Had they come further than five miles?
The road made a gentle bend, and from out of the night came the sounds of racing water. Surely, if there was a brook it would lead into a pond? Guiding Shareb off the road, Ariadne urged him down the hill to its banks, following the stream and allowing him to pick his way through the high grass.
Sure enough, there was a pond, silver beneath the clouds and moon. Shareb dropped his head to drink while Ariadne gazed off into the night. Moonlight glinted against grass that was bent and waving in the wind, and she could just see a grove of trees hugging the eastern horizon, dark against the gently rolling hills. Only the rush of the brook and the distant sound of lowing cows broke the stillness of the night.
Shareb’s head jerked up and he gave a soft, inquisitive whinny.
“Colin?” Ariadne called, her voice a half-whisper.
Silence.
Maybe this was the wrong pond. Maybe she ought to retrace their steps, or continue up the road and see if there was another one. But no. What if Colin had been detained by the reward-hunters? What if something had happened to him? And what if poor old Thunder had broken down? If nothing else, the gelding’s stride wasn’t even comparable to Shareb’s, and neither was his energy level.
But there was also a darker, more troubling thought.
Maybe Colin wasn’t coming.
Maybe he, like Father, had other interests, and was even now on his way back home to London.
She slid off Shareb-er-rehh, her bottom sore and her legs stiff and wobbly after being astride him for so long. She would not allow her mind to go in that direction. Instead, she thought of her immediate discomfort, and what to do about it. What she wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea right now—and, a bath. Mud caked her clothes, and her hair felt lank and unclean. And that pond, still beneath the night sky, looked dreadfully inviting . . .
Biting her lip, she glanced back in the direction of the road, but the slope of the hill blocked her view of it. Then she gazed at the pond and, unbuttoning her shirt, pushed through the tall weeds and grasses until she reached the water’s edge.
She pried off her boots. Around her the darkness pressed, big and deep and silent. She paused, listening to the grunting chorus of a frog, and the lonely sound the breeze made as it whispered through the reeds and sent tiny ripples skating across the pond. She put her foot in the water. Then, the other. Again, it struck her how helplessly alone she was, and her heart began to beat fast and hard.
“Shareb!”
The horse lifted his head, a tuft of grass hanging from the side of his mouth. In the darkness, she could just see the tell-tale white ringing his right eye.
“Keep a watch for danger,” she murmured, and he looked at her blankly before dropping his head once more.
A big help he was. Oh, dear God, where was Colin?
I will not be afraid, she thought, as the night seemed to grow blacker, deeper. He’ll be along shortly. He is not Father, and never will be. Try to have just a little faith in him. . .
Leaving Shareb to his grassy meal and trying not to think about how empty her own stomach was, Ariadne waded further into the pond. The water was warm, still, and unhappy about being disturbed. Deep mud sucked at the soles of her feet, slimy weeds swished against her ankles, and she shuddered in revulsion of what insects and other . . . creatures . . . must lurk in the water in which she was about to bathe. Again, she paused, listening to the night. If only he would appear to smile at her in that wry, private way of his, teasing her and watching her with unspoken admiration in his eyes . . .
Had Maxwell ever looked at her like that?
She turned and glanced behind her, her eyes straining to pierce the darkness. But the little slope behind the pond was empty, and the breeze sounded lonelier than ever.
Shivering, Ariadne bit her lip once more, desperately trying to quell the growing voice of doubt, and waded farther into the pond. There, she washed herself as best and as quickly as she could, and as she trudged out of the water, squeezed her arms against her drenched clothing in a futile attempt to dry herself.
Miserable in her wet, scratchy clothes, she lay down on the bare grass and folded her arms beneath her head. Above, the stars looked down, and the utter vastness of the night sky only reminded her how alone she was. She turned her head. Beneath her forearm something was crawling, and shuddering in revulsion, she got up and moved a few feet away. Tufts of grass were lumpy beneath her arms, and the earth was hard and silent. She moved to press her ear against it, yearning for the quiet vibrations that might signal Thunder’s approach.
