by The Bargain
Brett saw her eyes darken before she glanced away and knew she'd been reminded of another unwanted pursuit. Damn! He hadn't wanted to resurrect that!
Looking about, he searched for a change of subject; a few yards away he spied Irish Night prancing nervously before his stallion who, though still obediently rooted to the spot where he'd been commanded to stay, was tossing his head and eyeing the filly with obvious interest.
"Ashleigh," said Brett, "how would you like some help following up on the lesson you've just taught Irish Night? I might be able to assist a bit."
Grateful for the change of topic, Ashleigh answered him enthusiastically. "Oh, Brett! Would you? I've just been bungling along here, not knowing if I'm on the right track or not."
Brett grinned. "I would hardly call it bungling! Especially when I consider your brilliant use of these two able assistants here." He glanced down at Finn who, tail thumping, sat happily at his feet, and then at the grunting pink mass beside him.
Ashleigh smiled happily back at him. "I'll take full credit for Finn, but Lady Dimples is on her own!"
Brett arched an eyebrow. "So I've noticed. You know, I've heard it said pigs are among the most intelligent of the four-footed beasts. In France they use them to harvest truffles." He glanced down then, and his eyes fastened on the conspicuous leather belt she had tied over the yellow day gown she and Megan had stitched together following the humiliating incident with Elizabeth and Margaret. "What on earth is that?" he questioned, amusement apparent in the turquoise eyes.
Thinking he referred to the obvious repair in the costly gown he'd bought, Ashleigh tensed. While she'd made up her mind not to complain to him of the incident—her pride, if nothing else, wouldn't let her—she hardly wanted him to think she'd been careless with something he'd purchased for her, either. "Th-there was an accident, I'm afraid," she began.
"Accident?" Brett looked puzzled as he reached for the pair of pie plates hanging at her side. "An accident made you tie this—this paraphernalia about you?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Ashleigh, obviously relieved. "Oh, that!" She took the tins from his hand and rapped them together. "That's just a homespun device for training a skittish filly to grow accustomed to unexpected noise."
And as if on cue, Irish Night danced nervously away from where she'd been calmly cropping grass moments before.
"Hmm," said Brett with a nod. He eyed the filly who'd backed as far away from them as the lunge line would permit and stood watching them with apprehension in her large, liquid brown eyes. "I think it's time we resumed her lessons, don't you?"
Ashleigh grinned. "High time indeed, Your Grace!"
Brett gave her an overdone frown. "Miss Sinclair!" he admonished.
Ashleigh grinned. "I mean, Brett!"
The next few hours flew by for Ashleigh as Brett fell in beside her to work with Irish Night. First they used Finn and Lady Dimples, repeating the procedure Brett had witnessed from the stand of trees. Then, when that became familiar, the little horse all but yawning at the animals chasing at her heels, they switched tactics. For the next half hour or so, Ashleigh deployed her pie pans from one side while Brett rushed at the filly from the other, brandishing a leafy limb he'd broken from a tree and shouting, "Hyah! Hyah!" This they followed with a combination of Brett wildly waving his riding jacket as he emerged from behind Raven, and Ashleigh pelting the ground on the horse's other side with a barrage of pinecones. In the final hour they finished with various combinations of all these methods, relentlessly forcing the little horse to jump and jump again, refusing to let her balk, repeating and repeating, until at last she, and they as well, stood exhausted in the fading afternoon light.
Brett stood with his jacket slung over one shoulder and watched Ashleigh feed Irish Night a lump of sugar as a reward for her performance. "You'll spoil her rotten, you know," he said, but as Ashleigh glanced up at him, his smile told her the criticism was not to be taken seriously.
Ashleigh returned his smile. "Reward, I think, goes so much further than punishment in driving a lesson home. And that's the reason I refused to take along the training whip Old Henry offered me when I started to work with Irish. Your head groom was highly indignant, I'm afraid. 'Yer not t' use it on 'er!' he cried. 'Merely t' take it wi' ye t' show 'er ye mean business!'"
Brett laughed at her excellent imitation of Old Henry's humble country accent. "So, off you stalked, whipless and armed with sugar lumps and your faithful little menagerie!"
