To Tame a Wild Lady

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Not only that, these woods were no longer safe, not until he discovered who had dug this hole and why. Not until he determined if Lady Caroline had the right of it and there were others.

  “But—”

  A trumpeting call echoed through the woods, cutting short her protest. Not human, but animal. A stallion, calling to its mate.

  Lady Caroline muttered a curse and cast about. She pointed toward the fringe of trees where the path let out into the fields. “Over there.”

  “No.”

  “We’ve no time to argue.” She began to hobble toward Adrian’s horse.

  “But your ankle.”

  She didn’t even turn. “Tie the reins off of that one, and set me on your horse. We find that stud, we’ll find Boudicca.”

  Perhaps, but the mare would hardly be any more biddable than her mistress. A thousand misgivings vied in his mind for attention, but he pushed them aside. He forced his fingers to tie off the dragging reins of the injured steed, helped Lady Caroline to his mount, and boosted her into the saddle. He retraced his steps back to the path, praying the beaten trail was at least clear of danger. Then he led her out beyond the edge of the woods.

  Lady Caroline sucked in a breath.

  The moon had risen to light the rolling fields with an otherworldly glimmer. Adrian could make out the dark line of the irrigation channel and, in the far distance, the silhouettes of the tenants’ cottages. On the nearer side of the ditch, however, two equine-shaped shadow figures approached each other, tails high, necks arched. Their noses touched, and then the stallion moved back, nibbling down the crest of the mare’s mane.

  Or Boudicca’s, rather.

  Adrian held no doubt they’d found their quarry, but they could do nothing to stop what was about to transpire.

  And there was still no sign of Gus.

  Chapter 9

  The first time Caro witnessed a stallion covering a mare, the sight had filled her with an illicit thrill. But she’d been all of sixteen then, and hiding in the hayloft to see the forbidden.

  She felt none of that now.

  Instead, a jumble of anger and frustration warred within her, seething with its own pulse in perfect synchronization with the throbbing in her lower leg. The rhythm mocked her with her helplessness.

  Do something. Stop this.

  She clamped her teeth shut against the words she longed to shout into the night. At the moment, they were as useless as her ankle. She couldn’t ask Mr. Crosby to confront an unknown stallion in the midst of fulfilling his natural urges. She could only look on and wait for it to be over.

  And pray nothing came of this joining.

  At the thought of what she was watching alongside the estate agent, a prickling sensation, hot and uncomfortable, worked its way up her spine toward her face.

  The stallion finished the deed and stood down, perhaps not quickly enough. Ears pinned back, Boudicca let fly with her heels. The blow landed with a dull thump.

  Mr. Crosby cleared his throat. “It seems she didn’t appreciate the attention.”

  Caro jerked her head sharply in his direction. In society, she would have been obliged to pretend outrage and set him down. Maybe she still ought to. But he wasn’t even looking at her, as she might expect, one eyebrow raised and a glint in his eye. No, his gaze was trained firmly across the field at Boudicca and her hapless suitor.

  “Can you summon her?” Crosby asked.

  Now was their chance to catch Boudicca, before the stud decided to risk the mare’s hooves for another go.

  “She comes when I cluck to her, but she’s too far away. If only I had a bucket of oats.” Caro would have loved nothing more than to dig her knees into her mount’s sides and ride to the rescue, but Crosby had set her sideways in this saddle, and she didn’t think her ankle would withstand the strain. “You’ll have to catch her. Take the horse.”

  Caro slipped from the saddle. Blinding pain shot upward from her ankle, and her injured leg crumpled under her. Her breath rushed out in a hiss.

  Before she could hit the ground, a strong arm slid about her waist, and she leaned against a solid chest. “Are you all right?”

  The ominous pop from her earlier fall echoed through her mind, and a chill passed through her. Please don’t let it be broken. Please. A broken ankle would see her out of the saddle for six weeks, at least. More than enough to ruin her plans to join Sir Bellingham’s hunt.

