Formidable Lord Quentin (31 page)

“That was Dream’s call,” she said fiercely. “Put me down.”

“First, we—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. One of
the new mares cantered through the open stable door, with Kit on her bare back,
clinging to her mane.

The boy was weeping and screaming obscenities no
six-year-old should know and so focused on his target that he didn’t even
notice Quent and Bell in the shadows of the house.

Turning in horror, Quent glanced down the carriage drive in
time to see a dust cloud of horses galloping away.

“They’ve stolen Dream,” Bell cried in horror, picking up her
skirt and sprinting for the stable.

“Or your damned brother let them loose,” Quent muttered, but
he was hot on her heels and not prepared to argue.

Inside Dream’s empty stall, Quent hauled a dazed groom to
his feet. The filly and stallion were gone as well. He was amazed the thieves
hadn’t taken any of the other horses, which were in far healthier shape.

“This is Hiram’s doing,” Bell called from another stall, as
if she understood his thoughts. “He’s taken the horses he knows.”

“What the devil was Kit doing out here with them?” he yelled
back, flinging a saddle on his Friesian.

“Feeding his pony,” the groom said, rubbing his injured jaw.
“They didn’t even know he was here until one of them planted me a facer. When
he came out squalling and swinging a pitchfork bigger than him, they shoved off
right quick. They mighta taken more animals if he’d not screamed like a banshee.”

Damnation, but the Boyles had more courage than brains
sometimes. Quent was almost proud of the lad—except if the thieves had known he
was the earl, the boy could have been kidnapped.

Irrational panic set in at that thought. He had to reach Kit
before the boy caught up with the raiders.

“Go up to the house,” Quent shouted at the groom. “Tell them
to send for help, then saddle up as many men as you can to follow us.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll fetch t’other grooms. We’ll be arfter them
horses. I never seen such bloody bold thieves.”

“I’ll introduce my family before I hang them,” Bell called
furiously over the stall wall.

What the devil was she doing in there?

Adding a whip and stout stick to his arsenal on the saddle,
Quent mounted up and looked over the panel to where Bell was yanking on a
groom’s boots over a pair of men’s breeches. She had her evening gown hiked
nearly to her waist while she assembled her unseemly attire.

The damned woman could distract him even when he was
murderously furious. Her legs in men’s breeches were a sight to behold. He
shook off his lust to concentrate on the moment.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he warned. “I’ll fetch Kit
home. The thieves won’t travel far on those malnourished nags.”

“They don’t need to travel far if they have friends waiting
down the road. Never, ever underestimate an Irish horseman.” Boots on, she
stood and yanked down her skirt over the breeches.

“I don’t have time to argue. Just use your head for once and
stay here. Don’t make me tether you like a mare.” Impatiently, Quent kicked his
gelding into action. The Friesian wasn’t a race horse, but it could last all
night, if needed.

Bell caught up with him a few minutes later—riding astride
the bare back of one of Fitz’s mares with her evening gown hiked up to her
hips. The breeches were too baggy for her slender thighs or Quent might have
expired from lack of blood in his head at the sight.

“Devil take it, Bell,” he shouted in fury and utter fear.
“Go back to the house! Don’t make me have to look after you as well as the
boy.”

She saluted him and kicked the mare into a full gallop.

Cursing, Quent pushed his mount faster. And he’d thought he
wanted to settle down to a civilized life with . . .
a mad Irishwoman
?

Moments later, Bell’s horrified scream sliced through his
gut worse than any sword.

From the road, Quent watched Kit’s small body fly over the
head of his balking mare. It had to be the most appalling sight Quent had ever
faced in his life, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. He kicked his
horse into a full gallop across the pasture as that sturdy little body splashed
into the pond the mare had refused to enter.

Quent choked on terror and guilt as the boy sank—and didn’t
come back up.

He’d considered the lad no more than a nuisance and an
obstacle to work around, but he was a damned plucky brat and would make a good
earl someday. Losing him like this . . . wasn’t happening on his
watch.

Bell reached the pond first, but even as she reined in her
mount and leapt down, she hastily grabbed the bridle to steady herself. What
the devil was the woman thinking? It had to have been ten years since she’d
been on a horse.