Ashleigh watched him come forward and run a firm but gentle hand over the filly's withers. "She's far too fine and spirited a horse to risk breaking harshly, Brett. When I was a little girl I saw a horse that had been thus broken, and—and it was horrible!" The blue eyes turned dark with pain as she recounted the incident. "You see, I'd seen the horse before it happened... such a fine young colt. He was being sold at a country fair I attended with my—my father and brother. I remember staring at his shiny, blood-bay coat and wishing I might have such a horse someday, when I outgrew my pony. Father laughed and said I'd have to wait several years for that.
"Well, the day at the fair ended, and we returned home, all thoughts of the blood-bay colt forgotten... until a winter's day several months later..." Ashleigh stared off into the distance and was silent for several long seconds before shaking her head sadly and resuming her tale.
"He—he'd been purchased by the drunken son of an earl who was one of our neighbors... a huge brute of a man who liked to boast of his taking a 'personal interest' in his father's stables." She raised her face to Brett and he saw the shimmering tears in her eyes. "Oh, Brett, it was pitiful! That beautiful young animal, reduced to a bro—" a sob caught in her throat "—a broken thing... a piece of dull meat on four legs with all the spirit beaten out of it! Dear God! I wish I could forget that sight!"
Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and Brett found himself somehow immeasurably moved by this evidence of her compassion, and surprised that he felt so. He'd always disdained weeping and other displays of conspicuous emotion by women, regarding them as just so much additional evidence that females were weak and frivolously sentimental—if not devious—using tears as a means of manipulating men to their own selfish ends. But the pain and selfless sincerity he saw in Ashleigh's face was far removed from the maudlin hysterics he'd witnessed in the women he'd known, and he felt himself drawn by it in ways he wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.
Slowly, as if feeling his way through uncharted waters, he placed a hand on her shoulder while, with the fingers of the other, he gently wiped the tears from her upturned face. "Sometimes things happen for a reason, little one," he said softly. "Perhaps you were meant to have seen and recall that brutality."
Ashleigh looked at him questioningly.
"From what I've seen today, you have a delicate way with animals. Your every action speaks of a finely honed sensitivity, not to mention endless patience. And the proof is in how they respond to you. Perhaps your bitter memory has served you well."
Ashleigh beheld his gaze with wonder in her own. Was this gentle man the same who had so ruthlessly taken her and stripped her of her honor not two months earlier? Where was the mocking laughter, the cynical gleam in his eyes? Nothing about the man who stood before her now, or who had laughed with her in this meadow moments before at their successes with the little filly, reminded her of the one she'd sworn would pay for his callousness of an earlier day!
Dizzily she tried to fit the two images together, her head swimming with scenes of Brett forcing her onto the bed, of him standing beside Madame with an immovable expression on his face, and then—this! She closed her eyes, to shut out the confusion, telling herself now was not the time to sort out what was happening. She only knew she was immeasurably grateful for the apparent transformation and resolved, for the moment, to deal with it as she found it. Opening her eyes, she looked again at his, which were still focused on her face as if trying to read what they saw there, and she slowly nodded her head and smiled.
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br /> When he beheld her smile, at once so open and full of joy, Brett felt a wrenching in his gut the likes of which he'd never known before. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a desire to take her in his arms and never let her go, to hold her to him and protect her from ever again facing anything that could frighten her or give her pain. What in hell was happening to him? It was only a smile, for God's sake! But even as he attempted to dismiss it, he knew it was far, far more than that. With it her whole face lit up, lovely beyond telling, and the beautiful spirit within Ashleigh Sinclair shone like the sun in the heavens.
Abruptly, awkwardly, for he knew he was out of his element here, Brett turned and glanced about them. "It's getting late, little one. I don't know when you told Old Henry to expect you back, but I think we'd better be going before they send someone to search for you."
Wondering at his sudden uneasiness, Ashleigh merely nodded, then followed him as he strode toward the horses. When they reached Irish Night, she looped the lunge line several times, shortening it until she had a coil that ended just beneath the filly's halter and prepared to begin the long trek back to the stables. She looked up at Brett who was now astride his stallion. "I—I thank you for your help this afternoon," she told him. "If you should find them worrying about me at the stables, please tell them I'm fine and will be along shortly."
