To Tame a Wild Lady

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  One of the taller youths approached. “Shall I take her for ye, my lady?”

  “Not just yet. She needs to be walked.” If she would walk quietly. The prospect seemed chancy at best.

  “I can walk her for ye.”

  Yes, the boys were capable, but given Boudicca’s mood…“I’ll see to it. But I do wish to warn you to keep a careful eye on her. She is to remain in the stables until her current, erm, situation passes.”

  That ought to be clear enough. The lads had all spent enough time around horses to know what Caro was referring to.

  She would have said more, but Boudicca chose that moment to make a bid for freedom. With a sudden jolt of her head, she tore the reins from Caro’s grasp.

  Caro had no time to react. She could only stand, frozen, watching those sharp hooves rise and rise. The next thing she knew, her face slammed into the packed earth of the stable yard, and every last bit of air rushed from her lungs.

  Black spots danced before her eyes. An excruciatingly tight band constricted her chest, hemming in her pounding heart. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  From one instant to the next, she expected half a ton of horse to crack her ribs beneath iron-shod hooves.

  No. Something was wrong. A weight already covered her entire body. A shield, warm and powerful. Somehow she managed a breath. The clean scent of soap overlay the more pungent aroma of the stables.

  “What—”

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Crosby’s voice rasped just behind her ear. Where had he come from? Impossibly he’d materialized from thin air to protect her body with his.

  “Let me up.”

  The weight eased from her back, and she drew in a proper lungful of air before scrambling to her feet. “Boudicca—”

  “The stable boys will take care of her.” Indeed, several had already surrounded the mare. One held tight to the trailing reins, while another patted her neck and spoke soothingly in her ear.

  Still, the curtness in Crosby’s tone did nothing for her temper. “Now, see—”

  “Let them handle it.” His hands on her shoulders commanded her entire focus. A spark of something illuminated his gaze with blue fire. Could it be fear? For her? “That horse is too much animal for you.”

  Caro placed her hands on her hips and planted her feet. “Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot handle?”

  He dropped his hands, but his eyes still held hers captive. “What if you’d been alone? You might have been trampled.”

  “She’s never done anything like that before.”

  He brushed her protest aside with a harsh swipe of his hand. “You returned from your ride alone. What happened to your friend?”

  “My friend?” What in blazes was Crosby talking about?

  “Your companion.” He shook a rogue lock of hair out of his face. The dark ends curled with humidity as if he’d dipped his face in a bucket of water. Or perhaps he’d been washing away the sweat and grime of his earlier labor. “I saw you out riding with him earlier.”

  “You presume a great deal—like any of this is your affair.”

  “If one of the animals poses a danger to the estate, it becomes my affair.” He took a step toward her, and his shoulders blocked out the rest of the stable yard. Nothing else existed beyond this infuriating man. “And I would think a gentleman would have seen you safely home. What if you’d been thrown?”

  “Boudicca has never thrown me.” Blast it, she wished she could make a more forceful argument, but Crosby’s very presence was fogging her brain.

  “You’ll forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.”

  “She hasn’t. And she wasn’t acting up when Lord Allerdale and I parted company. By mutual agreement, I’ll have you know. I had every reason to believe I’d be perfectly fine seeing myself home, since I ride these fields all the time.”

  He shifted his weight, drawing her gaze to his chest. His shirt clung in damp patches to the skin and muscle beneath. Yes, he’d come from cleaning up after the exertion she’d witnessed. An image of his powerful back heaving in effort floated through her brain.

  “But something’s set the horse off,” he said

  “You know very well what that is.” Despite herself, heat washed up her cheeks. The subject wasn’t exactly proper, but Caro saw no means of avoiding it. “I suspect there’s a stallion in the area.”

  “All the more reason for caution. Do you really think you could stop a pair of horses from acting on their natural urges?”

  “I was already on my way home when she started misbehaving. I did the best I could. Now we have to make certain to keep Boudicca in the stables for the next few days.”

