And then she remembered Maxwell’s revelation.
Managing to get her tears under control, she pulled back, even as Colin pulled the tail of his shirt free and gently dried her eyes. She stared up at into his handsome face, the beautiful, soul-deep eyes that were filled with love and tenderness as he went about this humble task.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Tell you what?”
“About your former career . . . Captain Lord.”
His flinched, and his hand, just beneath her eye with the shirttail bunched in it, froze. He stared at her as though she had struck him, then began to lower his hand.
She caught it, unwilling to let it go.
He looked away.
“So . . . you know.”
“Yes,” she replied, steadily. “Maxwell told me.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
He gave a great sigh, and sat down in the hay, looking defeated and broken. “I told you you wouldn’t want me if you only knew what I’d done.”
She sat down beside him, arranging her skirts in such a manner that her bare ankles showed temptingly. “Colin Lord, you are one of the most intelligent men I have ever met, but sometimes you really are a thick-headed dolt.”
His gaze had been on her ankles. He looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”
“How can you believe that I would think any less of you for what you did?”
“I disobeyed my admiral.” He looked down, picked up a piece of straw, began to tie it up in a series of little knots. “Because of me, we lost two ships that night, Ariadne. Not just one.”
“You disobeyed him because you were trying to save his life, and that of every man aboard that frigate.”
She sidled closer to him, put her hand beneath his chin, and forced him to look at her. His eyes were full of pain and anguish. “Maxwell told me about it,” she said. “And fiend that he is, did so with all the triumphant malice in his black heart. But it did not have the intended effect on me, Colin, because I love you all the more for what you tried to do—”
“The wind was too strong,” he murmured, looking down at the piece of straw he still held. “Sir Graham—he was my admiral, and I was his flag captain, the man whose ship he had chosen to carry his flag, the man who was, in his absence, second in command of the entire fleet—had gone aboard one of our frigates to dine with its captain. The hour was late, and there was no moon. We were in the Caribbean, and there was nothing, nothing at all, to signal that a squall was bearing down on us. Suddenly and without warning, we were hit with winds that came out of nowhere, and before we knew it, we were on a lee shore in the dark of night, with the frigate closest to the peril.” He paused, his eyes haunted. “Sir Graham ordered me to save the flagship, to just get out of there while I still could, and leave the frigate to dash itself against the rocks. He knew the wind was too strong, that in trying to save him and the frigate, I’d imperil my own vessel, my own people, as well. But I couldn’t do it, Ariadne.” He looked up at her, his eyes anguished. “He was my admiral. My friend, my superior, the man who wouldn’t let the surgeon take off my leg after I was hit during the height of battle. He was the finest commander I ever served under. . . . ”
She put her arms around him, laid her cheek against his shoulder.
“The frigate was doomed, try as I did to save it. And God help me I tried, though Sir Graham was bellowing at the top of his lungs for me to leave off—but I deliberately disobeyed him, deliberately ignored him, and ordered my crew to anchor, and rig a tow rope between the two ships to try and help the frigate to claw off—” He put his hands over his eyes, trying to shut out the horrible memory. “The wind was too strong, Ariadne . . . just too damned strong. . . .”
“Oh, Colin. . . .”
“The anchors began to drag, and the tow line broke. It broke. After that—after that it was too late to save either ship. It was a disaster of unimaginable proportions. A ship, no matter how large and strong, no matter how mighty, has no chance against rocks on a lee shore. Some of our crew were able to claw their way through the surf and make it to shore, but many men drowned that night. Had I obeyed Sir Graham’s order perhaps not so many would have been lost.” He raised his head and looked at her then, and although sorrow was etched in every line of his face, his eyes were almost fierce. “But I swear to you, Ariadne, that if I could go back and face that same decision all over again, I would not have done any different. I would not have abandoned my admiral.”
No, he would not have, this man who, despite a bad leg, had scaled the side of a house in order to save her when everyone else in her life had left her to her own devices. He had not abandoned her, and loyal as she knew him to be, he would not have abandoned his admiral.
“But he abandoned you, Colin” she said softly, feeling a sudden, unreasonable hatred for this unknown officer who had done nothing to save the career of the man who had tried to save him.
“No. He didn’t, Ariadne. He was Nelson’s own protégée, the brightest star in the Royal Navy, and angry as he was with me for what I’d done, he was right by my side throughout the entire court-martial. If anyone could have saved me from ruin, or my family from the shame and disgrace they suffered because of the whole affair, it was Sir Graham. And God help him, he tried.” He tossed the piece of straw aside and looked bleakly at the beam of sunlight slanting over the hay. “But nothing he could say in my defense made a damned bit of difference. The fact of the matter was, I disobeyed my admiral and in so doing, was responsible for the loss of many fine men. In so doing, I cost the Navy one of its finest, most expensive, warships. An eighty-gun flagship.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Afterwards, I had little money with which to support myself. I was too proud to ask my father for help, and though he didn’t say as much, I knew his shame . . . he was an admiral himself, from a proud family with a long naval tradition that I had been expected to uphold; I couldn’t disgrace him further. And so I found myself in London, and one day, when I came across a horse being beaten by a cab driver, I intervened.” He gave a sad smile. “It was rather like what happened with Thunder, I guess . . . only this horse’s name was Ned. Something happened, then—I have always shared a rather unusual bond with animals, but when that horse looked up at me, I knew, I just knew what my calling was, and what I had to do to atone for all the lives I had destroyed, not only in disobeying my admiral, but in the name of war.” He looked at her, unashamed of the path his life had taken. “I couldn’t ask you to marry me, Ariadne, until I’d told you about my past. And I was so afraid that if I did, you’d no longer want me. No longer respect me. That you’d pity me—”
“I love you, Colin,” she said, touching his lips.
