Friends and Foes (8 page)

The sound of horse teeth grinding hay grew to an unnatural volume; her nose seemed to imagine anew the pungent smell of a stable hand Sorrel hadn’t seen in years. She could feel nonexistent fog, could conjure up the taste of air thick with the threat of rain. Voices shouted frantically. The earth shook with the sporadic pounding of hooves. Sorrel wiped at more perspiration, trying to rid her mind of that day, those memories.

“All ready iffen you’ve decided to ride, Miss Kendrick,” Sam said.

“I don’t—”

“Come, Miss Kendrick,” Lord Lampton added his voice. “Since when do you back down from a challenge?”

Sorrel clenched her hands in indignation. To make her hesitancy sound like mere sheepishness! To reduce years of suffering to “a challenge”! Well, she certainly did not need Lord Lampton’s high-in-the-instep evaluations of her character to make her decisions for her. Sorrel would ride if she chose to or decline if it suited her. At the moment, she far favored declining.

Sam led out the very docile mare. Sorrel found herself wavering. The mount seemed gentle enough. The only docile horses at Kendrick Hall were the ponies, and Sorrel refused to lower herself to that level. To ride such a magnificent and suitable animal would be . . . wonderful. Wonderful and terrifying.

“You can always keep to the stable yard, Miss Kendrick. Practice your figure eights and what.” Did she hear a hint of condescension in Lord Lampton’s tone?

“I have not limited myself to a stable yard since I was five years old,” she corrected him none too gently.

He produced a look of obviously feigned contrition. “Forgive my inaccurate evaluation, then. I suppose I mistook you for a novice.”

“On what grounds, I would like to know,” Sorrel demanded, following Sam and Fairy Cake into the stable yard.

“No true horsewoman would turn down the opportunity to ride such a remarkable piece of horseflesh.” Lord Lampton led his own sleek, black mount into the yard. “Crispin purchased her for his lovely bride at quite a substantial sum, and well worth every pound. You would be hard pressed to find Fairy Cake’s equal.”

“If I had not found the mare impressive, my lord, I would not have returned after my first encounter.” The nerve of Lord Lampton assuming she knew nothing about horseflesh.

“The horse is not objectionable. The company certainly cannot be.” Lord Lampton offered a ridiculously self-assured smile. “The weather is holding. The roads are drier than they have been all week. I cannot see a single objection.”

Sorrel could think of several, but none she would admit to. Before she had a chance to object, a second groom had arrived with a mounting block, and she was being assisted into her saddle.

For the briefest of moments, Sorrel thought she might faint—she who abhorred fits of the vapors and women who indulged in them. The mare shifted beneath her. Sorrel held her breath.

“You are making her nervous,” Lord Lampton said. He watched her from astride his own intimidating mount.

“She is making
me
nervous,” Sorrel countered, trying to accustom herself once more to the feel of a sidesaddle. It felt more awkward than she remembered, more uncomfortable, more uneven. Perhaps
she
had grown more awkward, uncomfortable, and uneven.

“So, to the back meadows or to the seaside?” Lord Lampton asked, barely managing to keep his anxious horse from carrying him away.

“I have no need of your supervision,” Sorrel said as confidently as she could manage.

“You forget, Miss Kendrick,” Lord Lampton replied, tall and confident in the saddle. “We are at war, you and I. One should always keep an eye on the enemy.”

“That is your war tactic, then?”

“One of several.” Why did Lord Lampton seem to hide a smile at that admission? “The meadows or the seaside?”

Sorrel watched her foe for a moment, wondering if this were some strange attempt to befuddle her or see her disgrace herself once more. Perhaps Lord Lampton really did not believe she was much of an equestrian. She had her own doubts. There had been a time . . .

Lord Lampton continued to watch her with the patience of a saint. Somehow Sorrel would not have believed patience to be one of his strong points.

“I was born and raised in Kent, Lord Lampton. At the seaside. I confess I thoroughly enjoy the sounds of the tide.”

“The seaside it is, then.”

Lord Lampton guided his mount out of the stable yard, and Sorrel urged Fairy Cake to follow. The first few moments of movement were difficult, to say the least. She adjusted as well as she could to the gait of the horse, trying to negotiate her balance. Her right leg, wrapped around the pommel of the sidesaddle, ached from the awkward position. Her right hip sharply protested the effort needed to maintain a proper riding posture. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.