  But she just might be all right as long as she could remain in the circle of his embrace, his scent surrounding her. He still smelled of soap from his earlier bath, but underlying that was a reminder of the man who had sweated tirelessly in the sun. The fragrance was so completely foreign compared to the overperfumed dandies she met in society that it intrigued. Societal sticklers would term it common, but she did not wish to move from this spot.

  “You need to catch Boudicca,” she managed. “Before…before…” She couldn’t bring herself to voice the rest of that thought.

  “The stallion is gone.”

  “Thank the heavens.”

  “And I can’t leave to catch her with you barely able to stand on your own.” He placed a thumb and forefinger into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle.

  Ears pricked, Boudicca raised her head from the stubble she’d been nibbling.

  “Call her,” Crosby urged. “We’ve got her attention now.”

  And so Caro clucked until she felt like an overdressed hen. “Boudicca. Come along, girl.”

  The mare took a few tentative steps toward them. Before long—summoned no doubt by Mr. Crosby’s whistle—mounted figures emerged from various directions to converge on their target. Crosby raised his lantern as a signal, and Boudicca halted, her flanks quivering. Too late, though. One of the stable boys reached for her halter. With low, murmured words and a gentle pat, he began to lead Boudicca back to the path through the woods.

  “There, now.” Mr. Crosby was still supporting her, his arm firm about her waist. “The lads will see to her, and she’ll be fine.”

  In spite of herself, Caro stiffened. “Will she? And what of Gus? We still haven’t found him in all this.”

  Crosby’s grip tightened for a moment. “You’re not going to find him. Not out here.”

  She tried to pull away before a twinge in her ankle reminded her she was dependent on him if she wanted to go anywhere. “How do you reckon?”

  “Could he ride Boudicca bareback and without a bridle? He’d never have come this far, would he?”

  Good Lord, Crosby had a point. He’d noticed and put together what she had missed. Boudicca wore only a halter. “No, and most certainly not in his current condition.”

  “Then he’s got to be back at the stables.”

  “Then why hasn’t anyone found him there? You had all the stable boys on the search. Surely someone would have come across him.”

  “Here’s what I think.” The muscles in his arm flinched once again, this time to steer her toward their borrowed horse. “Someone had to let Boudicca out. What if Gus wanted to go in and see her, and she took advantage of the open stall?”

  Caro winced as she tried, in vain, to make her ankle bear at least some of her weight. “I suppose he might have slunk off so as not to get caught.”

  Crosby tightened his grip on her. “Either way, we’ll most likely find the answer back at the stables. Or better, the manor. You ought to have someone look at your ankle.”

  —

  He should have insisted on binding Lady Caroline’s ankle when she first fell. Adrian saw as much when he set her back in the saddle and a flip of her hems betrayed the flesh puffing angrily above her delicate slippers.

  Gently, tentatively, he spanned the injury with his fingers, barely skimming the surface. Still, she hissed on a sharply intaken breath.

  “Your pardon,” he muttered.

  He raised his eyes to search her face. Would he read understanding in her expression? She had to know she’d be unable to tear across the fields for a sennight.
Perhaps longer. If he’d insisted on seeing to the wound when she first sustained it, he might have shaved days off her convalescence.

  But now…Her entire hunting party might be in jeopardy. Shite.

  She refused to meet his gaze, staring instead across the fields toward the tenants’ cottages, searching maybe for a sign of the stud.

  “It’s nothing.” Her reply emerged in a distracted yet clipped sort of tone that told him it was hardly nothing. Her hands tightened to fists about the reins; her body trained in the same direction she was looking. Whatever else ate at her—worry for Gus, concern for her mare, the pain of her injury—she wanted that stallion. “Of all the irresponsible—”

  He cut her short with a hand to her knee.

  At the contact, a tremor passed through her. She swiveled her head toward him, and he braced himself for a reprimand. Aye, he’d dared, but some instinct deep inside told him she needed calm and reassurance. In the same manner one might take with a skittish colt, he could give her that calm through an unapologetic, soothing touch. “Boudicca will be fine. Stallions and mares have been managing since the beginning of time.”

