by Kris Tualla
Even Addie couldn’t argue that point.
April 11, 1819
Nicolas returned home late in the afternoon of the sixth day, weary but excited about his new acquisition: the feisty stallion tethered to his saddle. Tall and muscular, the horse’s dappled gray coat darkened to charcoal at mane, tail and cannons. The points of his ears nearly touched, and his black muzzle was unexpectedly delicate for such a large animal.
Nicolas called for John as he rode into the yard. John came out of the stable and someone in dusty breeches and chambray shirt followed. Who might that be?
“John will you open the gate?” Nicolas asked. He untied the lead from his saddle and led the stallion into the corral, loosing him there. Freed from restraint, the horse shook his head and trotted around the perimeter of the fence, snorting and prancing, his black tail a high flag.
Nicolas stared at the curvy, dark-haired figure by his foreman’s side. “Might you bring me a halter, John?”
“Even so, Nick.” John headed back into the stable.
Sydney stood her ground as Nicolas approached.
“What i Gud’s navn are you wearing?” He tilted his head. “Have you suddenly remembered you’re a man?”
Sydney laughed. The delightful sound of it vibrated through his chest and settled low in his belly. Very low. She tossed her head back; her green eyes twinkled and her cheeks bloomed soft pink.
“I bade Addie to find me some work clothes. I’ve begun helping John with the horses and I didn’t want to ruin the dresses I’ve borrowed.”
Nicolas had to confess, he saw her logic straight off. Besides, she looked quite fetching in the unconventional outfit. Rather than appearing manly, the breeches accentuated her womanly shape. Her mane of dark brown hair, tied back with a leather thong like his, glimmered in the waning sunlight.
He thought of Lily in all her carefully arranged glory. The contrast between the two women was marked; and he found one preferable. John handed Nicolas the halter.
The stallion trotted back and forth in the corral, snorting and tossing his head, his tail whipping the air. Agitated at Nicolas’s approach, the horse broke into a tight canter, tracing a figure eight in the fenced pen. His jerky movements intensified until, without warning, the gray gathered his haunches and launched himself over the railing. Once free, he ran between the stable and the corral right past Nicolas.
And straight toward Sydney.
Nicolas spun around as his world shifted into dream-slow motion. He struggled impotently to shout a warning, but couldn’t get sound past his constricted throat.
Horrified, he watched Sydney plant herself in the path of the oncoming horse. Her arms were straight in front of her, palms forward, fingers splayed. The huge gray skidded to a stop, chunks of dirt and bits of grass thrown in the air as his huge hooves pushed backward to reverse his momentum. He reared up, squealed his threat, and pawed the air above the tiny human in front of him.
Sydney didn’t move.
The stallion dropped to all fours, snorting and tossing his mane in protest. He squatted on his haunches, but did not rear up again. When the human didn’t retreat, he backed up and pawed the ground, sending more mud and leaves in all directions. He vocalized in grunts, snorts and squeals, ears pinned back and tail whipping the air.
Nicolas gaped at Sydney, his frenzied pulse slamming through his body. He had no idea what to do to save her.
She lowered one hand. Fisting the other, she offered it to the stallion while she talked nonsense in a calm, singsong rhythm. The stallion’s ears flicked forward and back with cautious curiosity. As Sydney continued her soothing monologue he remained in place, blowing heavy breaths through flared nostrils and stomping his iron-shod feet.
Nicolas was afraid to move. He prayed John stayed still as well.
Sydney allowed the stallion to assert his physical superiority for several minutes, neither challenging him nor backing down. He tentatively pushed his head forward toward her outstretched fist, then jerked it back. Twice more, he repeated the movement, each time making a show of displeasure with snorting and tossing and stamping. Finally, he sniffed Sydney’s knuckles.
Sydney eased forward until she could touch him. Her hand moved over the animal’s sweating neck, ears, cheek and nose. Without turning her head, Sydney held her other arm out to Nicolas.
“Give me the halter.”
