"Well, not all that many women handle the reins themselves," Lydia said. "But it's not unheard of. I simply badgered Adam for years and eventually he grudgingly taught me." She gave a sharp flick of the reins and smiled confidently. "Even he admits I am quite good."
Eagerly she turned to Maggie. “Would you like to learn? It really can be wonderfully exciting."
Maggie laughed ruefully. "I don't think so, thanks. But some kind of exercise would be great. Although I'm sure you don't have health clubs or swimming pools or Richard Simmons."
Lydia ignored the unfamiliar activities and considered the question. "Well, we could ride. Do you ride?"
"Not since I was a kid at summer camp. I used to go every year and I really liked riding. If I remember, I was pretty good, but it's been a long time." Maggie nodded toward a couple on horseback. "And there's no way I could ride with one of those. In my time a sidesaddle is pretty much a thing of the past."
Lydia's eyes narrowed and she watched the riders file by.
"You know," she said slowly, “I haven't bent any rules lately."
Startled, Maggie stared, intrigued by a gleam in Lydia's eye. "What do you mean?"
"Only that I have never ridden astride," Lydia replied innocently.
"Never?" Given Lydia's admitted pursuit of her so-called adventures, Maggie found her admission hard to believe.
"Never," Lydia said solemnly. "The perfect opportunity never presented itself. Until now."
Maggie observed her closely for a long moment, then grinned. "Adam won't like it."
Lydia shrugged. "Adam won't know.”
"All right!" Maggie whooped with excitement. "When can we go? Where?"
"Let me think." Lydia's eyes narrowed and she thought for a moment. "The park is really the only place in town. We'll have to go very early, even before the earliest riders are out. So it will have to be before dawn. And we'll have to saddle our own horses to avoid the grooms and stable boys."
"Great. Can you get some pants?"
"Pants?" Lydia's face registered shock.
"Yeah, pants. Britches, pantaloons, whatever you call them." Maggie nodded at a woman on horseback. "You're not going to ride in one of those getups. You'll kill yourself. My jeans are hidden in the back of my wardrobe, so I'll be fine, but if we do this, you have to have pants."
"Very well." Lydia sighed. “And I have such a lovely new habit, too." She sighed again. "I'll simply have to steal something from one of the servants."
Maggie leaned toward her eagerly. "Do you need help?"
"Oh, my, no." Lydia smiled sweetly. "It's been a while since I have, shall we say, borrowed men's clothing but I'm reasonably sure I remember how. Now then, which of the servants would have clothes to fit me?"
The women laughed and giggled their way back home as they worked out the details of their illicit ride. Maggie didn't want to get Lydia in trouble, but, after all, it was her idea. She suspected this would be a big deal if they were caught. So they simply could not get caught.
Maggie and Lydia went to bed early. They wanted to be up and gone before dawn. They didn't have to explain why they decided not to go after all to a party they'd accepted an invitation to. This was yet another night Adam didn't put in an appearance.
For the first time in days, Maggie slept soundly. She never heard the footsteps again stop at her door in the middle of the night. She never noticed how long they hesitated there. And she never woke to the lonely echo of the sound as it finally retreated down the dark hallway.
***
Adam absently swirled the brandy in his glass and stared unseeing at the flames in the fireplace before him. It was his fourth brandy, or perhaps his seventh. He no longer counted. He was not, however, in his cups. On the contrary, while each sip darkened his mood, each glass brought his thoughts into sharper focus. And they focused on only one thing.
Maggie.
He could not get her out of his head in spite of his best efforts. Except for the moment last night, he had not seen her for two days. Deliberately. He filled those days with business and strenuous exercise, boxing and riding. His evenings were spent here at his club where his obviously glum demeanor did not encourage company.
Adam had not behaved like this in years. Not since his father died. In those days his drinking and carousing and gambling were his ways of striking back at the loving but domineering father who could not understand why his only son wanted to go to war or why his son believed it was his duty to king and country to join the fight against Napoleon. Adam never could explain to his father why he considered it a question of honor. His honor and his family's. His father not only forbade his involvement, but his influence in government and military circles was such that when Adam tried to circumvent him, it was to no avail. And Adam resented it.
