“Not a coaching inn, I hope! Oh, how I despise them, someone will surely recognize Shareb and me, I just know it. And my horrid, degenerate, wastrel of a brother . . . he’s out here, Colin.” She waved her crop to indicate the darkening hills, the road ahead and behind them. “He’s out there, and he won’t stop until he finds me.”
Again, the thunder rolled, deep and dark and ominous.
“Yes, I’ve been giving considerable thought to the problem of Shareb-er-rehh’s disguise. To be safe, I think it’s time to alter it a bit, just in case any of the people we’ve encountered have put two and two together and realized he’s the horse the whole countryside is searching for.”
“Alter it? How?”
“With some mud or grease to cover that white blaze of his. And maybe some dye around his fetlocks, to conceal the white coronets and stocking and make his legs appear solid black.”
“Dye? Mud? On my noble Shareb?” She gave a little laugh. “Oh, Doctor, that would be horribly degrading for him—”
“He’ll survive.”
“But—”
Another long, warning growl of thunder came from over the hills, and the sky went the color of ink. Raindrops began tumbling down and gusts of wind drove Shareb’s mane over Ariadne’s fists. The stallion began to snort and blow, nervous about the approaching storm.
“Don’t look so woeful,” Colin chided, “it will only be temporary. But in order to get that horse safely to Norfolk we must constantly alter his disguise. After all—” he gestured to the empty road behind them, and the black clouds that were bearing down on them— “you don’t know who may be tracking us.”
She nodded, seeing the wisdom of his decision.
“Very well then, Doctor. Let’s be about it, then.”
# # #
They found a printer in the next village. While Ariadne waited anxiously outside, Colin—ignoring the raised brows of the proprietor—purchased a large quantity of black ink, which the kindly, but perplexed man supplied to him in a wooden bucket. Carefully placing it on the floor of the chaise, Colin jumped in and sent Thunder hurrying on, hoping to find refuge before the storm hit.
Refuge came in the form of a pub up the road, which had a barn and stables attached.
Hurriedly making arrangements to stable the horses, Colin returned to the darkening paddock where Lady Ariadne waited with a fretful Shareb-er-rehh and the two nervous dogs.
“Time to get this disguise in place,” he said cheerfully, trying to banish both the darkness of the day—and the darkness in her face. It was obvious she was none too happy about putting ink, or mud, on her beloved horse. Well, he wasn’t either—but some things were for the best.
“And just how are we supposed to get ink out of Shareb’s fetlocks, once we get him safely to Norfolk?” she asked, sulkily, as Colin led the horse beneath the shelter of a lean-to and placed the bucket in the dirt beside him.
“I have a special soap in my trunk that removes just about anything.”
“Yes, and it will probably remove his hair as well. I’m warning you, Colin, that if Shareb suffers any ill effects from this—”
“Ariadne,” he said tersely, “What is more important? Keeping Shareb safe or keeping his blaze pristine white?”
“Well, keeping him safe, of course . . . .”
She looked hurt, and Colin immediately felt the stab of guilt for raising his voice, but why couldn’t she just trust him, just a little?
He removed the leg bandages and looked at Shareb’s long legs. A true bay, the horse’s black stockings started at the knees and hocks and ran down to the hooves—where they were broken by distinctive bands of white in the form of tiny coronets on the front legs, and on this right rear one, a half-sock. All would have to go, so that the legs appeared totally black. He dipped a rag into the ink and touched it carefully to the white anklet.
“I promise you, Ariadne, it will come out. Now, please hold him, would you? I don’t like the way those ears of his are coming back . . .”
“Yes, and he doesn’t like the indignity of what you’re doing to him.”
“Too bad,” Colin said, working the ink into the white half-stocking. “He’ll just have to suffer until further notice.”
# # #
Colin heard the fiddler long before he and Ariadne, trailed by the two dogs, entered the pub, and its haunting melody was enough to make him forget all about his current troubles.