Said in the same singsong tone, Nicolas didn’t realize Sydney was talking to him. He was entranced by her actions and the stallion’s reaction to her.
“Nicolas, give me the halter.”
Startled into movement, but retaining enough presence of mind to do so cautiously, Nicolas handed her the tack. Sydney rubbed the halter against the animal’s neck, and then moved it over his cheek and down to his nose. She slid it onto his head, and rubbed his ears as she slipped it into place. Grasping the leather straps, Sydney used her body to urge the horse back toward the corral.
“John, would you bring him a treat?” she asked in the same calm voice. The huge animal allowed her to lead him into the enclosure. John appeared a moment later with a bucket of oats with molasses and set it inside the fence. The gray pushed his nose into the container, snuffled loudly and devoured the sweetened grain.
Consumed with fear and fury, Nicolas tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and headed toward his dangerously rash and reckless female guest.
Chapter Six
Sydney heaved a sigh and slipped between the corral’s railings. She wiped sweat from her forehead on a sleeve and fanned the front of her shirt. Nicolas strode toward her, shaking his head, the thin scar on his cheek screaming a warning.
“What the helvete was that stunt?” he bellowed.
Sydney froze.
“Are you completely out of your Gud forbannet head?” The fists at the end of his twitching arms clenched, unclenched, and re-clenched. He looked nearly apoplectic.
“Wh—what?” she stammered.
Nicolas waved his arms in circles around her. “That cursed beast might have killed you!”
Facing down Nicolas, the same way that she faced down the other stallion, Sydney’s deliberately calm voice belied her tattered nerves and watery gut.
“I don’t know.”
“What the helvete do you mean, you ‘don’t know’?” Nicolas’s face was scarlet. His snorting breaths sounded like the gray’s.
Sydney lifted her chin. “I paid it no mind. I simply did it.”
“Of all the—” Nicolas stomped away, and then back. “If that wasn’t the—” he sputtered and his face paled beneath his sunburn. “Skitt, Sydney!”
Then a loud, “Gud forbanner det!”
And an even louder, “Gud forbanner det all til helvete!”
Nicolas yanked the leather thong from his hair. His long locks caught on the breeze and circled his head like yellow flames. He took several deep breaths, glaring at her with midnight eyes. He was more magnificent than the horse; fierce and glorious in his anger. Facing her imperious host, Sydney stood silent, defiant, unmoving.
“Skitt, Sydney!” he roared again.
Her lower lip betrayed her. Pulled tight against her teeth, it still found strength to tremble. Her cheeks blazed. She blinked away moisture. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. But Nicolas’s eyes flickered over her countenance and his shoulders relaxed a little.
“I feared for your safety, Sydney. I thought he had you for certain.” Worry was foremost in his voice, but she detected an undertone of respect.
“I gotta say, that was some fine horse-handlin’ right there,” John spoke up behind him.
“Indeed it was,” Nicolas admitted. He shook out his fists and rested his hands loosely on his hips.
John slapped his thigh with his hat. “Never saw such a thing in all my born days!”
“I’m forced to confess, neither have I.” Nicolas paused. His lips twisted. “I don’t believe I could have done as well.”
Sydney grew uncomfortable in their praise and felt self
-consciously on display.
“It wasn’t all that impressive!” she blurted. “My father raises horses. I’ve seen it done a dozen times before.”
No one moved.
No one breathed.
“So you remember that?” Nicolas asked sharply.
Sydney blanched. For a split second, she had seen her life.
“My father raises horses,” she said slowly. “In Kentucky, I believe…”
“And you worked with him there?” Nicolas prodded.
She frowned, staring at nothing. “Yes.”
“Can you recall aught else?”
Sydney shook her head, flooded with disappointment and buoyed by hope. True, the tantalizing images had retreated beyond her reach, but the fact that they appeared showed improvement. Soon, perhaps, she would regain what she had lost. Sydney regarded the two puzzled male faces in front of her and wished she had more to tell them.