Resentment that manifested itself in wild behavior. For years Adam lived with reckless abandon, following his emotions, giving in to impulse, pushing strength and courage far beyond the pale of acceptable behavior. Never quite crossing the line into the unforgivable yet never quite completely respectable either.
When his father died, grief and guilt paralyzed him. Even vast amounts of very fine liquor did not ease his pain. Alone, he struggled to come to terms with the relationship he could no longer change. Gradually, through the long days locked away in his father's private refuge, he began to comprehend, began to see that, as strong as his father always appeared, he could not face the possible loss of his son in battle. He remembered his father's face when Adam was involved in some particularly difficult scrape or scandal. Behind the anger, there was always a glimmer of amusement, a touch of pride, a hint of paternal love. Too stubborn and defiant to recognize it at the time, Adam didn't realize what he'd had until his father's death. What he'd lost.
The impetuous youth came out of his father’s library a mature man, setting aside emotion and vowing to turn his life around, to make the estates profitable and carry his name honorably, to make his father proud. He succeeded admirably, harnessing the same intensity he had once used in the pursuit of pleasure. If somewhere along the way he had gone too far, become too ruthless in business, too cold and self-controlled in his personal life, too . . . well . . . so be it.
And now, for the first time in years, he sat swilling brandy after brandy. And why? For a woman? Even in his rakehell days he had not acted like this over a mere woman. The Cyprians and demimondes he associated with knew what to expect from him and he from them.
In younger days he'd partaken of all the acceptable—and many of the unacceptable—pleasures London had to offer. In spite of his unsavory reputation, he was still considered a prize, if somewhat tarnished, on the marriage mart and much sought after as a guest. When he deigned to make an appearance, he had few qualms about flirting and charming innocents and near innocents in their first seasons. He was typically careful to make clear his intentions, to make sure no young miss or her family expected more from him than he was willing to give. Adam's sense of honor always remained stronger than his rebellion.
Why was Maggie so very different from the women he knew? A normal woman would have let him explain. A normal woman would have welcomed him back with open arms. After all, he was still an extremely eligible catch. A normal woman would have understood previous encounters.
He ignored the nagging question in the back of his mind. Why on earth was he wasting his time? Why did he even care? He wanted her, of course, wanted her in his bed and by his side. But what exactly did that mean? Would he offer her carte blanche? Would she even consider that? Was that what he wanted?
No. He sighed. He had never offered to keep a woman before and would not start with Maggie. Then what did he want?
“You are a sorry sight.”
"What?" Adam glanced up into the amused eyes of Richard Westbrooke. "Oh, Richard." He returned his sulking attention to the flames flickering in the hearth. "What are you doing here?"
Richard settled in the chair beside him and signaled a waiter for a bran
dy. "Amanda and I were at a particularly boring soiree and she was having much too good a time to drag herself away, so I left. I shall return for her later. I might ask you the same question."
"I am thinking," Adam mumbled.
"I see." Adam heard the amused note in his friend's voice. "And how is she?"
Startled, Adam turned toward him. “She?"
“Yes, the intriguing creature you were with the other night."
“Maggie," he said darkly.
"Yes, Maggie. She is an original. What are you going to do about her?"
Adam growled. "What makes you think I am going to do anything about her?"
Richard chuckled. "Adam, I have known you for many years and I have never seen you quite this bad. Even in the old days when at any given moment either of us could have been found foxed and ready to do battle at the slightest provocation. It's been my experience when any man looks like you do there is very probably a woman behind it."
"Maggie."
"Yes, Maggie."
"She is impossible," Adam grumbled.
Richard smiled knowingly. "Amanda was impossible, too, until I married her." He chuckled again. “Still is, in fact. Why don't you marry her?"