  “I wasn’t ready to breed her yet.”

  “She may not be in foal after one encounter.” He gripped the reins just below the bit and began to lead her mount toward the stables.

  “We don’t know how long they were out there together.”

  God, the subject of this exchange. He should not even hold such a conversation with a woman, let alone one of her station, but after the spectacle they’d witnessed, framing a description in polite terms barely felt scandalous.

  “True,” he acknowledged, “but if she is in foal, you might consider the profit to be had.”

  “Profit?” She sat back, halting her horse. “Is that your only concern?”

  “That’s what you hired me for—to turn this estate around after my predecessor almost drove it to ruin. Horses require a great deal in the way of resources. If Boudicca can contribute to her own upkeep, so much the better.”

  “A breeding venture is only profitable when both pedigrees are impeccable.” Her clipped tones had returned. “With an unknown sire, who would take a chance?”

  Who, indeed? And just like that she’d slighted him. A dozen cutting replies vied for an outlet, uncharitable remarks like For one of your position, blood is everything. Or And the father, he makes all the difference.

  But Adrian held them in, because she didn’t know any better. He didn’t go around carrying his origins on a banner. He didn’t tell anybody his mother was born a Crosby and hadn’t married into the name. He certainly wasn’t going to waste his wages on an advertisement in the Times proclaiming he’d no idea who his father was.

  It was none of Lady Caroline’s affair. It was none of anybody’s affair. At Sherrington Manor, at least, the fact of his natural birth might remain his secret, unlike where he’d been born—on Wyvern’s estate.

  Moreover, she needed his calm, not his private turmoil. So he kept the burn of his resentment to himself. “The next time we can do it properly with handlers, and introductions, and our choice of sire.”

  “The next time won’t happen until I’m ready for it.” She didn’t need to add that she wouldn’t be ready for several years. That much was apparent in her tone.

  She fell into a simmering silence while they walked the path back. Past the fringe of trees, into the deeper woods, until they came to the spot where they’d left the other horse. And with every step, her spine grew more rigid. The tension in her increased until it became an entity unto itself.

  Adrian took the reins of the other mount, waiting patiently for them, but he maintained his focus on Lady Caroline. She was stewing about something. Her mare’s condition seemed the obvious conclusion, though he struggled to understand why. To be certain, foaling was a risk, but the vast majority of broodmares came through the experience just fine. For that matter, Caroline probably put the animal in more danger on a daily basis the way she rode hell-for-leather, but he could not point that out without incurring her wrath.

  As the leaf-strewn path gave way to the beaten earth of the stable yard, Lady Caroline sat taller in the saddle. “Gem!”

  The lad stood in the entrance to the tack room, backlit by the glow of a lantern. “My lady?”

  “How does Boudicca fare?” Caroline asked—as though she expected the boy to tell her whether the mare would drop a foal next year.

  Gem unhooked his light and approached. “I looked her over myself. Couldn’t find the least bit of hurt. She’ll be just fine.”

  “Might you fetch some bandages?” Adrian asked.

  “Yes,” Caroline added. “The horse I was riding took a stumble. You’ll want to keep close watch on his near foreleg.”

  “Oh, aye,” Adrian said, while Gem bent to run a hand along the beast’s injured limb. Though they’d managed the path back with little enough difficulty. “You may need bandages for that, too.”

  “See to the horse, Gem. No one needs to concern himself with me.”

  Adrian shook his head. That was just the sort of attitude that had Caroline’s lower leg swollen to twice its size. “You ought to bind your ankle. What if it’s broken?”

  Gem raised his head. “Broken, my lady?”

  “I took a spill when the horse did,” she replied in a crisp voice. “It’s a mere sprain, no matter what anyone else would like to insinuate.”

  “I’ll be back in a trice.” Gem stalked off in the direction of the tack room.