Inside, the room was teeming with travelers, all laughing and drinking and hoping to escape the deluge that was about to pour out of the heavens outside. A fire crackled in the hearth, a game of backgammon was in full swing with a dozen people clustered around one table, and the air was thick with the pungent scents of smoke, sweat, and grease. The din was so loud that he couldn’t hear himself think.
But still, he heard the fiddle.
Didn’t want to hear the fiddle—
“Oh, listen!” Lady Ariadne exclaimed in delight. She pointed to the old man who sat in a stool near the hearth, the fiddle against his cheek as he pounded out a rollicking old sea chantey. “Isn’t he grand?”
Colin pushed the hair off his brow, his hand shaking. The music went straight to his heart, settling there with a deep, raw ache that spread to the farthest reaches of his very soul. He didn’t have to see the tattoo on the old salt’s arm, didn’t have to spot the out-of-fashion queue hanging down his back, didn’t have to recognize the chantey he pulled from the willing old fiddle, to know the man had been a sailor.
Pain swept through him and memories that, even after five years, were still too fresh and raw to be delved into. She, walking just behind him, was never aware of it. But the old fiddler was. He looked up after finishing the tune, and as the tavern erupted in applause, cheers, and loud calls for more, his gaze caught Colin’s and something deep and unspoken passed between them.
The old man knew. Maybe it was in the way that Colin walked, maybe it was in his military bearing, maybe it was just the look on his face as the two stared at each other; maybe the old man had seen him piped aboard some ship five, maybe ten years ago, with ceremony and respect, and remembered his unusual lavender eyes and blond hair, though it had been paler then from the constant bleach of the sun, or maybe he simply sensed a kindred spirit who would never again feel the freedom of sea and wind and sky but would never stop longing for it. Nevertheless, he knew, and as Colin passed, the old man touched his forelock in a gesture of respect.
“Evenin’, Cap’n,” he said, soberly.
Colin gave a brief nod, and hoped the man’s words had been lost on his companion.
They had.
“Dr. Lord, I find this establishment most disagreeable!” she hissed, pressing close to him. “It reeks of sweat and smoke, the din is horrific, and I’m worried about Shareb.”
As if to punctuate her remark, thunder rolled from the heavens outside, though the brunt of its roar was lost amidst the noisiness of the tavern.
“Yes . . .”
“Colin?” She caught his sleeve and peered up at him. “Are you well?”
He gave a pained grin and turned his back to the fiddle, wishing he could turn his back on the memories it evoked, as well. “Yes, I’m fine,” he assured her. “And stop worrying about that damned horse.”
“I cannot help it!”
“Do you want me to go out and hold a parasol over him to shield his noble head from the threatening raindrops?”
“Oh, very funny. I still think he should’ve been put in their stable, not out in a paddock!”
“You heard the man, the stable is full. He’ll be fine in the paddock, and there is shelter for him. Besides, we shan’t tarry long here.”
“Colin, I do wish you’d tell me what has upset you so—”
“I’m not upset.”
“You are. I can see it in your eyes, even though you’re trying hard to hide it. Is it anything I’ve done? I mean, I have been so very good, and have not even flirted with or touched you for the past hour.
”
He looked down at her. Her bright eyes were worried, her piquant little face distressed. “No, Ariadne,” he said, softly. “It’s not you. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
He guided her toward a table near the fire. “Ghosts from my past.”
He slid behind a group of travelers involved in a dispute about the benefits of horse versus cow manure as fertilizer, and onto a bench seat along the wall. Outside, lightning flashed purple through the windows and glazed the rolling hills as the storm moved closer and closer. Bow jumped up into his lap, trembling, and against his feet the gun-dog, Marc, pressed, beginning to pant in fear. And still, came the strains of the fiddle—haunting, sad, and bringing back too many memories.
Too much guilt.
She took the seat across from him, perching on its edge with stiff-backed, ladylike grace, and stared at him.
He looked at her and raised a brow.
