . . k-kill my father?”

Clive took out a cheroot, tapped it, lit it, and sat regarding Tristan through a lazy cloud of smoke. “Now, did I say that . . . Tristan?”

He stared into that black eye, unable to speak.

The earl smiled darkly. “Did I?”

“No, sir, you did not. But—”

“Come up with the money, Tristan.” Clive tapped the ashes from his cheroot with studied elegance. “You fancy yourself such an enterprising young man . . . I’m sure you can manufacture some clever scheme in which to do it.” He sat back in his chair, that one eye blacker than the devil’s soul. “Because you see, Tristan . . . if you do not come up with the money, I can promise you that this Season in which you’ve brought about your own ruin. . . .”

The earl smiled, evilly, and the blood ran cold in his veins.

. . . Will be your last.”

# # #

Will be your last . . . will be your last . . . will be your last . . .

The words seemed to be in step with the mare’s steady trot, repeating themselves over and over and over in his mind.

Will be your last . . . will be your last . . . will be your last . . .

Two months ago that dreadful meeting had been, and even now the memory made Tristan’s mouth go dry with fright. With every mile the mare put behind her, with every person and beast they passed as he sought the Norfolk Road that would take him out of London and bring him home to Burnham—
please God, let me get there before
she
does
—he felt that fear returning, its black tentacles curling around his spine and squeezing the air from his lungs.

For somewhere out there, was Clive . . .

Waiting.

Will be your last.