  “Yes, and what will you do then?” Idly, he raised a hand and brushed at her shoulders.

  Caro gasped at the contact, and he curled his fingers into a fist.

  “Your pardon. I should not have presumed.”

  “Think…think nothing of it.” For some reason her voice seemed to have dropped an octave. “And I have been remiss in thanking you. You did, after all, act to protect me.”

  “Your servant.” He inclined his head. “You might, however, wish to clean up somewhat before you return to the manor.” His hand came up again, wavering, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to touch her again. “Your cheek is smudged, and you’ve dirty straw in your hair.” Finally, he used that hand to gesture toward the tack room. “I’ve water, if you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  She moved into the quiet shade of the small room just off the stables, where bits and bridles hung in neat rows. The scents of leather and saddle soap filled her lungs. In the middle of the floor stood a copper tub filled with a quantity of water. Beside it lay a pair of discarded breeches and a dirty linen shirt.

  Caro bit her lip. He’d been in here. Naked. A duke’s daughter shouldn’t think of such things, especially about one’s estate agent, but now that she’d seen Mr. Crosby without his shirt, the image was difficult to banish.

  A clean cloth appeared before her eyes. Good heavens, he’d followed her in here. The room seemed to shrink. She clenched her fingers about the bit of fabric to hide their shaking.

  As she reached to wet the cloth in the cooling bathwater, Mr. Crosby cleared his throat. “I’ve been remiss myself.”

  She paused over the soap, trying to banish the idea of him running it over his bare skin. “Oh?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve come across one of the footmen?”

  “No. What is this about?”

  “One accosted me in the woods earlier. He was looking for you, to deliver a message.”

  She turned. Mr. Crosby was standing too close for prudence, given the tenor of her thoughts. “I received no message.”

  “It’s Gus. Apparently he’s awake.”

  “Oh…Oh my heavens.” Both cloth and soap dropped to the planked floor with a thump. Whatever jumble of emotions she’d experienced in the past half hour coalesced into a bubble of pure happiness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She didn’t give him a chance to defend himself before she launched herself into his embrace.

  Chapter 7

  Adrian had no right to touch her, but his hands had already molded about Lady Caroline’s slender waist. Full breasts pressed to his chest in sublime temptation. He inhaled, and her scent filled him, expensive perfume and earthy woman combining into something unique.

  Something he wanted with a sudden, stark desperation.

  It’s the danger. Or so his mind reasoned. He didn’t think he’d ever erase the mental image of those lethal hooves coming within a hairsbreadth of Lady Caroline’s skull. He’d certainly never forget the way his heart slammed into his ribs. He hadn’t thought; he’d reacted.

  Just as he was reacting now to the vital warmth of her body against his.

  Forbidden. But he couldn’t quite make himself let go. And why was that? His experience with women of her social standing ought to send him running in the other direction.
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  Lady Caroline pulled away first, but hardly far enough. Her palms warmed his upper arms. The tips of her breasts still grazed his shirtfront.

  He tried to ignore their tantalizing sway, instead focusing on the smudge of dirt from the stable yard she had yet to clean off. Nevertheless, his fingers tightened momentarily.

  Without thinking he brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. Her lips parted, and not as they should. Not in admonition. No, not at all, the way her gaze dropped to his mouth. He knew just what she was thinking, because he was thinking it, too. A strong surge of curiosity welled up. He had to know how she tasted.

  Damn it all.

  He forced himself to release her and step back. “You mun wish to look in on Gus.”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded hoarse, like a sleeper just waking. “Yes, I ought to.”

  Ought, not want.

  With an effort, he remained where he was while she turned for the door. But before she could cross the threshold, she pivoted. “Would you like to make his acquaintance? You helped save him, after all.”

  How she tempted him, but he must remain firm. Lady Caroline represented nowt if not a complication he did not need. “Another time would be best.”

  —

  Caro tramped back to the manor, her thoughts in turmoil. She’d come within a hairsbreadth of doing the unthinkable. Lord above, another moment and she might have given in to the impulse to kiss him. And where had that come from?