“I worry about you,” she said. “You are so very . . . aloof, sometimes. And when your eyes look sad, I can’t help but be sad, too.” She reached out and touched his hand. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings with my remarks about Thunder slowing us down. I know he is very special to you, and I should never have said that.”
He smiled, helpless against her natural charm. “You have done nothing wrong. Don’t trouble yourself over me.”
“Truthfully, I think you are very brave for stepping in and saving the animal as you did. You have won my eternal and undying admiration.”
Her words brought the smile into his eyes at last. “Eternal and undying.”
“Forever.”
“Ariadne?”
“Yes?”
“I suggest you slouch a bit, as you are attracting the attention of the poor fool sitting ten feet behind you.”
“Oh!”
Her eyes glinting with conspiracy, she slid down in her seat, tucked a lock of red hair up under the cap, and duplicating him, lazily placed her arm over the back of the adjacent chair. “Better?”
“Much.”
“Lud, next you’ll be telling me to belch and scratch!”
“Well, come to think of it, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea . . .”
“Dr. Lord!” She grabbed up a napkin and playfully tossed it at him. “What an utterly heinous suggestion!”
He laughed, enjoying her exaggerated shock, and she laughed right along with him. Their gazes met, held, and the unspoken attraction that passed between them caused them both to look away. Colin cleared his throat and wiped up a ring of moisture with the napkin; Ariadne thrust her hands into her lap and glanced out the window.
He followed her gaze. Thunder, being a gelding, had been safely turned out with the other horses who had arrived too late to be given space in the stable, and stood happily munching hay with a crowd of mares whose allure he was totally oblivious to.
Too bad the same couldn’t be said of that damned stallion.
Shareb-er-rehh, confined to a small paddock with a lean-to shed, had thoughts for nothing but the mares. His head high, his nostrils flaring, and his tail flung jauntily over his back, he made a magnificent sight as he galloped back and forth along the fence that separated him from the other horses. As they watched, he let out a long, piercing scream, skidded in the dirt at the end of his short space, wheeled, reared, and raced back the way he had come.
“Oh, look at him, Colin!” Ariadne said, nose pressed to the window. She paid no attention to the maid who brought them tea, a pitcher of milk, and cakes. “He’s showing off for those mares!”
Lightning flashed down, splitting the sky and washing the paddock and buildings in violet. The clouds grew darker.
Blacker.
The rain would come down, any minute now . . .
“I’m afraid, Ariadne, that it is not just the mares he is trying to impress, but a rival for their attention.” Colin sniffed the milk to ensure its freshness before pouring some into each of their teacups, then pointed toward another paddock, opposite the stable. “Look.”
There, also confined, was the real reason for Shareb’s challenging display; a huge, glossy red-chestnut steed with fire in its eye and fury in its stance.
Another stallion.
Colin sipped his tea, thankful for the fence that separated the two horses.
“Yes, but look at Shareb! Isn’t he beautiful? It’s the desert blood in him, you know. He wants to fight. He is pure fire, pure magnificence. Everything a horse should be.”
Desert blood?
Lightning flashed down again, and the two stallions screamed threats and challenges to each other across the small field that separated them. Inside that field the mares lifted their heads and began to mill nervously.
Thunder kept on eating.
Now the red stallion began to prance and pace the length of his fence, calling insults to Shareb. Shareb responded with a shrill scream. Then his ears swept back, he galloped across his paddock—
And a brilliant flash of lightning forked out of the clouds.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. Colin saw it all: Shareb, bolting sideways as the resulting crack of thunder split the sky just overhead, wheeling, then plunging straight for the fence, where he paused for only the briefest of seconds before leaping the tall enclosure like Pegasus on the wing; then, without breaking stride, he tore across the grassy field and bore down on his rival at a speed that nearly burned the grass up beneath his hooves.
“Stallion fight!” shouted one of the patrons, and everyone ran toward the door on a mass exodus.
