Compromised by the Prince's Touch

by Bronwyn Scott

  The words were not encouraging. How would they find one horse among so many? At the first pen, a dark bay mare ran along the fence, leggy and thin, perhaps once a beauty. She whickered and tossed her head as if she were beautiful still and the sight tore at Klara’s heart. Some horses would get out alive today—those who could still pull a cart and not cost too much to feed, those who were hearty enough to be useful to a cabbie or dray driver. The mare would not be one of them. No one would look at her and see that potential. A thoroughbred, Klara thought, an animal bred for beauty and speed, a luxury and not much else. Instinctively, Klara reached a hand out to the mare, petting her muzzle.

  ‘Don’t torture yourself.’ Nikolay’s voice was grim and low. ‘He’s not in this one, let’s go.’ He urged her on, but the mare followed, trotting along the fence until she ran out of room. She gave a last wicker. ‘Don’t look back,’ Nikolay ordered in a voice that would have kept men on the front line of battle.

  The bay wasn’t in the next pen, or the next. Klara felt the minutes ticking by, she felt Nikolay’s nerves draw tighter. Already, people were walking out with horses they’d bought for discount rates and a new fear took her. What if they were simply too late? What if someone else got to the horse first? If Nikolay felt the same panic, he kept it well hidden, his eyes methodically going through each pen, assessing and discarding the potentials. It didn’t help that nearly every horse seemed to be a bay. By the fourth pen, Klara knew one thing with certainty: she never wanted to come here again. The people were coarse, the animals abused, the whole transaction process demeaning. She felt uncomfortable to the point of fear. She did not know this rough world. She didn’t want to leave Nikolay’s side, but she knew what she had to offer if they were going to find the bay in time. ‘We need to split up.’ If the bay was in a pen at the back, they’d never make it before the bell.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not helpless, but your horse is.’ It took too much to force those words past the tightness of her throat. She would cry when she got home, she promised herself. But she couldn’t break down now, not when Nikolay needed her strong, not when there was a horse out there who needed her. If there was anything good about the morning, it was that they were Nikolay and Klara again, as they’d been in Soho.

  Nikolay halted, terse excitement in his voice. ‘Klara, over here, I think that’s him, I think we found him.’ He moved hurriedly towards a pen, already signalling the pen manager to bring the bay forward, but a whinny in the distance claimed Klara’s attention. The whinny of a horse came again, cutting above the noise followed by a commotion that drew the eye. A chestnut stallion reared up, hooves striking out, a fighter among the desperate and downtrodden. Handlers struck at him with heavy, knotted ropes and still he fought. A whip cut across his back, and cries of ‘Bring him down!’ broke out. It was a battle between man and beast now and the beast was going to lose if someone didn’t do something fast. Klara forgot her own fear. Without hesitation, she dived into the crowd.

  * * *

  He had the horse! Nikolay gestured to the man working the pen and then turned back to Klara, only to find her gone. Panic took him. He scanned the crowd. Where was Klara? He could do nothing now until he had the bay. He searched the crowded pens, the crowded aisles, his gaze looking for trouble, knowing instinctively that was where he’d find her. Only serious trouble would have routed her from his side. She was brave, but this place, the whole morning, had been a shock to her. In a far pen a stallion reared, striking out with his hooves against men holding him with ropes, striking him with whips. That was going to end poorly, he thought. Then he saw her, a slim figure climbing the pen rails. Fear clenched at him. Good God, she was going in there!

  Nikolay grabbed one of the urchins hovering around looking for odd jobs. He thrust some coins in the boy’s grubby hand. ‘Take this horse to the entrance and wait for me. I’ve more coin when I come to get him.’ Anger and worry surged through him. Lucifer’s stones, this was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to bring her! It wasn’t that he’d thought she wasn’t courageous enough to face the horrors of the kill pen, but that she was. She’d see the atrocities, the illogic of it, the pathos of it and she wouldn’t run from it. She’d throw herself into it. She’d try to save them all.

  Nikolay plunged into the crowd. Had she even thought about what she’d do when she reached the horse? How was she going to pay for that horse? How was he going to pay for it? He had enough money for the bay. A kill pen was a place that expected payment upon sale, but that didn’t mean a man walked into such a place with a fortune on him unless he wanted to be robbed.