"Marry Maggie?" Surprised, Adam noted the idea did not sound at all farfetched.
"She would make a delightful countess."
"Ha." Adam snorted. “Delightful isn't the word I'd use. Stubborn, intractable, annoying, impulsive—those are some of the words I'd use."
"Very well." Richard laughed. "She would make an interesting countess."
"She would, wouldn't she?" Marry Maggie? Adam agreed reluctantly. It might well be the perfect answer. If he married her she certainly couldn't leave him. She would be his always.
Maggie was the only woman he had ever met to affect him this deeply. For the first time in years, he was alive again because of her. The intensity of the attraction between them shocked him but he could not deny it. Maybe this was why she had come to his time. Maybe the gods had brought them together. Maybe this was, indeed, their fate. The thought lifted his spirits, only to have them plunge again.
"She won't even talk to me," he said glumly.
"Adam." Richard scoffed. "I have seen you work your way back into the good graces of many an angry woman. Remember that dancer back . . . when was it?"
"Years ago.” Adam waved the question aside, then brightened. "That was a good job, wasn't it?"
Richard nodded. "No man could have done better."
Again Adam's spirits fell. "But I couldn't do the same with Maggie. No, she'd find out. Think it was part of a well-rehearsed plan."
“Well, I have confidence in you. You will come up with something. I must be leaving." Richard stood to go. "By the way, did you hear about the robberies in the neighborhood? Thieves breaking into houses? I hear they've hit a few near you. Amanda is quite alarmed and had me put extra men on."
"Yes, I've heard," Adam said absently, his mind still on his more pressing problem. "I've alerted my staff."
"Very well, then." Richard shook his head, a smile of amusement again on his lips. “I can see you have more, ah, thinking to do, and I must collect my wife." He stared to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and, Adam."
His sharp tone captured Adam's attention and he wondered at the serious note now in his friend's voice.
"One more thing. Originals are very difficult but well worth the trouble. Amanda has made my life happier than I could have ever imagined. Your Maggie may well do the same for you. But . . ." He hesitated as if uncertain how to proceed. "There is something very different about her. I don't think she is quite what she appears to be."
Adam groaned and slumped further into his chair. He stared once again at the flames, pulled a long drag of his brandy, and cursed under his breath. "No shit, Sherlock."
Chapter Eleven
"Maggie. Maggie." A voice called in the dark.
Her mind still fogged with sleep, her thoughts failing to focus in the blackened room, Maggie's eyes drifted open.
"Maggie!" The voice grew more insistent.
"What?"
"Shh! It's me."
Maggie's eyes adjusted to the dark. The ghostly figure leaning over her bed took shape. Lydia? What was she . . . ? Of course, they were going riding. How could she have forgotten?
"Damn." Maggie tumbled out of bed. "I must have overslept. Sorry." She scrambled into the jeans she'd placed on the foot of the bed the night before. "It's not too late, is it?"
"No," Lydia whispered. "But we really must hurry. Here." She thrust a wadded-up piece of fabric at her. "Put this on."
Maggie grabbed the material and shook it out. It looked like a shirt. "What is it?”
"It's Adam’s linen. I'm wearing one as well.”
"I was going to wear my T-shirt."
Lydia shook her head. “The yellow garment? No, that's too scandalous even to consider and not nearly warm enough for this morning. Besides, if anyone sees us in these, we might pass for boys. I brought this, too."
In the gloom, Maggie squinted to make out what appeared to be a blanket.
"Here, take it. It's a cloak."
Maggie grabbed the heavy wool garment and dropped it on the bed. She pulled the shirt over her head and struggled with the buttons, eventually leaving it open at the neck. Soft and full, it smelled faintly of Adam.
"Okay, let me just get my shoes.” Maggie stumbled to the wardrobe and grabbed the Nikes from their hiding place. Leaning against the massive piece of furniture, she pulled on the shoes and bounced lightly on the balls of her feet, enjoying the pleasant, familiar spring. It was great to be back in her own clothes again. Even though the flowing dresses and lightweight slippers here were growing on her.
