—Heard the thunder of its hooves, saw its jockey glance under his shoulder to look behind him, felt clods of sand from the animal’s hooves pelting his face. He couldn’t see. There was no stopping Shareb-er-rehh. Not now. The black hindquarters were a length away now . . . half a length . . . and then Shareb’s head was darting out, snakelike, lunging for his rival’s neck as the two pounded furiously down the beach toward the finish line—
The other jockey’s whip came savagely down on Shareb’s nose; still, Shareb went for the other horse, more intent on killing him than winning the race, even as the two hurtled toward the finish line at a blistering speed, the crowd screaming in a wild frenzy around them.
Shareb was falling back, teeth going for Black Patrick’s jugular.
And then Colin looked up and saw Tristan, running out beyond the finish line with a lure.
The lovely white mare, Gazella.
Up went Shareb’s ears—and in a blazing burst of speed, he shot past Black Patrick and won the race.
EPILOGUE
A warm stable in Norfolk, England . . . fifteen months later.
In a roomy box stall piled thick with straw, a tiny colt stood with his mother, his belly full with milk, his body warm and ready for bed. His legs were wobbly, his eyes droopy with fatigue. Beyond the windows darkness had fallen, and it was long past time for the little fellow to go to sleep—but he seemed restless, and Colin and Ariadne, gazing fondly down at the new arrival with the newest little Lord held safely in his father’s strong and loving arms, were reluctant to leave.
“Looks like his papa, doesn’t he, Colin?”
The colt’s tiny face, one eye ringed with white just like his sire, turned toward them. The fuzzy forelock seemed to stand straight up, and the tiny body swayed on the absurdly long, stilt-like legs as he took a hesitant step forward.
“Oh, I think he rather looks like Thunder, myself,” Colin joked, enduring a playful swat from his wife as the old gelding whickered from a nearby stall. He yawned, tiredly. “Plague take it, is this little fellow ever going to call it a night?”
“He’s not going to go to sleep until you tell him a tale, Colin, and neither is little Caleb, here.” Ariadne leaned over to take the infant, now beginning to fuss, from her husband, and planted a loving kiss against the downy blond head. “Don’t you know that all babies need a bedtime story?”
“You tell it, love.”
“Oh no, you’re much better at telling stories.”
“And which one would you have me tell?”
“The one about . . .” She thought for a moment, then her face lit up, her eyes sparkling. “About us. And how I took you by storm!”
He laughed. “Dear God, that will take all night.”
The little colt looked at them, eyes huge and imploring, tiny muzzle frosted with droplets of milk. He stumbled forward, tottering precariously, and put his miniature nose into the palm of the man who had brought him safely into the world.
“See, Colin? He’s asking you.”
Colin gave a heavy sigh, affecting great weariness, but he was grinning. Gazella had had a rough time of it, and for a while there, as he’d struggled to help her through the hard delivery, he’d wondered if the legacy of the Norfolk Thoroughbred was going to die right along with her.
But she hadn’t died, and neither had the colt, and now they had a tall, healthy baby to show for all their shared pain and effort. Still smiling, Colin opened the door to the box. He sat cross-legged in the straw to get down to the little one’s level, and gazed into the huge, dark eyes.
“So you want to hear a story, eh, young fellow?”
The colt stared at him, waiting, tiny ears twitching back and forth. His dam stepped forward and touched her muzzle to Colin’s shoulder, and in the adjacent stall, Shareb-er-rehh put his head over the divider, his rapt gaze, like his son’s, on the veterinarian.
Even the dogs sidled into the stall. Marc lay down against Colin’s thigh, and Bow put her paw on his knee, her scraggly tail wagging with anticipation as he patted her fondly.
Audience in place, his own little son watching him from the safety of his mother’s arms and finally beginning to settle, Colin ran his hand over the colt’s sloping shoulder, his fine, long legs. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he’d have to relate the tale—not only to Shareb-er-rehh’s heir, but in the years to come, more babies of his own.
He couldn’t wait.
And so he settled himself in the straw, smiled up at his wife and young son, and began, starting with the beginning . . . about how the Lady Ariadne had all but abducted him, how they had fallen in love on the journey to Norfolk, how Shareb-er-rehh had defeated Black Patrick in the match race of the decade. His kept his voice low and mild, gentle and soothing, and at the door he saw Ariadne, her cheek resting lovingly against Caleb’s golden head, an adoring smile on her face as she gazed down at him.
The good doctor sighed, and gazed affectionately at each equine face. “And then,” he said, cradling the jaw of Shareb-er-rehh’s tiny heir in his hands and gazing intently into the wide, attentive eyes, “just as we accepted the prize money for winning the race, Lord Maxwell’s servant came running out of the crowd, babbling hysterically about how his employer had ordered him to kill me. Later, at the trial, he and several others came forward and testified that Maxwell had set the fire that burned down Ariadne’s papa’s barn, all because he was angry that he was trying to break off their betrothal. The authorities came and took the earl off to jail, Lady Ariadne married me so that we could live happily ever after, we settled here in Burnham, and then . . . well then, your mama and papa had you.”