Quent reached her just as Bell stumbled toward the brackish
pond. He doubted that she even knew how to swim. His terror doubled. Rather
than try to tussle with her, he leapt off his horse and ran past, wading into
the mud and water to where the surface rippled.

With no thought to his expensive clothes, he dived beneath
the dark waters. They weren’t deep, thank all that was holy. He found the
struggling dark shadow and filled his hands with whatever he could grab.

He came up for air, hair and water streaming down his face.
But over his shoulder he held a soggy, limp bundle of clothes. Bell had waded
in after them, weeping as Quent had never seen her do. Her sobs of relief and
panic shattered what remained of his poise. He bit his tongue to prevent
shouting at her to get her damned derriere out of the water and back to shore,
where she belonged.

Still suppressing his rage and panic, Quent whacked Kit’s
back with his hand as he strode from the pond, hoping Bell had the sense to pry
herself out of the muck because his head was too jumbled by
feelings
to think clearly. Before they
had reached solid ground, Kit was coughing and crying and starting to kick.

Weeping, Bell lifted him from Quent’s arms the instant they
hit shore. She cradled Kit’s heavy weight and stumbled to her knees, hugging
her sobbing little brother.

Still too shaken for rationality, uncertain whether he had
the right to comfort either of them any longer, Quent grabbed his gelding’s
reins. He’d almost lost a spirited, courageous little boy before he’d
recognized the value of the boy’s character. How had he thought he would make a
good guardian if he didn’t grasp that the children were more important than his
father’s damned roof?

Distraught, he lingered a moment until the pair were in a
state to listen and obey. He might be damned useless for all else, but he
wasn’t having any more women and children drowning if he could prevent it. The
thieves could go to hell first.

“They stole your horses,” Kit hiccuped, trying to wiggle out
of his sister’s arms.

“But they didn’t steal you, and you’re far more valuable,”
Bell asserted, refusing to let him go. “Don’t ever, ever do that again. You
will make an old lady of me. Lord Quentin will drown trying to save you. We
thank you for what you tried to do, Kit, but . . .” She broke
down weeping again.

“Can you even swim?” Quent asked, wringing out his coat.

“Of course,” Kit replied, belligerent now that he wasn’t as
terrified.

“Bell, can you?” Quent demanded, stomping his boots in an
attempt to empty them.

She looked up, dazed. “Swim? No, I don’t think so. What does
it matter now? You saved him, and as much as I want to hate you, I can’t. You
have my undying gratitude, if only for this.”

Gratitude wasn’t what he wanted, but he’d take what he could
get. “Devil take it then, don’t dive into any more ponds if you can’t swim. Even
if it makes me an odious tyrant, I insist that you take Kit back to the house. Let
me follow the thieves, and for once, give me some credit and don’t doubt that I
can catch the bastards.”

He was still steaming over their quarrel. He had no
experience in settling irrational arguments, but he’d damned well better learn.
When Bell opened her mouth to protest, he leaned over and shut her up with a
rough kiss. Tearing away, he glared at her. “Go home. This time, you can’t do
it all yourself.”

“I’ll arm the grooms,” she agreed with obvious reluctance.
“Don’t do anything I’d do until they arrive.”

In his current state of agitation, the thieves would be
lucky he didn’t rip off their heads. Quent didn’t make any promises.

Cradling a soggy Kit, Bell barely managed to hold her seat
on the mare after Quent boosted them up. Her brother was unusually quiescent as
she arranged her skirt and kept him close. She couldn’t shake her fright at
nearly losing this precious life. How could she think she was capable of
keeping her siblings safe all on her own? Hadn’t she proved her incompetence in
anything except giving orders?

Before she could knee the horse into action, a sharp whistle
warned they were no longer alone. She shuddered and clutched Kit, swinging her
mount in the direction of home and safety.

Two men on stocky ponies blocked her path. Beside her, Quent
cursed and grabbed the cudgel from his saddle.

“Thought we heard some’at,” one said. “Would that be the
earl who’ll be stealin’ folks’ homes?”

Oh, botheration. Hiram had brought his bully boys from home.