Nothing, but the frogs, and the quiet burble of the brook.
And the darkness.
She thought of Tristan out there in the night, hunting her down like an animal. She thought of Maxwell, and wondered why she felt a ripple of foreboding at the memory of his face. She thought of Colin Lord, and how much she yearned for that gentle healer she could never have. And then she thought of her father, and the wonderful horses that had once cavorted around the pastures of Burnham Thorpe. A father that she would never see again in this lifetime, a father so consumed by his life’s passion that he hadn’t had time for her . . . but a father whom she had loved all the same.
Tears of silent grief began to roll down her cheeks and into her hair, and her chest convulsed on quiet, choking sobs. She put her hands over her eyes, trying to quell the sounds of her pain, to no avail. She cried until she had no tears left to cry, and when at last she opened her eyes, she saw Shareb-er-rehh standing protectively over her, his body huge against the starry sky.
Her father’s horse.
Her father’s horse—who loved her, it seemed, even more than her father himself had.
He lowered his head and she put her arms around his neck, her face against his jaw until her sobs finally quieted and the wind blew softly against her damp cheeks. She stayed that way for a long, long time.
The Fastest Horse in the World and a soaked, sobbing noblewoman. What a pair they made now.
Her cheek still pressed to the stallion’s, she stared off into the night, wishing with all her heart for her veterinarian and the safety and comfort of his arms.
# # #
The baying of a hound . . . Shareb’s piercing, alarmed scream, and the earth shaking beneath his hooves as he galloped in a circle around her. At first, Ariadne thought she was dreaming; then, her eyes shot open and she sat up with a gasp, only to see three men standing over her with their muskets pointed at her heart.
She froze, the blood icing in her veins.
“So, what ‘ave we here, eh?” one of them said coldly, with a triumphant look at his cohorts. In the moonlight his eyes were small and mean, tiny chips of flint in a fat, bejowled face that was all but dominated by the breadth of his bullish shoulders and great, barrel-like body. “A young lad or a fugitive noblewoman?”
“A ticket for a ten thousand pound reward, if you ask me,” his companion snarled, cocking his musket. “Get up.”
Shareb-er-rehh shot past again, his tail flying behind him as he tried to divert the men.
“Somebody grab that damned stallion before ‘e falls an’ breaks a bloody leg!” the huge bullock of a man shouted. “He ain’t going to be worth nothin’ to us then!”
One of them, a tall, reedy sack of bones with a broken nose, rushed off after Shareb, trying in vain to catch him.
Ariadne sat up, her heart pounding in her ears. “Really, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snapped, trying to sound appropriately indignant. “Do I look like a noblewoman to you?”
Again, Shareb galloped past, his eyes wild, his nostrils huge and wide.
The man thrust the musket against her ribs. “Get up.”
Slowly, she got to her feet, her chin high, her stomach sick with fear, her legs like custard. She was shaking so badly she was afraid she would fall, and if she fell, they would probably shoot her and she would die right here, right now, never to be found again. But somehow
, her legs managed to support her, and she glared defiantly at them, her eyes on their frightening faces, their long muskets, and the growling hound they must have used to track Shareb-er-rehh.
“Somethin’ wrong with your legs, my lady?” the huge man said, with a sneer. “I ain’t got time to waste chattin’ when I could be collectin’ that ten thousand pounds for yer return. “Now, move.”
“My brother hasn’t the money to pay you,” she retorted. “He is in debt up to his ears, so you might as well just let me go and save yourself a lot of trouble!”
“Oh, he’ll pay,” the man growled. “I’m goin’ to march you an’ that horse right back to London an’ make sure he’ll pay. Now shut up an’ move, or I’ll make you sorry you ever met me.”
“I’m already sorry that I met you, you disgusting heap of—”
Her remark was abruptly silenced by a sharp cuff across the mouth that split her lip and nearly knocked her down, and in that moment, Ariadne had no doubt whatsoever that if she tried to fight them they would kill her.