The little colt wobbled with fatigue, but his eyes were wide with wonder. He turned his head and stared up at his proud father, as though seeing him for the very first time. Colin smiled, and touched the fuzzy little neck. “And someday,” he said, “you, too, will grow up and be a famous racehorse—just like your papa.”
Colin got to his feet, running his hand over the fuzzy back, aware of Ariadne watching him with her heart in her eyes. He moved across the stall, plumped the straw piled thickly in the corner, and beckoned the colt with his hand.
“Time for bed, little fellow.”
But the colt’s eye was challenging, his stance defiant.
“I think he wants a bedtime snack,” Ariadne said, her voice bright with laughter. “Pastry and ale.”
“Well, he can want it all he likes, he’s not getting any!”
As though in understanding, the colt threw a tantrum, squealing and kicking his tiny heels against the door. He turned a mutinous stare on Colin, the breath whooshing in short, angry bursts through his flared nostrils.
Colin and Ariadne looked at each other and burst out laughing. And in the end, it was Shareb-er-rehh who sighed heavily, leaned over the divider, and flattening his ears with fatherly authority, scowled fiercely at the young scallywag.
The colt returned his stare; then, his tiny head drooped and with a heavy sigh, he turned and flung himself down at his dam’s feet.
Grinning, Colin crept out of the stall and joined his wife and son, now fast asleep in his mother’s arms, just outside. For a long moment, they stood gazing down at the tiny foal.
“What do you think Shareb just said?” Ariadne whispered, as Colin put his arm around her shoulders and the two stood watching the little Norfolk Thoroughbred drift off into slumber.
He looked up at Shareb-er-rehh. The stallion’s dark eye gleamed, and he seemed to smile as he looked steadily at Colin.
“I think,” the veterinarian murmured, returning that equine smile, “that he just agreed with me.”
And then he took his sleeping son back from his wife, and arm-in-arm, with Marc and little Bow following at their heels, led her from the stable.
- the end -
# # #
About the Author:
Bestselling, multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten novels, p
reviously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at [email protected] or through any of the means listed below:
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MORE BOOKS FROM DANELLE HARMON!
introducing:
THE INTERNATIONALLY BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING, CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED
DE MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES:
“The bluest of blood; the boldest of hearts;
the de Montforte brothers will take your breath away.”
Meet the dashing and aristocratic De Montforte Brothers by Danelle Harmon:
# 1 Kindle Store bestseller: THE WILD ONE (free on Kindle!)
(read below for an excerpt!)
THE BELOVED ONE (Book 2)
THE DEFIANT ONE (Book 3)
THE WICKED ONE (Book 4)
and:
from Danelle Harmon’s bestselling
HEROES OF THE SEA SERIES:
MASTER OF MY DREAMS
The emotional and unforgettable story of tough Royal Navy Captain Christian Lord, and the beautiful Irish stowaway, Deirdre O’ Devir, who teaches him how to love once again. (The story of Colin Lord’s parents!)
An Amazon KINDLE Top Ten Bestselling Historical Romance!
CAPTAIN OF MY HEART
Thrilling romantic adventures aboard the 1778 Yankee privateer schooner Kestrel, captained by dashing Irishman Brendan Merrick — who meets his match in the outrageous shipbuilder’s daughter, Mira Ashton!
An Amazon KINDLE Top Ten Bestselling Historical Romance!
MY LADY PIRATE
The sexy, swashbuckling tale of Colin’s beautiful cousin Maeve, and the powerful English hero who is determined to win her heart at all costs.
Winner of the prestigious Romantic Times Magazine’s Reviewers Choice Certificate of Excellence!
Winner of a Romantic Times K.I.S.S. Hero Award!
A Kindle Bestseller!
WICKED AT HEART
A Beauty-and-the-Beast tale of love and redemption between a dark and brooding marquess and the woman who is determined to heal his tortured heart.
Winner of a Romantic Times Magazine K.I.S.S. Award!
Nominated for Romantic Times Magazine’s K.I.S.S. Hero of the Year!
THE ADMIRAL’S HEART
A sweet and sexy short story/novella about second chances, with appearances by Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, Captain Christian Lord, and the de Montforte Brothers!
An Amazon KINDLE bestseller in Short Stories!
An Amazon KINDLE bestseller in Anthologies!
Want to know when the next new title from DANELLE HARMON is released?
Click here!
# # #
And now, for a special excerpt from the first book in Danelle Harmon’s bestselling de Montforte brothers series!
** Number One Kindle Store Download and Bestseller **
THE WILD ONE!
# # #
THE WILD ONE
By Danelle Harmon
Book 1 of the De Montforte Brothers Series
~~~~
Prologue
Newman House, 18 April, 1775
My dear brother, Lucien,
It has just gone dark and as I pen these words to you, an air of rising tension hangs above this troubled town. Tonight, several regiments — including mine, the King’s Own — have been ordered by General Gage, commander in chief of our forces here in Boston, out to Concord to seize and destroy a significant store of arms and munitions that the rebels have secreted there. Due to the clandestine nature of this assignment, I have ordered my batman, Billingshurst, to withhold the posting of this letter until the morrow, when the mission will have been completed and secrecy will no longer be of concern.