“I do not move in the same circles that you do, Ariadne, not anymore, and soon enough you will tire of me—”
“Colin.”
“And what of your future, you do know that marrying a veterinarian will probably get you ostracized from polite society, that you will be an outcast just like me, and here I can’t even earn enough money in my profession to keep you in gowns half as beautiful as this one—”
“Colin.”
He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead into the heel of his hand.
“I don’t care about gowns,” she murmured. “I don’t care about those stuffy people that will turn their backs on me, as those that are my true friends will not; the rest can all go to the devil. I don’t care about money, though God knows I have enough of it to put the whole of Norfolk in beautiful gowns, and I would gladly trade every penny I own to find the one thing I always wanted—to be loved.”
He just looked at her, uncomprehending.
Tears rose in her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, can’t you see what you mean to me? I was a pawn to be used so that Maxwell could get his hands on the legacy of the Norfolk Thoroughbred, nothing more. My mother died when I was young, my father had no ti
me for me and even less interest in me. Nobody has ever cared. But you—you have shown me what it feels like to be treasured, valued, cherished, loved. Not used, not neglected, not abandoned, but loved. You are all that matters in my world, don’t you see? You. I love you, Colin. And I wouldn’t care if you’re a poor veterinarian or the richest lord in the land, I’m still going to love you.” And then, looking into his eyes, she pulled off his cap, removed his spectacles, put them on the hay beside them, and began to kiss him.
He shut his eyes, the long lashes draping his cheeks, his hands clenched into fists as her kisses feathered against his face. She pressed her lips to his, tasting him, loving him. His breathing grew deeper, and finally, his hands came up to caress her back, at first tentatively, then with increasing confidence as he realized that he hadn’t lost her, that she loved him, still, and perhaps more, now, than ever. She felt her heart beginning to pound, and her hand drifted down to slip beneath his shirt and touch the warm skin just beneath.
His belly was flat and hard and warm. She leaned against him, until he finally sighed and drawing her close, lay back in the hay. It rustled beneath them, its fragrance coming up to envelop them in its sweetness.
“Colin . . . will you make love to me?”
His lips curved in a boyish grin. Somewhere beneath them, one of the horses stamped; from beyond the window a pheasant made a harsh, squawking noise before it departed with a whoosh of its wings.
And from just outside came Tristan’s loud cough, and the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Someone’s coming!” she whispered. “I have to go—”
He hushed her with kisses, and she felt only the strength of his arms, the heat of his mouth against hers, the feel of his hands . . . caressing her back, moving down her leg, catching the hem of her gown in his fingers and dragging the fabric up her leg, until the pin-prickliness of the hay was sharp against her flesh.
She sank down atop him, even as the footsteps grew louder and voices came from outside.
“Fine day, m’lord, eh?”
They clung together, breath and bodies hot and close, as the conversation wafted up to them.
“Indeed,” came Tristan’s drawled reply.
“’is Lordship wanted me to take Black Patrick out f’r some exercise, seein’s how the race is in just a few days. Not that the beast ain’t in good condition, but ye can’t be too sure, eh?”
“Of course.”
Ariadne began to giggle. She felt Colin’s fingers dragging the heavy skirts up over her bottom, and his warm touch upon her skin. She sighed and pressed closer, touching her mouth to his.
“I wish Tristan would leave,” she whispered, against the curve of Colin’s neck. “I have no wish for him to hear us!”
“He won’t. Not if we’re quiet.”
“Can you be quiet?”
“Aye. I can.” His fingers roved around the silken skin of her thighs and back over her bottom, until the searing ache was blossoming between her legs and her pulse was beginning to beat in her ears. “But, can you?”
She settled onto her side so that she could reach his trousers. From below, she could hear the servant entering Black Patrick’s stall, the slap of his hand against the powerful neck, the steed’s squeal and the challenging whistle of Shareb-er-rehh.
“You’re hard, Colin.”
“Mmmm . . . Painfully so, I think.”
“Do you need some medicine, my good doctor?”
He gave a short burst of laughter even as she thrust buttons through holes, slid her hand beneath the flap of fabric, and began to stroke his growing arousal. Softly. Agonizingly. He groaned, and she pressed her mouth against his, her hand against his rigid flesh, her thumb running up and down its side with torturous slowness.
“My God, Ariadne—”
“Shhhhh!”
He grimaced as the pad of her thumb circled and teased the engorged tip, and buried his face against her neck, his breathing coming hot and hard.
Downstairs, the sound of Black Patrick’s shod hooves rang against stone as he was led outside.