  Klara and the stallion had drawn quite a crowd by the time he’d shouldered his way to the pen. Miraculously, she had the stallion under control, her hat had come off and her hair was down, her disguise destroyed as she stood between the sweating horse and the crowd. Ruined disguises were the least of Nikolay’s concerns. Perhaps the ruined disguise had worked in her favour. The men weren’t sure what to make of a woman in breeches, let alone one who wielded a gun as if she knew how to use it. Now, it was her and the horse against the crowd.

  ‘That’s a dangerous horse, miss, you’d best step away and let us do our work,’ one man attempted to coax her into surrendering, although there was no logic to the attempt. They’d already failed in their work. She’d been the one to calm the beast and her gun said she and the men were not on the same side. Even so, Nikolay could see she was out of tricks. How long did she think she could hold them off? Her eyes flicked towards him and he saw her relief. But the glance had cost her some of her attention.

  Nikolay vaulted the fence in a single fluid motion. ‘Don’t even think about it. You touch her and I’ll touch you.’

  The man, a beefy, big-shouldered fellow, refocused his attention. ‘And who might you be?’ He spat a brown stream into the ground.

  ‘I am the man you’ll have to go through if you don’t let us leave here peacefully with that horse.’ His coat was already back, revealing a sheath. He had his knife. Klara wasn’t the only one who’d come armed.

  ‘Nikolay, there’s a foal. He was fighting for the foal.’ Klara spoke low and fast, her eyes flicking towards a brown ball on the ground near the stallion. He followed her gaze. Oh, dear, sweet heavens. A foal. A sickly, weak foal, who looked to be no more than three months old. Nikolay felt his heart sink. The odds of getting out of here safely had just grown slimmer, although they’d been pretty slim to start. The stallion was already nudging the baby with his nose. The foal struggled to its feet, confirming his worst fears. This foal wouldn’t make it. How could it, with no mother?

  ‘Be ready to move,’ Nikolay murmured. He stepped between the man and Klara. ‘We’ll be leaving now.’

  ‘Not with those horses. They ain’t free, mister.’

  ‘I will send payment,’ Nikolay tried, making direct, intimidating eye contact with a man not used to backing down. He loosened the knife in its sheath.

  ‘We deal with cash only, straight up,’ the man growled.

  ‘My pin should do.’ Klara pushed forward with a piece of jewellery fished from her pocket. ‘Take it.’

  The man grabbed it, hefting the delicate piece in his big hand. ‘What else you got? That’s pretty small for such a big horse. The butcher will give me—’

  Nikolay brought the tip of his knife up beneath the man’s chin. ‘It’s not what he’ll give you that should matter right now, but what I’ll give you. I don’t think this wild boy is worth getting cut over, do you? Quite above your pay, I’d say. The pin is expensive, well worth your inconvenience. I suggest you take it.’ He yelled over to a boy at the fence, flipping a coin towards him, ‘Open the gate.’ A voice with authority could work all sorts of miracles, which was good because he was running out of coins. He had one left for the boy who held his bay.

  He let Klara go first, leading the sorry-looking foal, the stallion urging the baby ah
ead with his nose. He wished they’d move faster before the intimidation wore off. ‘To the entrance, Klara, as fast as you can.’ He would scold her later for her impetuosity. For now, he wanted her and the horses safe. He was ready to protect them, spoiling for it, his emotions high, his blood racing. He wouldn’t mind a fight at this point. The pens were thinning out, a sure sign the bell was about to ring. The sun was coming up, slowly, the grisly work of the morning was nearly done. Only decent business was done in daylight and there was nothing decent about this place.

  They passed the first pen when the peal came. The mare was still there. The mare saw Klara and ran the length of the fence, calling out with a shrill whinny. ‘Klara, keep walking,’ Nikolay warned. ‘You have the foal.’ But if his own heart was racing and he’d had the benefit of being prepared for the morning, he could only imagine what state Klara was in. He wouldn’t easily put aside the picture of her in that pen, hair loose, her eyes on fire, a gun in her hand, ready to shoot the first man who tried to take it or the horse from her.