  Adrian touched his fingertips to her toe. “Even if it’s a sprain, you’ll want to take care there’s no lasting damage.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It can’t be broken. If it is, I won’t be able to ride for six weeks.”

  She sounded so bleak, he let his fingers slide along her foot. If her hand had been within his grasp, he would have taken that. “Is it broken?”

  “No!”

  God help her if she was protesting too much.

  —

  Mr. Crosby’s hands were gentle, unexpectedly so. With painstaking care, they grasped Caro’s waist and set her on the mounting block. The lantern’s flickering glow illuminated long fingers tugging at the ribbons of her silk shoes. Not the most practical footwear for riding, but she hadn’t dressed for dinner with a moonlit outing in mind.

  She shook away that strangely romantic thought—and where on earth had that come from?—but she could not tear her gaze from his hands. Such a stark contrast to the white-knuckled power with which they’d gripped the spade. He’d wielded the tool as a weapon, but now he probed her injury with the exacting care of a watchmaker dissecting the most delicate cogs and tiny springs.

  “Have you ever broken a bone?” His rough-voiced question gave her a start.

  “No.”

  He reached for the roll of bandages. “Surprising, the way you hare about.”

  Why couldn’t he go back to tending her in silence so she could enjoy his touch without a scolding? “I have a very firm seat.”

  In direct contrast to his last observation, an odd half smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Aye, that you do.”

  His lowered timbre blanketed her with warmth. If only he’d go on addressing her in that particular tone, with the hint of North Yorkshire that had crept into his accent, she could happily listen and watch as he swathed her lower leg in linen.

  “Have you?” she asked.

  “Are you asking about my seat or the state of my bones?”

  “The bones. I’ve observed your seat.”

  “I’ve cracked a rib a time or two.”

  His reply was all business once more. Blast it.

  Go back. Go back to that other manner of speaking. He’d been teasing, perhaps, but she wanted that, along with the intriguing glimpse he’d given her into his origins. She’d known he couldn’t have come from any family of note, given his position, but his intonation suggested tenants’ cottages, rather than more comfortable surround
ings. He’d pulled himself up from somewhere. The thought stirred her curiosity.

  “It’s a unique kind of pain. Somehow it’s keen like a knife, and it makes you sick to your stomach.”

  Though his careful ministrations added nothing to her suffering, her ankle still throbbed with a living beat all its own. Nothing such as he’d described, however. “That’s not what this feels like. If anything, it’s dull. I daresay I can tolerate it.”

  He finished knotting the bandage. “Then maybe you’re right, and it’s just a bad sprain. Do you think you can walk on it?”

  Caro eyed the manor. Lights twinkled from the lower windows, but at the moment, they might as well be as distant as stars. Not that she would allow her doubt to show. “I can try.”

  He stood and extended a hand. She grasped it, her fingers curling about his, and let him pull her upright. She wobbled, trying to balance most of her weight on her good leg. Her injury gave a sharper warning twinge.

  Don’t even think about it. If her ankle could talk, it might voice those very words.

  “I can hobble.” She punctuated that statement with a decisive nod in hopes she’d sound more convincing.

  “The hell you can.” His arm encircled her waist.

  She shouldn’t lean in to him, but she couldn’t help herself. And if you claimed a broken ankle, whispered the voice of temptation, perhaps you could prevail on him to squire you about for the next six weeks. She pushed the thought away even as she took a moment to revel in his strength.

  The pressure at the small of her back increased, and the image of bulging biceps aroused in her wayward mind. He was steering her in the direction of the house.

  “Not yet,” she rasped, her voice as rough as his. “I wish to look at Boudicca first.”

  —

  Of course Lady Caroline wanted to inspect Boudicca and to hell with any injury. Since the beginning of this escapade, she’d been putting the horses before herself. While Adrian found that sentiment admirable—and surprising in one of her background—frustration cast a pall over any appreciation of her character.

  She needed to get off that ankle. She needed to rest. The sooner the better.