“This is your punishment for not telling me about your past,” she murmured, smiling.
“Then I swear I’ll never tell you anything again.” He sucked in his breath as she stroked and teased him, a sheen of moisture breaking out on his forehead.
She leaned over, kissed his eyebrows, his long, sweeping lashes, his mouth—and then his hand grazed her hip and swept over her inner thighs.
“Colin!”
“Fair is fair,” he gasped. “Dear heavens, you keep doing that and I’m not going to be able to last—”
She persisted, lightly dragging her fingers up, over and around his hard length, until a warm pearl of moisture came oozing out to dampen her thumb. She gasped as he wreaked havoc on her senses as well, his fingers slipping beneath the heavy folds of her skirts and into the silken, cinnamon-colored hair at the junction of her thighs; beneath her the hay stabbed, and a burr was sticking against her ankle, but none of that mattered, for—
“Oh!” she gasped, nearly crying out as his fingers parted her damp warmth and slid gently inside her.
“Tell me to stop, then,” he murmured, suddenly clenching his teeth as she ringed his arousal with thumb and forefinger and slid her hand slowly up and down his length. “I’ll bet you can’t.”
“You know very well that I—oh!—that I can’t . . .”
“So hush, dearest, and let me make love to you.” He kissed her, his finger finding parts of her that she didn’t know existed, until sobs of pleasure were clogging the back of her throat. His mouth was there, against hers, and she felt him straining against her hand, heard the hay rustling beneath their bodies, heard his hot, heavy breathing and the frantic slam of her heart in her ears—
“Make love to me, Colin. Now.”
With the very likely chance of someone discovering them, time was not a luxury that they could afford. Colin gently rolled her onto her back, withdrawing his hand only to coax her thighs apart. Her skirts lay bunched between their bodies and he impatiently pulled them aside, even as he looked down at her fair, flushed face with the damp strands of fiery hair caught across her cheeks, even as her hand continued its slow and wicked massage, even as her eyes, jewel-like with passion, gazed up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes.
He could not wait any longer. The hay pricking his forearms, he eased himself down to her tiny body and drove himself deeply into her, feeling himself sliding in on a tide of wet heat all the way to the hilt. He groaned with the feel of it. She arched up to meet him, sighing, and then her hands were cupping the back of his head, sliding down his neck, his shoulders, her nails driving into his back as he began the slow, agonizing rhythm, trying to hold out, trying desperately, frantically, futilely, to make it last, even as he felt the first waves of climax beginning to seize him and knew that he was lost.
She convulsed beneath him, her soft cries quickly muffled by his mouth as he, too was carried away by the sweet agony of passion. And when it was over and they lay panting and gasping in the hay, Colin raised his head and put his lips against the damp hair at her ear.
“Ariadne?”
“Yes, Colin?”
“Thank you . . . for loving me, just as I am.”
CHAPTER 24
Midnight.
Hours before the great match race would start, hours before the sun would claw its way out of the sea, hours before the crowds would line the racecourse, pressing and shoving and making last frenzied bets, Clive Maxwell was awake.
He was sitting in the library, calmly thumbing through a book by the light of a single candle, when the knock came.
“Enter.”
The massive doors opened and the sleepy-eyed Cook stood there, a burlap bag clenched in one hand.
“Here ye go, m’lord. Early breakfast, just like ye wanted.” She opened the bag, bending her grizzled old head over it and inhaling deeply. “Peach pie, apple pie, and some of those blackberry tarts y
er lordship fancies . . . fresh from the oven and enough t’ feed a horse, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so meself!”
Clive Maxwell took the bag with an icy smile that never reached his eyes. If you only knew. . . .
“Thank you, Cook. You may bring it here, please.”
“Though Oi don’t know why ye be wantin’ me to pack it up like ye did, less’n ye be plannin’ t’ take it with ye t’ the racecourse to share with those friends o’ yers—”
“Yes, Cook, that is exactly what I intend to do. The bag, please?”
She handed it to him, stifled a yawn, and left.
Maxwell waited until her footsteps faded and the great manor house was silent once more. The candle flickered in a draft, striking tiny diamonds of light off the sugar that still clung to the outside of the bag. He snuffed the single flame and headed out of the room, malice in his heart and a smile on his lips as he envisioned how this race on the morrow was going to go.
“Milord?”
Maxwell swore beneath his breath. It was a footman, young, eager to please, just passing in the hall outside and probably on his way to bed.
“Ah, Edward. Just the man I wanted to see.”
“I beg your pardon, Milord?”
Maxwell thought fast. “Lady Ariadne has entrusted me with a favor, but I wonder if I might transfer its execution to you. It appears that her ladyship’s horse runs best with his favorite treat in his belly, and she has implored me to give this to him in preparation for tomorrow’s race.” Maxwell offered the bag to the young footman. “I’m tired and on my way to bed, so take this down to the stable, and give it to her horse. You can’t miss him; he’s bay, with a wide blaze and a black mane and tail.”
“Yes, Milord!” the youth said, puffing up with importance as he took the bag.
“Thank you, Edward. Good night.” Maxwell turned and, smiling maliciously, headed for the stairs.
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