  On horseback, she dared ride at a breakneck gallop and jump the highest fences, but where gentlemen were concerned…Well, she could be bold when it came to issuing challenges and laying wagers. When it came to anything remotely resembling courtship, though, she was entirely out of her element, because a gentleman who approached her with such intentions held expectations. Marriage. The bedchamber. Children. A lifetime relegated to hosting parties and behaving—she shuddered—in a ladylike manner.

  A husband would wish to rule her. He’d impose his will, and without doubt she’d no longer be allowed the freedom she enjoyed as long as Papa holed himself up in the country and generally avoided society. Certainly if she married and found herself with child, she’d be forbidden from riding.

  Mr. Crosby, on the other hand, hardly claimed the title of gentleman. The arbiters of proper manners would say his status made her desires all the worse, but to Caro, his lower rank made him safe, in a sense. He’d never ask her to waltz. He’d never come bearing flowers. He’d never dream of asking the duke for her hand.

  Yet her cheek still tingled from his touch. She pressed her fingers to the spot, half expecting to feel warmth.

  Good Lord, she was behaving like some silly chit at her first ball, one who believed herself on the verge of a proposal after a single invitation to dance. Shaking her head, she strode on.

  She made it as far as the upstairs corridor before pulling up short. A door stood ajar a room or two up the corridor from Gus’s chamber. Voices sounded from behind it, their tones rushed and urgent, as if they didn’t want to be overheard. Caro crept closer. Her other concerns fled as she tried to focus on the subject under discussion.

  Whatever the matter was, it had to be serious.

  “I don’t care who you studied under. I’m not about to stand by while you bleed a boy for a knock on the head.” Caro recognized that growl as belonging to her brother-in-law.

  “Humph.” She just as easily pinpointed that sniff as belonging to Dr. Fowler. “And when did you come by your medical training? Was it before or after your stint as a Bow Street Runner? It’s quite clear the patient will continue to suffer the consequences of his injuries unless his bad humors are drained.”

  Consequences? The word settled like a lead weight in the pit of Caro’s stomach.

  “I’ve seen smaller piles of shite in the stables,” Dysart said.

  “Was that necessary?” Good heavens, Lizzie was in there, too. Caro could imagine her sister placing a hand on her husband’s arm to hold him back. For all the good it would do.

  “ ’Course it was,” Dysart replied. “I’ve enough personal experience with conks on the noggin, and I’ve never required bleeding.”

  “That much is clear.” The doctor’s voice came from somewhere nearer the door. “You’ve years’ worth of bad humors built up.”

  “I’ll keep them, thank you very much.”

  The door flew open. Caro stepped out of the way just in time for Dr. Fowler to stamp off in a huff. Dysart glared at his retreating back. “Good riddance. I knew we ought to have sent for Riggs.”

  “What is going on?” Caro asked. “Mr. Crosby told me Gus is awake. I thought that meant he’d be on his way to healing.”

  “He’ll stand a better chance now that we’ve run that quack off,” Dysart muttered.

  Lizzie patted his shoulder. “Papa was only trying to help by bringing in his personal physician once more.”

  “Is Gus going to be all right?” Caro tried again. He had to be.

  The reaction to her question did little to alleviate the worry taking hold. Dysart’s jaw clenched hard enough that Caro fancied she heard his back teeth grind. Spine rigid, Lizzie placed her hand on her husband’s back and rubbed in slow, soothing circles.

  “What is it?” Caro insisted.

  “Hard to tell when the head’s involved,” Dysart said tightly. He may never have undergone medical training, but his experience on Bow Street had acquainted him intimately with all manner of bodily harm. “From what I’ve seen, the longer a person is out cold, the worse the damage.”

  “But he’s behaving like a perfectly healthy eleven-year-old,” Lizzie added, though perhaps too quickly. “He can’t have a proper meal until we’re certain he’ll keep it down. Since he hasn’t eaten in a few days, we cannot run the risk of shocking his stomach with too much at once.”