Dear God. Had they found and hurt Colin?
“Move!” the leader shouted, and shoved her forward with a meaty hand between her shoulders.
Her head high, her legs trembling, she turned and walked stiffly ahead of them, the musket pressing cruelly into the small of her back. Sweat prickled her scalp, ran like icewater down her spine. She had to do something.
In the end, she didn’t have to. Shareb-er-rehh did it for her.
The stallion had been circling the field, leading his frustrated pursuer a merry chase; now, he saw the men forcing his mistress away and his savage, angry call rent the night. And though Ariadne could not see him, she could hear his hoofbeats, and knew the exact moment he moved out of his lazy canter and came charging across the field in thunderous fury. This time, he did not feint away at the last moment. Head down, ears back, he let out an enraged, stallion-scream—and came straight for the little group.
Howling in fear, the men dove for cover as the horse, teeth bared and neck outstretched, bore down on them like a demon straight from hell. The huge one dropped his musket and leapt headfirst into the pond; the other flung himself into the weeds, his musket going off in the process with a thunderous explosion of smoke and fire. Only the dog stood his ground, crouching low, racing alongside Shareb as the stallion swept past, then making a leap for the mighty shoulder. The hound glanced off the flying horse, connected with his hooves and fell back, shrieking and yelping in pain. A shot rang out and then Shareb was turning, his tail flying, his scream piercing the night as he came galloping back toward Ariadne.
She was already running toward him, and he slowed only long enough for her to make a wild, desperate lunge for his back. Her balance failed her, and she clung to his mane with one leg curled over his back and the ground rushing past beneath her.
Angry voices rang out behind them.
“Stop her! Damn it, stop her, that horse is worth ten thousand bloody pounds!”
Her fists wrapped in the stallion’s mane, her leg hooked around his back, his flying hooves inches from her shoulders and head, Ariadne managed to pull herself up onto him as shots rang out behind her. Something whined past her ear, and she bent low over the outstretched neck, burying her face in the flying mane and feeling the wind ripping through her clothes, her hair, her—
“Go, Shareb, go!” she cried, driving her heels into his flanks. “Run, like you’ve never run before!”
Back went the stallion’s ears, and he nearly exploded out from under her in a burst of speed that stole every bit of air from her lungs. Mighty muscles churned beneath her and Ariadne buried her face against his neck, urging him on with hands and voice.
“Run, Shareb! For God’s sake, run!”
Behind them the hound set up a frenzied baying, but it could never catch them. Another shot rang out and pain exploded in her arm. She cried out and sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trying to hold back the sudden dizziness of terror, for blood was running hot and wet down her arm and she knew she’d been hit. Wrapping her fists in the stallion’s mane, she bent low over his neck and hung on for dear life, knowing that if she passed out and fell, it would be all over.
“Go, Shareb,” she whispered, the whipping mane stinging her cheeks. “Go . . . find Colin.”
The stallion lunged over a hill and hit the road at a blistering gallop, the rapid ta-da-dump! ta-da-dump! ta-da-dump! of his hooves beginning to fade to a dull roaring in her ears.
Darkness began to invade her vision and she buried her cheek in his mane, praying she could hold on, that she wouldn’t fall when she lost consciousness. Her face bumped against the hard neck and her eyes began to slip shut, and the last thing she felt was the stallion, leveling out into that tremendous, ground-eating stride that was more a flight than a gallop, that fabulous, soaring gait that carried him over the earth faster than any domesticated creature alive. She never saw his ears prick forward, never heard his long, urgent whinny as he thundered down the Norfolk Road with his precious burden perilously balanced on his back, his tail streaming behind him and his dark eyes searching the night.
Shareb-er-rehh screamed again, the sound flowing out over the hills and to the stars above.
Looking for the veterinarian.
CHAPTER 16
Gunfire.
He heard it as a sharp crack in the distant night, and the blood ran cold in his veins. Moments later the baying of a hound echoed over the hills, and then—faintly at first, then growing louder and louder—the sound of a horse bearing down on them.