She was unprepared for the frown that crossed the duke's brow. "And just where do you think you might be going?" he queried.
"Why, I—er, to the stables, Your Grace," she stammered.
"Afoot?" he demanded incredulously.
"Well, y-yes," she replied. "I promised not to mount—"
"I'm well aware of what you promised, young lady, but if you think I'm going to allow you to walk back while I ride, think again! You're riding with me!"
With a quick, muscular movement, he reached down, and before Ashleigh realized what was happening, she found herself swung upward by two iron-strong hands and seated sideways before him in the saddle, her lunge line left in the grass. Brett grasped for the filly's tether, let it play out behind them, and urged his stallion forward. "That's better," she heard him murmur just behind her right ear.
His strong arms came about her as they began to move, and Ashleigh found herself shivering, though the air was warm. She could smell the scent of him with this nearness, a scent that was a combination of some masculine soap he used, clean sweat, tobacco and horses, and for some reason, inhaling it made her giddy. Once again she found her heart hammering in her chest, dampness gathering on the palms of her hands. She tried to tell herself this was all because she had reasons to fear this man's nearness, but in her heart she knew these sensations were born more of pleasure than fear.
"Of course," Brett was saying, "I suppose I could have overridden Old Henry's order forbidding you to mount Irish Night. She's perfectly safe on the flats." He glanced down at Ashleigh's yellow gown, then eyed the filly as she trotted beside them. "But neither you nor she seems to be accoutered for riding...." Suddenly he chuckled. "Not that that seems to have stopped you before! Where did you ever learn to ride, little one? And bareback, at that!"
Ashleigh giggled, then arched a delicate eyebrow as she glanced up at him. "I assure you, Your Grace, the bareback riding was a first for me that day. As for the other—" Brett saw her eyes darken, and she looked away "—I had a brother once.... He... taught me how to ride."
Seeing she found discussion of her dead family difficult, Brett decided not to pursue it, though he found himself increasingly curious about her early past. Perhaps, now that he was back in Kent, and would be likely to spend more time with her in the days to come, he might soon find a chance to broach the subject again, especially if they got to know each other better.
Suddenly Brett found himself looking forward to the coming weeks, in a way that far exceeded the anticipations of a few hours before, and a light ripple of laughter broke from him with the realization.
Ashleigh heard it and smiled. How different he was when he laughed! Guessing at the reason, she asked, "You're glad to be back, then?"
"Yes, little one—" he grinned "—I am most glad to be back!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chauncey Jameson had been the butler at Ravensford Hall for fourteen years, and during that time he had always discharged his duties with a remarkable degree of efficiency and aplomb. Nevertheless, on this particular morning in mid-July 1814, Jameson was conspicuously lacking in the air of unruffled confidence he normally commanded when seeing to the well-oiled running of the Westmont household. He stood in the butler's pantry that adjoined the kitchens and carefully blotted his perspiring brow with a white linen handkerchief before resuming his speech to the staff he'd hastily assembled there not five minutes earlier.
"Merton," he said to the tall footman who stood at attention in front of him, "are you sure there were three?"
"Aye, sir, three coaches, all of 'em 'eaded straight fer the 'All."
If Jameson had been the type to groan aloud with the announcement of distressing news, he would have done so now, but as it was, he merely raised the white linen and blotted again. "Three coaches filled with guests.... I see." He turned to face Hettie Busby who stood waiting expectantly, next to Merton. "Mrs. Busby, you're sure the Lady Margaret had no prior knowledge of this?"
Hettie shook her head. "She was as much in the dark as the rest of us when I questioned her a moment ago. Said to ask His Grace whilst she hurried and dressed. But His Grace—"
"I know, Mrs. Busby. We have already covered that ground. His Grace is out riding with the Misses Sinclair and O'Brien." Jameson's angular head snapped to his right, and he regarded a young woman in chambermaid's apparel who looked as if she were about to burst into tears at any moment. "Betty, ah, is Lady Elizabeth still...?"