  A crash resounded from the next bedchamber.

  Lizzie winced. “Apparently he’s not fond of broth.”

  “Can you blame him?” Dysart muttered.

  “Let me see what I can do,” Caro said. “You’ve been sitting with him for days.”

  She collected her trailing skirts and strode for the bedchamber. In sharp contrast to the last time she’d looked in on the boy, he was sitting in the middle of his bed, propped up with several pillows. He held his arms fiercely folded across his thin chest and his mouth in a grim slash of displeasure, but at least his color appeared natural.

  Beside the bed, a maid crouched, gathering the shards of a porcelain bowl from a widening puddle.

  Gus turned his glare on Caro. “If ye’ve come t’ make me eat that slop, yer too late.”

  She ignored his lack of manners along with the rough tones of East End London. Dysart had raised the boy alone for several years, under less than ideal circumstances. If Gus retained a bit of roughness around the edges, it was understandable, especially given his current situation.

  “I wouldn’t have eaten it, either.” She advanced to his bedside, studying him for any lingering effects of his injury. The boy was too thin by far, but that had more to do with his age than his recent misadventure. “Do you know what happened to you?”

  “O’ course.” He tossed his head with youthful scorn. “Why do ye keep harping on that?”

  Caro waited for the maid to finish cleaning up the mess and leave the bedchamber before replying. “I do beg your pardon. I haven’t seen you since you awoke.”

  “Not ye, but ever’one.”

  “Funny thing about adults, if you haven’t noticed. They worry.” Though the source of Dysart’s concern was not readily apparent. The boy exhibited enough bluster to make Caro think he’d be up and into trouble again by tomorrow morning, if not sooner. As long as he didn’t faint from hunger first.

  “They worry a damned sight too much. They won’t let me get out of bed.”

  A properly bred young lady would take him to task over his profanity, but Caro had grown up with more proper breeding than she could stomach. She was the last perso
n who would curb his tongue. “Do you mean your father and Lizzie?”

  “Yeah, them.” He regarded Caro through narrowed eyes, and his arms relaxed somewhat. “D’ye think ye’d be able to convince them I’m all right?”

  “What if you showed them you were?” She smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging manner, even if she could predict the boy’s reaction to what she was about to suggest. “By eating your broth?”

  He blew out a breath. “I’ve a better idea. Why don’t I show them I’m better by getting up on a horse?”

  “No.” It was far too soon.

  “But why? Haven’t ye always said that when ye fall off, ye has t’ get straight back on? Before the fear takes hold?”

  Gus’s fear—or more precisely, lack thereof—was the least of her worries. He could stand a healthy dose of it—or, failing that, a sense of his own limitations as a rider. “You are not ready to rise from that bed yet, much less get on the back of a horse. I’m afraid I can no longer trust you out riding on your own. When you get back on, you will be accompanied until you prove you’ve got your head in the proper place.”

  The boy’s jaw worked soundlessly before he spouted a few words he’d no doubt overheard from his father. Then he added, “I thought you were my friend!”

  “I’d like to be, but I’ve a responsibility to the horses—and so do you.” Heaven help her, she had no idea where this calm was coming from. “Until you can understand that as a rider, you may not ride unaccompanied.”

  Gus’s expression transformed into the very picture of betrayal. “Yer not me mum.”

  “She’s not.” Dysart’s gruff voice drifted from the threshold. “But she’s the right of it, and you’ll obey.”

  —

  The ledger columns were turning to a blur before Adrian’s eyes. Not that it mattered. They made no sense either way. What had he expected to learn from books he knew had been doctored?

  Though, maybe they’d give him some clue as to what the estate’s revenues might eventually be. His predecessor would have had to plug in plausible figures to operate undetected for so many years.

  That field Lady Caroline had claimed as her riding ground, for example. She’d declared the oats hadn’t done well, but the yields recorded over several seasons stretching back indicated he might turn a healthy profit there, given adequate drainage. And he’d already begun that project.