  Klara stopped, letting go of the foal as she reached her hands behind her neck to pull something over her head, something she’d worn beneath her shirt. ‘I want the mare, Nikolay.’ She pressed something gold and warm into his hand. He looked down at the filigreed cross and chain and looked up to see the desperation in Klara’s eyes. She was close to breaking, close to asking for the impossible, or worse, trying it on her own.

  ‘All right.’ He handed her the stallion’s rope, a mad plan coming to him. ‘But I need you to do something for me. You must follow my instructions exactly to the letter. I have to be able to trust you.’ He pressed his last coin into her hand. ‘This is for the boy outside. Take these two and the bay and walk to the carriage.’ He held her eyes. ‘Klara, no matter what you see, what you hear or what you think is going on, do not look back for any reason. Tell Stepan to go and I’ll meet you at Fozard’s. You have to trust me and I have to trust you. Your mare depends on it.’

  He saw her safely through the gate before he started slipping the bolts on the pens. One, two, three pens open. It was survival of the fastest, the smartest now. He could do no more. When Klara’s mare nudged the gate open and started running, he was ready. This was easy. How many times had he run this manoeuvre on the training grounds of Kuban? Nikolay ran alongside, knowing he’d have no more than three or four steps before the mare’s long stride would outpace him. He leaped, grabbing fistfuls of mane as he swung up on the mare’s back, his legs gripping her thin sides. Other horses were starting to realise their gates were open, a small stampede beginning as horses poured into the narrow aisles queuing towards the entrance, Nikolay and the mare in their midst, herding them towards the exit the best he good. A man called out, ‘Hey, you have to pay for that horse!’

  Nikolay tossed Klara’s cross. ‘Keep the difference!’ He charged through the gate, the pressure of his legs keeping the mare from panicking wildly in the streets as horses spilled out into the narrow lanes of London. He guided her towards the direction of the carriage, the vehicle already in motion ahead of them, the horses tied behind, Klara on the box next to Stepan. Nikolay drew the mare alongside, flashing Klara a wicked grin as they flew past. ‘Race you home!’

  * * *

  The mare was sweaty and spent by the time he reached Fozard’s. She was a game one, but her energy was gone, her thin form shaking as he rubbed her down with a handful of hay. The carriage pulled in ten minutes later. Klara barely waited for it to stop before she climbed down, her leggy stride eating up the ground between them.

  ‘What have you done!’ It was evident emotions were riding her hard. She was part-exhilaration, part-disbelief, part-anger. Her eyes sparked as she challenged him.

  ‘You couldn’t save them all,’ he said simply, ‘but I could save some.’

  ‘You crazy, crazy Cossack!’ She was in his arms then, her arms about his neck, laughing, crying, overcome by the emotions of the morning as words bubbled out of her. ‘I could hear the commotion behind me, I could hear men yelling and I heard hooves. I didn’t look back, I promise. Then you flew by, grinning as if it was all child’s play. How? What did you do?’

  ‘I slipped the latches. I opened the gates.’ He’d do it again to feel like this, to feel like a god, to have her against him, his blood singing the way it did after battle and having emerged alive. He hadn’t felt like this, like his old self, in ages. He kissed her on the mouth then, drawing her hard against him, caught up in the moment of victory. He shouldn’t have done it. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t. But a warrior’s soul was a complex thing. It did not answer to the dictates of reason or the parameters of self-proclaimed promises.

  He had her against the wall, her hands were in his hair, her mouth answering his in equal measure, driving them both to take this far further than it should go. Stepan coughed behind them.

  ‘Ahem, what shall I do with the horses?’

  Nikolay released her and reluctantly stepped back, realising too late how public his display was, the only thing saving them being the early hour. The other instructors hadn’t arrived yet to begin their day. ‘Fozard’s has let me use some vacant stalls in the old mews.’ Nikolay moved to take the chestnut stallion. ‘Follow me.’