Raising his cudgel, Quent placed himself and his big horse
between her and the thieves. “That’s my spoiled rotten nephew. My men are right
on our heels, prepared to hang horse thieves. You’d best move along.”

Bell prayed they believed him. Her heart quailed at the
possibility that they would harm Kit for a ridiculous title.

In alarm, she heard a splash behind them. Holding Kit tight,
she tugged her mare to a right angle from Quent’s.

Hiram was riding Dream through the muddy pond, holding a
pistol.

He was riding
her
horse.
Dripping wet, terrified beyond measure, she still had the sense to savor a
flash of triumph. If she accomplished nothing else, she’d show one damned man
not to mess with what was hers.

She hugged a sniffling Kit and whispered in his ear. “Don’t
say a word. Listen to Lord Quentin, pretend you’re his nephew, and if anything
bad happens, listen for me to say
síos.
If I do, start kicking and screaming for all you’re worth. Understand?”

Kit hiccuped and nodded.

“Less likely to shoot us if we got a hostage,” one of the
thieves concluded. “Hand him over.”

“That will not happen,” Quent asserted. “You have a head
start on my men already. We have to take the boy home before he catches cold. You
don’t need him.”

Hiram splashed through the low-lying water. “It’s the boy or
the woman. Hand him over, milady,” he ordered. “That bloody man of yours would
have us killed for certain elsewise. We’ll set him down once we’re safe.”

She wouldn’t have Quent attempting to fight off three brutes
if she had any choice at all. “Remember what I said,” she whispered to Kit.

Bell held up her hand before anyone came closer. “Hiram, I
didn’t want to see you hang, but I’ll have you drawn and quartered for this.”

“Not likely,” he said with a shrug. “We used your coins to
buy fares to the Americas, and those horses you’re on will pay our way once
we’re there. Get down from that one and make your man do the same.”

“That’s double-dealing, Hiram!” she protested. “We paid you
for finding Dream, and now you’re stealing her back.”

Her knees ached, and she was losing her grip. She couldn’t
hope to race for safety. It was only a matter of time before she fell with Kit.
She hugged him close, resisting releasing him, praying the grooms would arrive
first.

Quent idled his gelding into place between Bell and Hiram’s
pistol, but he couldn’t be in two places at once. Protecting her from a pistol
opened them up to the two rogues on the road—who kneed their ponies into action,
riding at them from two sides.

Quent swung his cudgel at one, but the other pony rode close
enough for its rider to grab Bell’s reins. Her mare reared in fright, and her
weak knees gave out. Rather than harm the mare’s mouth by yanking back, Bell slid
backward, hitting the ground but clinging to her brother. The rogue leaned over
and snatched Kit from her arms.

Kit cried out, but then abruptly shut up. She could see his
pale face straining to watch her while his captor galloped toward the road.
Hiram held his pistol on them, giving the kidnappers time to escape.

“Bring that mare over here, milady. I be needin’ her more
than you,” Hiram ordered. “I sure don’t want to be puttin’ gunshot in you.”

“I’m fine, Quent, stay seated,” Bell warned. Pulling herself
up, she led her mare straight at Hiram. “S
íos
,
Dream,” she shouted at the top of her lungs.

Blessed Dream, with Hiram on her back, responded to the
command
down
that Bell had taught her
years ago. The horse kneeled in the mud—and Hiram tumbled over her head.

Bell cracked her crop across Hiram’s gun-holding arm once he
hit the ground. For good measure, she stamped on his fingers with her boot. He
hollered, and she kicked the pistol into the brackish pond.

Bless his Irish heart, Kit did what came naturally. At
Bell’s shout, he screamed and beat his heels into the escaping pony as his
captor tried to escape back to the road.

“Brilliant,” Quent acknowledged curtly, kneeing his massive
mount after a screaming , squalling Kit and his would-be kidnapper.

Bell was shaking so hard, she wanted to collapse in
quivering fear, but now was not the time. She clung to the reins of Dream and the
two mares, stomping Hiram’s hand every time he tried to get up.

With Kit wailing like a banshee, kicking his heavy boots,
and thrashing about as only a holy terror could do, the thief holding him could
barely control his pony, much less force it to run. Quent would be on him in
seconds.