by Sara Forbes
I follow in her footsteps. Every step of the way reminds me of how we ran down this very path and frolicked among the bales that summer, just the two of us, carefree and happy, shutting out the rest of the world for a blissful afternoon of sweet kisses, laughter, and storytelling. How sweet. How innocent.
There’s nobody at the stables now. She keeps some ponies there, so it’s got fresh straw and the basics, which is good. Sill will be okay here. More to the point, he’ll be safe. I’m hoping the arsonists thought Sill was in the old stables and is now dead, along with all evidence of his poisoning—if that’s what their goal was. I still want a twenty-four seven watch, though.
I sigh and turn to Liv. “Thanks.”
Her expression is warm. “No problem, Ken.”
“You’ve no idea how much I appreciate this. And I’ll make sure you come to no danger.” I can’t help the fierceness with which I say this. “I’ll kill them with my bare hands if they so much as—”
“Ken, Ken, Ken...” She pats my forearm. “It’s okay. And I very much appreciate your restraint when it comes to my tenants, especially the immigrant ones. It makes my job that much easier.”
“My restraint?” I ask. I’ve become hyperaware of the fact that we’re alone here except for a snoring horse in the far corner. Being alone with her always seemed so impossible before. But here we are.
I don’t wait for her to explain. I pull her by the arms into my chest so our faces are inches apart when I lean in. Finally, she’s where I want her. Now it’s bright enough to see the goosebumps that form on her arms and chest when I graze my lips over her forehead and down her soft cheek. I feel her nipples harden against my chest.
She inhales sharply.
“Don’t fight it, Liv,” I murmur, planting kisses along her jaw line. Please don’t fight it.
But before I get to her lips, she’s wriggling violently out of my arms. I slacken my grip in disappointment as she steps away.
“This isn’t a good idea,” she says. “I—I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Panic flashes in her eyes. She’s shutting down on me. My fists clench. I don’t understand it. Her body tells me she wants it. Why doesn’t she listen to it? What brainwashing did Peter perform on her?
“Is this your revenge for me not sleeping with you two years ago?” I ask gruffly before I can filter my words.
“What? No!” She heaves a few angry breaths, thinks for a moment, and then adds, “Though it’s probably what you deserve for saying that, yes.”
Ouch.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, don’t shoot. I’ll just find my way out of your stable and off your property, okay? Look, I’m going. I’m going.”
“Yeah, the quicker the better,” she says.
I follow her marching orders but the victory is mine. Now that Sill’s on her property I have an excuse to come over any time I feel like it. I’m going to be giving my horse a lot of attention in the days ahead.
When I poke my head back around the door, she’s not angry-looking any more. Her grin is as big as mine.
9
LIV
I’M KNOCKING THE MUD and straw off my boots as the aroma of fresh tea and sizzling eggs and bacon welcomes me. As part of my daily routine, I visit Sill first thing before breakfast and then start on my own work which mainly involves the mind-numbing scanning in of land deeds and planning permission forms to a database I’m building up.
The change in my routine is a welcome one, even if it’s heartbreaking to see Ken’s horse so pitifully weak. At least Sill is eating more now. I wish I could say the same about my father who is languishing upstairs with no improvement in his appetite.
Mrs. Henry comes bustling up to me when I enter the dining room. “Did you see the paper, m’lady?
“Not yet.”
“Look here.” She holds up the Daily Mail, the source of her celebrity gossip.
“Second Horse Attack,” the headline screams.
I grab the paper from her and scan the text for information. There’s a blurry photo of Lord Gordon Hewell-Barnsley, a distant acquaintance of Daddy’s, looking pissed off as he strides away from a stable. The British public are very squeamish about animals being hurt so they don’t show a photo of the horse with the broken leg.
“They must be targeting the nobility,” I say, slumping down at the dining table. I scan ahead in the text and then switch to my phone for more extensive background coverage from other news sources.
“It’s a bad business, indeed,” my housekeeper says. “But at least the coppers can’t be putting the blame on us locals for that one.”
She looks grimly triumphant as she pulls the tea cozy onto the tea pot and sets it down on the table before me beside a plate of rashers and eggs. I don’t blame her. Mrs. Henry was put out when her boys got asked questions by the police about their nocturnal activities. Nobody in Fernborough is happy with the thought of the perpetrator being local. Unless it’s one of ‘those foreigners,’ of course. But I know it’s not them.
I need to face up to Ken Belgrave and not be a little girl about this.
This is the fifth day Sill has been with us. I’ve come to look forward to Ken coming over in the evenings after work. I like the predictability of it, and the lack of any expectation of meeting. Frankly, I hadn’t expected Ken to go to work every day and be consistent about it, but he does.
I’ve been careful not to meet him by mistake. After our last close encounter, I needed distance. I just watch him from my bedroom—how he enters the stable and leaves it again. Always in a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder. From my vantage point, I drink in the details of how the August sunlight hits his powerful frame as he strides through the fields and across our gravel driveway towards his car. I never miss a five o’ clock “showing” and I wait by my window for as long as it takes, pretending to read. Usually he’s there for an hour, talking to his horse or whatever he does.