Nicolas turned to John. “Well? It’s a beginning.”
Throwing his arm around Sydney’s shoulders, he squeezed her briefly to him. “And that was a task well accomplished, Sydney. Your father would be mighty proud of you this day.”
Dropping his arm, he looked back at John. “I’m about to starve. Let’s go see if that wife of yours has got our supper ready yet!”
Nicolas considered the woman whose chair he held. No longer dressed in the manly work clothes, she swept into the room wearing a gown he’d never seen.
“I’m sorry! Were you waiting long?” With a flip of her wrist, her napkin plunged to her lap.
“No.” He took his seat across the table.
The gray fabric of her gown made her eyes look like clouds before a twister and the black edges matched her straight, dark hair. Her bruises were fading and her skin looked like fresh milk. He wondered how to describe the color of her full lips. They were like a ripe peach. A very ripe peach.
“The language you used so emphatically today?” Sydney asked. “If I were to guess, I would say that you were cursing with rather an abundance of flair.”
Nicolas grinned, a little embarrassed. “You were able to discern that, were you?”
Sydney grinned back. “Was that German?”
“It was Norse. I’m of Norwegian descent.”
“Oh. Do you always curse in Norse?”
“I grew into that habit.” Nicolas selected a warm roll and handed the basket to Sydney. “My wife was delicate in character and cursing made her uncomfortable. If I said it in Norse, she didn’t find it so offensive.”
Sydney fixed him with the wink of one gray-green eye. “While I’m quite sensible that it’s not ladylike, I must say few things in life are as satisfying as a well-placed curse word.”
Nicolas chuckled at her unexpectedly bawdy response. “So you understand, then.”
Sydney served herself potatoes. “Where did you get the stallion?” she asked.
“He was Rickard’s. He purchased him from a breeder down south of here.” Nicolas helped himself to the meat. “He’s got decent bloodlines. There’s some Arabian in him; you can see it in his ears and the angle of his tail.”
Sydney handed Nicolas the bowl of potatoes then forked roast beef onto her plate. “But there’s something else. He’s quite large and his nose doesn’t match the Arab profile.”
“He has some Percheron. That’s where the size comes from…” He set the potatoes down and looked at Sydney with new appreciation. “But the breeder thought it would be a good mix—”
“The intelligence of the Arab combined with the strength of the Percheron?” Sydney correctly completed the sentence. She pushed the gravy boat toward Nicolas.
Nicolas nodded, pondering his dinner companion. Perhaps she did know horseflesh after all. That was a useful revelation. He stared across the tabletop with his knife and fork in hand, standing like sentries alongside his plate.
He surprised himself when he admitted to Lily that Sydney was beautiful; until that moment, he hadn’t consciously thought about it. To look at her this evening by the soft light of the oil lamps, there was truly no denying it. But she was quite different from Lara.
Helvete, she was different from any woman he’d ever known. Her actions today made that undeniably clear.
Sydney pointed her knife at him. “Does this beast have a name?”
Startled out of his reverie, Nicolas nodded. “Rick called him ‘Grayson.’ But I reckoned that since I planked down good money for him, I’ve the right to change his name. So now he’s Fyrste. It’s Norse for prince.”
“You bought him?”
“I did. Rickard couldn’t sit him. He even had his best groom work with the animal, but without much progress.”
Sydney frowned. “What possessed you to want him, then?”
“Well, I was hoping John might have better luck with him. If not, I’ll try him as stud. With those bloodlines, I’m curious to see what he can get.” Then with a shrug, he mentioned the final possibility. “And if neither of those works, I can always geld him.”
Sydney looked down at her plate and seemed focused on cutting her meat. She didn’t have much to say through the rest of the meal and wouldn’t be drawn into conversation. Nicolas wondered why their new camaraderie suddenly evaporated. Had he said something inappropriate again?
Sydney sipped the last of the wine from her crystal goblet and set it down to her left, then moved it to her right. Nicolas lifted the wine bottle in silent question, but she waved it away. She slid the tines of her fork across her plate, making patterns in the remnants of gravy. Then she pleated her napkin. Her silent restlessness exasperated him.