Fast.
In the darkness, Colin could just see the road ahead, ribboning away behind a low rise. The pounding hoofbeats grew louder and he cautiously steered Thunder over to the side, waiting for the animal to come charging around the hill and hoping it wouldn’t run them down.
Louder and louder came that furious crescendo, the baying of the hound—
And then the steed burst around the bend.
It was Shareb-er-rehh, the moonlight glowing in his eyes, fire flying from his hooves.
Fastest Horse in the World.
Colin leapt from the chaise and ran out into the road, waving his arms to intercept the stallion.
“Whoa! Whoa!”
Shareb planted his front feet and nearly sitting back on his haunches, came to a skidding, sliding halt, the dirt spraying up beneath his hind legs and belly.
And then Colin saw the tiny burden he carried on his back.
“Ariadne!”
She tumbled off and into his arms. The hound’s baying was furious, growing louder, and any moment the dog was going to burst around the bend and God only knew what it was leading.
Colin wasted no time. The unconscious woman in his arms, he slapped Shareb-er-rehh hard on the rump. The horse understood perfectly, and with a shrill whinny charged off down the road, his tail streaming behind him. He’d no sooner vanished around the bend when the dog burst into view, baying furiously, a trio of mounted horsemen in hot pursuit.
Colin leapt into the chaise, put Ariadne beneath a blanket on the floorboards, and leaning over her with his elbows on his knees, urged Thunder into a slow, plodding trot.
The hound streaked past, followed by two of the riders. The third paused, breathless, his jowly face dark and angry. “You see a horse go by with a rider on its back?”
Colin raised a brow and kept Thunder walking. He scratched his head. “Horse? What kind?”
“Bay one, a stallion, white blaze down its face!” the man shouted, fighting to keep his own winded mount under control.
“Oh, aye,” Colin said slowly. “Saw one go past about ten minutes ago, though I don’t think it was the one you’re looking for. Little white mare, she was. Definitely no stallion—”
“The hell with ye!” the man yelled, and drove his heels savagely into his frightened mount, sending the protesting animal charging off down the road to join his companions.
Colin waited for the pounding rumble of their ho
ofbeats to recede; then, with Bow huddling fearfully on his lap, Marc sitting on the seat beside him and Ariadne’s body pressed against his toes, he steered Thunder off the road and deep into the darkened pastures.
“Faster, boy,” he called, urging the old gelding on. The horse tucked his head and pulled a quick trot out of his long-forgotten repertoire of gaits, and the chaise creaked, bounced, and rolled over the dips and rises.
They followed the perimeter of a broken fence. Colin heard water rushing ahead, and saw a flat, bubbling brook cutting through the starlit field. At his feet lay Ariadne’s limp, warm body, and its very stillness caused his heart to pound and cold sweat to break out along the length of his spine. Urgently, he steered the gelding down the bank and into the water to cover their scent, then back up the other side and into a grove of trees. There, he pulled him to a stop, leapt from the chaise, and sliding his arms beneath the blanketed noblewoman, gingerly lifted her.
“Ariadne,” he whispered, cradling her to his chest. “Oh, sweetheart . . .”
He peeled back the blanket, and his heart breaking, pressed his lips to her brow. It was pale and cold in the darkness.
“Colin?” Her voice was the faintest of whispers; then, her head fell back against his arm, her hair tumbled over his wrist, and she was still and silent once more.
His face grim, his eyes bleak and worried, he carried her swiftly toward the grove of trees, little Bow whining worriedly at his heels, Thunder following along behind him with his nose at Colin’s arm.
Please, God, let her be all right. He found a flat spot in the grass, set her and the blanket down, and knelt beside her.
The two dogs milled about, panting, as he laid his fingers against her cheek. Her face was white in the gloom, her lips parted, her little hand lying at her side with the palm turned upward. Colin swallowed hard. Then, he gently peeled the blanket back—and there, black and ugly in the moonlight, was a huge stain spreading over her left sleeve.
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