But today, I need to talk to him. It’s time he admitted that the horse sabotage problem most likely isn’t local and maybe I can convince him to make some gesture towards my hassled tenants. Also, maybe he knows something more about who is doing this and why.
Having made this decision, and convinced myself it’s strictly in the interests of my tenants, I find it difficult to concentrate on work all afternoon. On my multiple breaks from the tedium of file scanning, I check in on Daddy in his sick bed, but he’s asleep or unresponsive each time. Nevertheless, I tell him what I’m doing in a one-sided conversation, just on the off chance that part of him is still there and listening. Because I know he’d be interested.
Mummy tends to steer clear of the house during the day, always on mysterious errands—visiting friends and acquaintances, shopping, whatever. I used to think of her as a dynamic person but now I realize that dynamism was reliant on Daddy being at her side, directing their activities. I wish I could make this easier for her but there’s nothing I can do to help her.
At exactly 4:35 P.M. I abandon my computer and drive over to Sebastian Belgrave’s renovated millhouse where their offices are and wait outside. I know Ken will come bursting out the door at five to five sharp. And I’m ready for him.
When he does, and he sees me, his face doesn’t light up, like I’d secretly hoped. Maybe. But he’s not indifferent either. A pink flush creeps into his cheeks and he’s definitely on edge.
“I think I can guess why you’re here, Liv. Why are you so interested?”
“Until we know who’s doing this, it’s very much my business. Don’t shut me out, Ken.”
“I’m not shutting you out. I’m minimizing risk.”
I take a different tack. “Are you going to The Ebor Festival?” The Yorkshire August meeting is one of Ken’s favorite and he’s probably going to torture himself this year by watching the prestigious Juddmonte International race for top thoroughbreds where Sill was supposed to be running.
He shrugs.
“I’ve got tickets, may as well.”
“Let me go with you.”
He shakes his head. “Why would you want to do that?”
I dip my head. Okay, that sounded pushy. Why indeed? “I want to solve this as much as you do, Ken. I know people too. Everyone will be there. I could do some sleuthing.”
“Your tenants are off the hook. Isn’t that what you were worried about?” Ken throws a glance over his shoulder and pulls the door of the office shut behind him. He plays with his car keys. “This is something wider. A higher criminal mind. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
“I want that too. Let me come with you.” I reach out and touch him lightly on his arm where the sun caresses it, making the hair glow golden. His skin is warm and inviting, the hairs so soft under my fingers. I leave a trail of goosebumps in my wake and the sensation of having so much effect on him sends a jolt of awareness to my stomach.
“Don’t do that. You know my IQ drops fifty points when you do that.”
I laugh. It’s so like something the old Ken would say. But I also pull my hand away.
“Liv. I don’t think it’s such a good idea. I’ve put you in enough danger. You’ve no idea who these people are or what they’ll do to anyone they think is after them. Besides, it’s really none of your business.”
And while two years ago I’d have crumbled under such male decision-making, it only bolsters my determination now. Of course, I could always travel up to York myself but it’s only common sense to pool resources to solve this, and I want Ken to see that. He knows more trainers and jockeys and syndicate members, but through contacts of my father’s I know more solo owners from the landed gentry.
“No, Ken. Face it, I’m coming. I want to tell my tenants first hand anything that’s been discovered.” And just as he opens his mouth to protest again, I add, “And remember whose stall Sill is in?”
“I don’t remember you ever being this forceful,” he mutters, giving me a sideways glance that tells me he’s giving in. For now.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ken.” I turn and walk away so he can’t see my victorious smile.
More than anything else, I want to go on another adventure with him, just like old times. I know the stakes are higher now, but somehow that makes this all the more exciting.
10
KEN
IT’S BEEN TOO LONG—months—since I was at the races. Although racetracks like to present themselves as perfect family entertainment with all those “best dressed lady” competitions and jangling amusements for kids, scratch below the surface to find the real reason people come to the track—to gamble and to eke out a living.
I used to love hanging out at the grandstand bar just soaking in the degenerate atmosphere, debating handicapping selections with the regular racegoers—the professional punters, the bloodstock agents, the horse owners, the yard managers, the trainers. You’d talk to everyone not knowing where the next opportunity might be.
But today, with Liv, I’m seeing it in all a different light. The backstabbing and the duplicitous loyalties that I expect from the racing scene have taken on a sinister quality, and I’m on edge. York Racecourse has a comfortable owners & trainers bar located close to the parade ring so I steer us there so we can watch the Juddmonte International in relative comfort and without anyone else recognizing me and asking for tips, or worse, asking me about Sill.
We lower the average age by a decade just by stepping in the door, and they’re definitely not used to me having a beautiful woman with me. The feeling of pride is so strong I almost forget why the hell Liv is here with me. All eyes are on us as we take two stools at the bar.
After I order drinks, Sean, Sill’s usual jockey, comes over to us. Jockeys are allowed to come in here if they have a message for the trainers or owners. But Sean’s not racing for me today—instead of my trademark chevron pattern, there’s a dots pattern on his cap and sleeves. Under BHA regulations there are eighteen colors to choose from, and other horse owners tend to get creative.