Colin was already on his feet and racing from the tavern. With Ariadne hot on his heels, he charged toward the paddocks, knowing he’d never make it in time. Shareb’s challenging scream split the air, and he saw the stallion hurl himself straight into the chestnut’s fence, heard the horrible crash of breaking wood and the other horse’s enraged squeal as it rose to meet Shareb’s attack. There was the awful sound of heavy bodies slamming together, hooves hitting flesh, squeals and screams and angry whistles, and over it all, the boom of thunder at close range.
“Get that damned bugger off my horse!” a balding man cried, running past them with a pitchfork. “So help me God, I’ll kill him!”
He paused, drew back his arm to hurl the pitchfork—and faltered as a tiny ball of salt-colored fur flung itself at him.
Bow.
But Colin had no time to grab his pet, no time to warn Ariadne back, no time to respond to the enraged man’s cries as he tried to fend off the little dog. The stallions were fighting with savage, murderous fury, and the chestnut was getting the worst of it.
“Colin!” he heard Ariadne cry, “get them apart!”
He raced past the mares. Their heads were thrust over the fence as they happily watched the two stallions fighting over them, and he could almost hear them cheering on their favorite. Grabbing up a broken piece of fencing and heedless of the danger, he dove between the two enraged animals, brandishing the wood like a club.
The chestnut, already losing the fight, bolted away to the side, his neck streaming blood where Shareb’s teeth had found purchase. Colin threw down the board and made a wild lunge for Shareb’s halter—but the stallion’s blood was up, fire was in his eyes, and without breaking stride, he turned, crashed back through the fence, and with lightning glowing against his flying body, galloped out of the broken paddock—
—and straight toward an elegant gray horse just entering the yard, whose handler screamed and dived out of the way as Shareb charged toward them.
In horror, Colin realized the newcomer was a mare.
There was nothing he could do to stop it, and he saw it all. The mare, flinging up her head in alarm as the mighty stallion bore down on her at a speed Colin would never have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes; her handler, fleeing for his life; and Shareb, teeth bared, neck outstretched, earth, grass and thunder flying from his hooves.
Shareb gave a piercing scream, nipped the mare’s rump as he galloped p
ast, and tail high, thundered out of the yard and down the road at a speed so intense it was almost frightening. The mare, whinnying like a barmaid in love, went charging off after him, lead rope flying.
“Colin! Colin, do something!” Ariadne cried, her jacket flapping open as she raced up to him with Bow in her arms and Marc racing ahead.
But there was nothing that he could do. The stallion was gone. The landlord was barreling toward them, already screaming for recompense for the damage to his fence. And now the first drops of rain were beginning to pelt the earth, gathering in force, frenzy, and fury, and Colin found himself stuck with a geriatric gelding, two frightened dogs, and some thirty men who were all staring at Ariadne’s distinctively lovely chest.
He turned, and looked bleakly at Thunder.
The gelding was still munching his hay.
“Time to go,” he said, and spinning Ariadne around and shoving her toward the barn, ran to get the horse.
CHAPTER 13
The long legs. The unusually deep chest. The sloping, powerful hip, the great lay-back of the shoulder, and the speed.
Especially, the speed.
After witnessing that blistering display of pure lightning out of the courtyard, Colin now knew the truth. Shareb-er-rehh was no high-stepping riding horse. He was no carriage horse, pleasure horse, or lady’s pet.
He was a racehorse.
A damned fast racehorse.
And now, an hour and a half after he’d made his blazing escape, he was still missing.
With Colin leading Thunder and Ariadne walking on the gelding’s other side, they trudged through the drizzle, Colin tracking the stallion by his fading hoofprints, Ariadne gripping Shareb’s lead shank like a nun with her rosary beads, both of them huddled in their coats and neither of them saying much. Marc ran on ahead, chasing a rabbit, while Bow, her fur wet, tangled and muddy, trotted at Colin’s heels; every so often she, like Colin, shot a worried glance at Lady Ariadne. The little noblewoman’s face was white and strained, and only the dictates of her breeding and upbringing prevented her from giving in to the tears Colin knew lurked just beneath the surface.
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