Although it is my most ardent hope that no blood will be shed on either side during this endeavour, I find that my heart, in these final moments before I must leave, is restless and uneasy. It is not for myself that I am afraid, but another. As you know from my previous letters home, I have met a young woman here with whom I have become attached in a warm friendship. I suspect you do not approve of my becoming so enamoured of a storekeeper’s daughter, but things are different in this place, and when a fellow is three thousand miles away from home, love makes a far more desirable companion than loneliness. My dear Miss Paige has made me happy, Lucien, and earlier tonight, she accepted my plea for her hand in marriage; I beg you to understand, and forgive, for I know that someday when you meet her, you will love her as I do.
My brother, I have but one thing to ask of you, and knowing that you will see to my wishes is the only thing that calms my troubled soul during these last few moments before we depart. If anything should happen to me — tonight, tomorrow, or at any time whilst I am here in Boston — I beg of you to find it in your heart to show charity and kindness to my angel, my Juliet, for she means the world to me. I know you will take care of her if ever I cannot. Do this for me and I shall be happy, Lucien.
I must close now, as the others are gathered downstairs in the parlour, and we are all ready to move. May God bless and keep you, my dear brother, and Gareth, Andrew, and sweet Nerissa, too.
Charles
Sometime during the last hour, it had begun to grow dark.
Lucien de Montforte turned the letter over in his hands, his gaze shuttered, his mind far away as he stared out the window over the downs that stood like sentinels against the fading twilight. A breath of pink still glowed in the western sky, but it would soon be gone. He hated this time of night, this still and lonely hour just after sunset when old ghosts were near, and distant memories welled up in the heart with the poignant nearness of yesterday, close enough to see yet always too elusive to touch.
But the letter was real. Too real.
He ran a thumb over the heavy vellum, the bold, elegant script that had been so distinctive of Charles’s style — both on paper, in thought, and on the field — still looking as fresh as if it had been written yesterday, not last April. His own name was there on the front: To His Grace the Duke of Blackheath, Blackheath Castle, nr. Ravenscombe, Berkshire, England.
They were probably the last words Charles had ever written.
Carefully, he folded the letter along creases that had become fragile and well-worn. The blob of red wax with which his brother had sealed the letter came together at the edges like a wound that had never healed, and try as he might to avoid seeing them, his gaze caught the words that someone, probably Billingshurst, had written on the back....
Found on the desk of Captain Lord Charles Adair de Montforte on the 19th of April 1775, the day on which his lordship was killed in the fighting at Concord. Please deliver to addressee.
A pang went through him. Dead, gone, and all but forgotten, just like that.
The Duke of Blackheath carefully laid the letter inside the drawer, which he shut and locked. He gazed once more out the window, lord of all he surveyed but unable to master his own bitter emptiness. A mile away, at the foot of the downs, he could just see the twinkling lights of Ravenscombe village, could envision its ancient church with its Norman tower and tombs of de Montforte dead. And there, inside, high on the stone wall of the chancel, was the simple bronze plaque that was all they had to tell posterity that his brother had ever even lived.
Charles, the second son.
God help them all if anything happened to him, Lucien, and the dukedom passed to the third.
No. God would not be so cruel.
He snuffed the single candle and with the darkness enclosing him, the
sky still glowing beyond the window, moved from the room.
Chapter 1
Berkshire, England, 1776
The Flying White was bound for Oxford, and it was running late. Now, trying to make up time lost to a broken axle, the driver had whipped up the team, and the coach careered through the night in a cacophony of shouts, thundering hooves, and cries from the passengers who were clinging for their lives on the roof above.
Strong lanterns cut through the rainy darkness, picking out ditches, trees, and hedgerows as the vehicle hurtled through the Lambourn Downs at a pace that had Juliet Paige’s heart in her throat. Because of Charlotte, her six-month-old daughter, Juliet had been lucky enough to get a seat inside the coach, but even so, her head banged against the leather squabs on the right, her shoulder against an elderly gent on her left, and her neck ached with the constant side to side movement. On the seat across from her, another young mother clung to her two frightened children, one huddled under each arm. It had been a dreadful run up from Southampton indeed, and Juliet was feeling almost as ill as she had during the long sea voyage over from Boston.
The coach hit a bump, became airborne for a split second, and landed hard, snapping her neck, throwing her violently against the man on her left, and causing the passengers clinging to the roof above to cry out in terror. Someone’s trunk went flying off the coach, but the driver never slowed the galloping team.
“God help us!” murmured the young mother across from Juliet as her children cringed fearfully against her.
Juliet grasped the strap and hung her head, fighting nausea as she hugged her own child. Her lips touched the baby’s downy gold curls. “Almost there,” she whispered, for Charlotte’s ears alone. “Almost there—to your papa’s home.”
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