“Heard about Sill.” He shakes his head. “I’m so, so sorry. What a waste of a beautiful horse.”
“Yes, thanks, Sean.” The rumor that Sill is dead, horrifying to me in the sense that it’s tempting fate, is rapidly making its way around the racing community. To these people, a sick horse is as good as a dead one, so it’s barely even a semantic difference.
“It’s shocking. What with Zodiac Blue too.”
He’s referring to Lord Gordon Hewell-Barnsley’s horse that was attacked. Police have since confirmed that its leg was broken and it’s unlikely to ever race again. It’s only a matter of time before the horse is put down. It makes me sick to my stomach and I wonder about the change in modus operandi. Was poison too inconclusive?
“Anything I can do, let me know.” Sean flashes Liv a nervous smile and now looks eager to move on, in that jittery way that many jockeys seem to have before races and who can blame them?.
“Yeah, I will.”
I’m loath to supply further information because I just don’t know whom I can trust anymore. Sean could well speak to someone who speaks to someone. I’d frankly prefer everyone went along with the story that Sill is dead.
Sean offers a tight smile and struts off to a group of people in the middle of the room.
“What colors are his silks?” I ask Liv.
She eyes me curiously. “Red cap and body, yellow sleeves.”
“I knew it.” I clench my fist under the table. “Edward Greer. Always after Sean.”
“Couldn’t you see that?” she asks, sounding nervous.
“I have monochromacy and don’t experience color at all, but other than that I can see just fine.”
It’s my standard answer, delivered in my standard cool tone, so people will feel discouraged from discussing degrees of colorblindness because there is literally no conversation topic under the sun more tedious to me.
“How did I not know that?” she asks with a shy smile.
I shrug. “I guess there a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
“Touché,” she says, acknowledging that I’m using her own smug words against her. “So that’s why your jockey’s colors are black and white. I just thought it was a fashion statement.”
And then she does that magic touch on my arm again. I’d let her do that all day if she wanted to. My dick comes alive under the table.
“So, when you complimented me on the color of my eyes, you didn’t actually perceive it, Ken Belgrave, did you?” Her tone is teasing.
I’m gazing straight into those eyes now and it’s their shape, their clear definition and the intelligence and life that shines out of them that makes them more beautiful than any pigment ever could. Plus, the fact that her dark pupils have enlarged as they swallow me up, alerting me to the fact that she’s as happy to see me as my dick and I are to see her.
I clear my throat. “When did I ever compliment you on the color of your eyes, Liv MacKenzie?”
She bows her head but fails to hide her massive grin. “Okay, I might have just imagined that bit.”
“They do have exquisite shape and clarity,” I say, because I can’t help it and because I want her keep that smile on her face.
I wonder when the last time that weasel of a husband gave her a heartfelt compliment was. Probably never. Too busy gazing at his own reflection. He always had a dandyish, too-neat look about him, as if he spent more than his fair share of time in the bathroom. Just another reason to hate him.
She shouldn’t look at me so alluringly. She shouldn’t even be here with me, perched beside me on a barstool in her perfectly fitted dress, showing off her sculpted figure just inches away, like she’s my partner, my lover, eliciting jealous looks from some people. I suppose they think we’re some happy loving couple.
I scan the bar. “Greer’s the third one from the left, sitting by the window overlooking the parade ring,” I mutter. “Big guy in the light blazer holding the dark-colo
red umbrella.”
She glances quickly. “Right. Well, his blazer’s cream. And the brolly’s cerise pink.”
“Those words are meaningless to me. Greer isn’t one of your father’s acquaintances, then?”
She shakes her head. “Daddy only knows the nobility.”
“Yeah, Greer’s just a plebian businessman, albeit a very rich one. He and his super-syndicates are taking over racing, for what it’s worth. There’s not a lot of money to be made in horses—it’s all football and motorsports, and online.”
“So much for the sport of kings and noblemen,” she says, eyeing me. “But you made it your career, didn’t you?”
“No,” I say firmly, irritated that she should think so. “I knew the investment prospects going in—it’s like a loser’s stock exchange. It’s just a hobby. Always was. Despite what anyone might have said. I guess that’s another thing you don’t know about me.”
She looks away, shame darkening her cheeks. I know she’s been fed gossip about me ever since I walked into her life. I can just picture how her father, Peter, and most everyone else painted the image of me as helpless gambler, throwing away the family fortune. I’m eager for her to revise her opinion of me.
“While I did my share of losing money, it was all my own inheritance. And when it was gone, I took out loans, yes, but that was to pay back what I owed. I’m still paying those loans back but I get a regular salary from Seb which I work hard for in return, and I’m chipping away at my debts in very unglamorous fashion. My only extravagance is Sill.”
“I’m sorry,” she says and peeks at my face through her eyelashes in the way she used to, in the way that makes my heart clench. One minute she’s Amazonian and tough, the next she’s submissive and meek and girlish, like this, and I never know which it’s going to be with her. That’s what I love about her—her constant changes.
But that’s what I hate about her too—her fickleness.