She grabbed a brush and ran it through her hair, then tossed it on the bed and snatched up the cloak. She threw the oversize garment around her shoulders. "Ready?"
"Ready." Lydia nodded, pulling up the hood of her own cloak to cover her blond curls. She carefully opened the door and peered cautiously into the hall. "Follow me."
The women silently crept along the darkened passageway, trying not to alert any of the mansion’s sleeping residents. Lydia led the way down a servants’ stairway that ended near what Maggie assumed must be the kitchen. Here was a corridor and what appeared to be a back door or maybe a servants’ entrance.
Lydia flipped back her hood and pulled a key from an invisible pocket. Carefully she fit the key in the lock and turned it. The door creaked open slowly and they slipped through, closing it silently behind them. Within moments they were at the stables.
Two horses stood saddled and ready.
“I thought you didn't want anybody to know about this," Maggie hissed.
Lydia shrugged. "I didn't, but I was not at all sure if we could saddle the horses ourselves, so I asked George to help. Don't worry. He'll keep our secret, won't you, George?"
The silent George nodded somberly.
"Besides, I paid him to be still."
"You actually had real money? Cash?" Maggie's voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Of course," Lydia said loftily. "Now shall we?"
It had been a long time since Maggie last mounted a horse, but the skill came back to her quickly. She sat astride within seconds and waited for Lydia to do likewise. But Lydia remained standing, eyeing the horse with more than a little skepticism. “Perhaps this idea was not well thought out after all."
"Oh, come on. Where's your spirit of adventure? We've come way too far to give up now." Maggie turned to the stable boy. "Is there something she can stand on to get into the saddle?"
George brought a stool and eventually Lydia sat astride the animal, which looked nearly as unsure as she.
"This is odd, isn't it? Sitting like this." Lydia adjusted herself in the saddle. "But really quite comfortable and one doesn't feel as if they're about to slide right off. I could become quite used to this." She turned to Maggie. "Ready?"
“After you."
Lydi
a took the lead and Maggie followed her out of the stable and into the street to the park.
***
The pair passed through the park gates in that uncertain time of morning between the total black of night and the rosy glow of dawn, with much of the world shadowed gray and indistinguishable. Wisps of mist swirled and hugged the ground, scattered only by their passage. The clop-clop of the horses’ hooves echoed through the lonely streets. The air hung heavy with early morning dew. Tendrils of hair curled around Maggie's face. The furtive nature of their ride, the quasi-disguises, even the still of the predawn hour stimulated Maggie. Excitement coursed through her veins.
They passed few people on the street, only a carriage here and there apparently returning home from a late night out. In the park they rode alone, the hour still too early for even the most avid rider. They trotted through deserted, tree-lined lanes. Maggie grew confident both in the saddle and in their ability to pull the whole thing off without incident.
They rode deeper into the park and Maggie turned to Lydia. “Is there someplace where we can let loose? You know, really have a good run? Maybe a race?"
"Oh, one does not race in the park. It's simply not permitted." Lydia shook her head firmly.
"Come on," Maggie said. "You're riding astride. You're wearing pants. And you're worried about a little thing like speeding? Relax and let's enjoy it."
"Your point is well taken," Lydia said ruefully. "I accept your challenge." She laughed and dug her heels into the horse's flanks. He lunged forward and took off, leaving Maggie gaping after them.
“What challenge?" She urged her horse into a canter. "What's with this family and their challenges anyway? Damn. If I lose her I'm in big trouble."
Her horse picked up speed and they raced in the direction Lydia disappeared. Maggie's body moved with the rhythm of the beast and, after a moment, she lost herself in the sheer enjoyment of the ride, of being one with the broad, handsome animal. Exhilaration, primal and primitive, surged through her and she felt every inch as much a creature of nature as the one beneath her. This was the release she sought, the answer to her restlessness. She kept an eye open for Lydia but reveled in the sheer ecstasy of her powerful flight.
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