"Aye, sir," sniffed Betty. '"Er ladyship's still 'avin' a fit in 'er chamber! Broke two vases, she did, an' one of 'em just missed me 'ead! Fairly screamin', she was, carryin' on t'—"
"That will be all, Betty, thank you," said Jameson. He had no wish to be reminded of the tale that had already been carried throughout the Hall, that Lady Elizabeth Hastings, upon awakening in her guest chamber and learning that her betrothed had gone riding without her—and with whom—had flown into a rage at the news, bruising the cheek of her own ladies' maid, Dorothea, who had followed her here from Cloverhill Manor, and wreaking havoc on her room's furnishings for the better part of an hour. Moreover, as head of staff, it was Jameson's responsibility to quell unseemly gossip among his subordinates, especially when it had to do with the gentry it was their duty to serve.
On the other hand, it now became his problem as to how to deal with the existence of a shrieking harpy in one of the upstairs chambers in the face of a virtual caravan of unexpected guests. Oh, thought Jameson, if only His Grace, the old duke were still alive! He would never have countenanced such irregularity!
Turning his gaze toward Old Henry, who stood a couple of paces behind his wife, the harried butler asked his next question. "Will the stables be ready to receive the overflow on this short notice, Mr. Busby?"
Old Henry grinned. At last Jameson would receive a promising answer. "No problem there, sir. The lads're already on it!"
"Good, good," murmured Jameson. "Very well, then. It seems there's no help for it but to do our duty as best we may." He began issuing orders. "Mrs. Busby, take Cook into the kitchen and begin planning a menu list.... Mr. Busby, back to the stables, if you please.... Betty, take Flora and Emily and begin airing out the guest chambers in the north wing...."
* * * * *
Ashleigh's face was flushed with exhilaration, her eyes bright with pleasure as she bent over Irish Night's neck and felt the power of the young horse beneath her. The filly might be small, but she had long, muscular legs and a deep chest, the result of a breeding program that coupled heavy Arabian lines with excellent Irish racing stock, and the results were proving spectacular.
Up ahead, she caught sight of Brett and Megan waving at h
er from where they sat on their mounts. "Rein her in now, Ashleigh!" Brett called. "We've got to be heading back."
Nodding, Ashleigh eased the pressure she'd been applying to the filly's sides with her knees and shifted her weight to signal the change in pace.
A few moments later, she approached the other two riders at a subdued canter, a wide grin etched on her face.
"Well?" asked Brett, grinning back at her. "How was she?"
"Oh, Brett! Couldn't you tell? She was magnificent!" Ashleigh's joy bubbled over into her speech. "I've never had such a ride!"
Megan's laughter blended with Brett's. "Ah, darlin', ye were a grand sight t' behold! The two o' ye, I'm meanin', ridin' across those flats like ye were part o' each other, and born on the wind!"
Ashleigh's grin grew wider. "You two didn't do too badly yourselves, you know. From where I stood, it looked like a dead heat. Was it?"
Brett chuckled. "Not quite. I owe Megan two guineas or a new bonnet, her choice, but that's the last time I'll let her talk me into surrendering Raven for a race. Bad cess, indeed!" he added, giving Megan a glare.
Megan grinned and shrugged, then bent over Raven's lathered neck and gave it a pat. "Can I help it if I'm subject t' superstitions, Yer Grace?"
"A superstition, I suspect," Brett returned, "conveniently resurrected at moments like the onset of a wager!"
They were talking about the moment when, after challenging the duke to a short race, Megan had suddenly looked down at the beautiful gray colt she was riding and exclaimed, "Oh! I'm so sorry, Yer Grace, but I'm afraid I'll have to withdraw from the wager. Gray Mist, I fergot, is, after all, a gray colt, and gray horses are bad cess, er, that is, bad luck, fer me family. Now... if we were t' be switchin' mounts—fer the duration o' the race only, mind ye—well then..."
Reluctantly, Brett had agreed, for while Raven was the finest blood in his stables, the gray colt was coming up fast and held a great deal of promise, and he was curious to try his mettle. Of course, now it seemed that that promise hadn't yet been quite enough....