“Sydney! What thought is pestering you so?” When she didn’t answer straight away, he softened his tone. “Is there something of importance on your mind?”
She nodded.
He made an effort to sound encouraging. “Would you care to tell me what that is?”
She stared at him. Her pupils dilated, eliminating the green from her eyes. She had no hint of a smile. He held his breath in anticipation without thinking about it.
“Allow me to train him.”
Staggered by her preposterous suggestion, Nicolas scrambled in disbelief for a response.
“Well, certainly! And why not stand naked on the roof and catch flaming arrows with your teeth, while you’re about it?” he scoffed.
Her stormy eyes narrowed. “What?!”
Nicolas leaned forward over the table. “No, Sydney, absolutely not!”
“And why not, might I ask?”
Nicolas was appalled. Was she daring to defy him? Perchance she simply didn’t understand the danger. “That beast stands at the least sixteen hands—”
“Seventeen,” Sydney corrected him.
Outraged, Nicolas gawked at her. “It’s far too dangerous a task for a woman!”
“I handled him today.”
“That proves nothing!” Nicolas declaimed. He knew well that it probably did, but he wasn’t about to admit that now. “He’s bested men twice your size!”
Sydney leaned toward him. “But I know what I’m doing.”
“And so did they!” Nicolas roared and pounded his fist on the table. Silverware scattered for cover. Lara never spoke to him in such a way! Who did this impudent woman believe herself to be?
“You saw what transpired today, Nicolas.”
He pulled a deep breath and forced his hands to unclench. Though she pushed him hard, it wouldn’t do to strangle a woman whose life he had just saved. Instead, he shook his head and asserted his position.
“I’m the head of this household. As such, you’ll do as I see fit, Sydney. And that’s how it shall be.”
“I’m not truly a member of your household, sir.”
Nicolas sat back, stunned into silence by her effrontery. It was obvious he was not making his position clear. “But you are my guest.” He leveled his sternest gaze at her. “And as such, your welfare is my responsibility.”
“I am your guest
, Nicolas; that’s true,” Sydney conceded. “And you’ve been a very generous and gracious host. That’s true as well.”
Somewhat placated, Nicolas continued to press his perspective. “And what if I agreed to this most unreasonable request? What will I say, then, when some poor gentleman shows up here looking for you?”
Nicolas waved his fork over his forgotten meal. “Shall I have to tell him that you’ve been trampled by a horse—a stallion nonetheless—that I foolishly allowed you to handle?”
“No.” Sydney’s eyes darkened under black-lashed lightening. “You shall tell him that I’m in the paddock, riding that same stallion, and I’m perfectly fine, thank you!”
Nicolas glared at Sydney. His jaw tightened. His pulse pounded. He knew with certainty that, as head of the estate, he could declare how things would be and that would end the discussion. He was sorely tempted to do so.
What stopped him?
Perhaps it was the way she handled the stallion today. After all, he planked down a substantial sum for the animal, and in ten minutes Sydney gained more control over him than Rickard ever had.
Perhaps it was the fact that she was bold enough to ask to take on the task. And she didn’t back down when he railed at her. He had to confess, he respected her for that. She had considerable grit.
And perhaps it was because he didn’t want to disappoint her. That possibility confused him most of all.
Sydney’s voice softened. “I know how to do this, Nicolas. It’s the one thing I know for certain about myself. If some other danger dropped me here, well, this thing is certainly less dangerous than that.”
When he didn’t respond, she reached for his hand. “Please, Nicolas. Please let me try.”
When Sydney’s hand touched his, Nicolas felt a jolt through out his frame and his heart somersaulted in his chest. What was this about? A beautiful, headstrong woman took his hand and he, at thirty-two years of age, reacted like an inexperienced adolescent?
Skitt!
For a pace, they faced off in silence, eye to eye and unrelenting.