  * * *

  The exhilaration had worn off by the time the horses were established in their new homes. Reality set in as Nikolay surveyed the horses. Only the bay and the chestnut stallion showed any real promise. The bay, in fact, far exceeded Nikolay’s expectations. ‘We’ll let him have a day or two to get comfortable and then we’ll see what he can do.’ Nikolay gave the bay a final pat before moving on to the chestnut. ‘This boy is a diamond in the rough.’ He hoped. That was the optimistic outlook. Klara’s chestnut was something of an enigma. His coat was healthy but shaggy as if he’d lived the cold months out of doors and he had some ground manners. He’d been no trouble to Klara walking through the streets, but other than that, it was hard to see what his training and background might be or his potential. He was a leader, though, a fighter. He knew how to protect a herd, that much was clear. It spoke of time in the wild and yet he had time among humans, too.

  Nikolay moved to the mare’s stall. She was quiet and eating her hay, a good sign. ‘She needs some weight on her.’

  ‘We’ll feed her,’ Klara answered, reaching out a hand to rub the mare’s head. She’d raised it as soon as she heard Klara’s voice. ‘She’s a jumper, a steeplechaser, with legs like that.’ The waver in her voice only emphasised what they were both ignoring. The bay would be fine. Captivity and deprivation had only been his lot for a very short time. The stallion was hearty, the mare could be nurtured back to health if not into Klara’s jumper. But the foal?

  He was in the last stall, curled in a ball, his hay untouched. The trek from Smithfield to Fozard’s, tied to the back of the carriage, had sapped him entirely. ‘He needs his mother, Klara,’ Nikolay began gently. She’d been through so much this morning but he could not shield her from this. ‘He needs milk.’ Nikolay could only guess what else he needed. Had there been a chance to gradually wean him before he’d ended up in the kill pens? He was clearly starving and yet so weak he couldn’t help himself to the food nearby. If they were in Kuban, he’d feed the poor foal camel’s milk, but he had no idea where to find a reliable source of camel’s milk in London.

  ‘I can get cow’s milk,’ Klara said resolutely.

  ‘Cow’s milk causes diarrhoea.’ Nikolay ran through options in his head. ‘It’s higher in fat and lower in sugar.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve used goat’s milk before.’ He’d have to send to the countryside for it. He’d need to fashion a bottle for the foal, as if he had time for this on top of lessons, finding a property and wondering what move Klara’s father would make next and the extent of Klara’s complicity. ‘He might not make it through the night, Klara. We have to prepare ourselves for that.’

  ‘I will not a
ccept it,’ Klara said, but her voice wobbled.

  ‘I think it’s time to get you home.’ Nikolay turned to Stepan. ‘Will you see her home?’ He’d prefer to, but the foal needed him now.

  ‘I want to stay,’ Klara began to argue.

  ‘You need to get home, Klara. It’s nearly eight o’clock.’ He shook his head. He’d already risked too much bringing her along, the consequences of which were now filling up three stalls in his borrowed barn. He put a hand at Klara’s back and began forcefully ushering her to where the carriage waited. ‘You can see them all tomorrow when you come for your lesson.’ There were a lot of reasons he wanted her away and she would deny every one of them. She was pale, the thrill of adventure wearing off. He knew too well what happened next: the horrors would set in. He wanted her somewhere safe when that happened, somewhere she could be alone. Instinctively, he knew Klara wouldn’t want anyone to see her in a moment of weakness. There was self-preservation to think about, too. There’d be hell to pay if anyone guessed what she’d been up to, alone, with him in the dark. Their antics went beyond compromising.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t be caught?’ he asked, holding the door for her.

  ‘You can only be caught if you’re sneaking. I left a note for my maid in case she came in. I told her there was an emergency with Zvezda.’ Klara shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I never rise before ten. She doesn’t check on me until eleven.’

  He shut the door, exchanging a look Stepan. ‘You’re right about one thing,’ Stepan said from the driver’s box. ‘She is trouble.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The trouble with adventures was that they ended and, when they did, they deposited you back into the real world. It had happened twice now. Klara stood in the centre of her bedroom, reluctant to embrace the morning. Was it really just half past eight? Had it only been four hours since she’d left? Four hours; the span of a formal dinner, less time than it took for a ball. And yet so much had happened.