“There is a very direct route to the sea,” Lord Lampton said, having slowed his mount to allow Sorrel to catch up. “But the view from the east end of the Cavratt holdings is far superior.”

Sorrel began to seriously doubt her stamina. They’d gone only a few yards. She felt every bounce and jar.

“Of course if you cannot keep up . . .” Lord Lampton gave her a smile of challenge. He tipped his head in her direction, threatening to set his already jaunty beaver at an almost absurd angle.

“You continue to question my equestrian skills?”

“Simply giving you the opportunity to retreat.”

“I never retreat.”

Why did Lord Lampton look as though he doubted her declaration? She, of course, couldn’t care less about the Earl’s opinion of her. And yet she couldn’t let the slight pass. She had at one time been regarded as having as good a seat as any man of her acquaintance. Lord Lampton thought her unequal to a short ride? A few colorful words from her infamous vocabulary came to mind. She refused to give the Earl the satisfaction of thinking he had the upper hand.

Lord Lampton kept his obviously anxious animal at a sedate trot. Sorrel thought she knew how the gelding felt, wanting to push beyond the bounds dictated to it but unable to do so.

“I do not believe your horse enjoys trotting,” Sorrel observed after a few minutes of silence between herself and her riding partner.

“Devil’s Advocate hasn’t a mild bone in his body.” Lord Lampton patted the neck of the thoroughly bored horse.

“I have never encountered so many oddly named horses as I have here at Kinnley.” Sorrel tried to sound lighthearted despite the pounding in her hip.

“Like Fairy Cake, am I correct?” Lord Lampton remained even with her. “That, I believe, is some kind of private joke between Lord and Lady Cavratt.”

“And why did you choose the name Devil’s Advocate?”

“There were a couple of reasons.”

He flashed a smile different from his usual one. It did not drip with vanity or egotism but rather communicated amusement, ease, even apparent humility. Sorrel couldn’t help herself; for some reason she refused to dwell on, she quite suddenly wanted to hear the reasons behind the name.

“For one thing, he is the most contrary, disobliging creature in all of creation.” Lord Lampton laughed.

“Strange. I thought
you
were the most contrary, disobliging creature in all of creation.” Now why had she said that? Why did Lord Lampton seem to force the most spiteful words from her?

“I am a very close second, I assure you,” came the laughing response. “Perhaps that is why Devil’s Advocate and I get along so famously.”

“Undoubtedly.” Sorrel shook her head the moment the word passed her lips. Why did he bring out this side of her?

Lord Lampton simply chuckled amusedly, looking as confident and self-assured as ever atop his graceful mount. “He takes it upon himself to question every direction I give him. So, you see, he lives up to his name.”

“He could be a Kendrick, then. We all live up to our names.” Sorrel thought she sounded less like a spiteful spinster than usual. A hint of amusement even colored her tone.

“What do you think, old man?” Lord Lampton leaned closer to the horse’s head. “Would you like to be a Kendrick?”

The horse flicked his head and nickered.

“Settled!” Lord Lampton chuckled. “I shall send you to Kent at the first opportunity,” to which the horse responded by leaping; its back arched. Lord Lampton seemed unconcerned with the show of impatience. Sorrel, however, pulled Fairy Cake to an abrupt and complete stop, watching the flailing black gelding with growing discomfort.

“No one will ever take you if you act like that, you great beast.” Lord Lampton cheerfully chastised the horse. “It is no wonder your sire is unwelcome in so many places. You’re both too hotblooded by half.”

His words more or less flooded over Sorrel, not sinking in or impacting her. She simply watched the horse, convinced it would never settle down—Lord Lampton would never get it under control. She vaguely noted that her head hurt—it had ached for a day or so but had grown more pronounced. Her right leg throbbed horribly from hip to ankle.

Sorrel tore her gaze away from the now trotting horse beside her and tried to focus on the road ahead.

“Where in Kent do you reside, Miss Kendrick?” Perhaps the aching in her head had played a trick on her—Lord Lampton’s question sounded almost friendly.

“The nearest town of any note is Dover,” Sorrel replied rather mechanically—her brain seemed to be dozing off, rendering her thoughts unclear.

“I have been to Dover many times,” Lord Lampton said. “A beautiful area of the country.”

Sorrel replied with a nod.

“And you have lived there all your life?”

Another nod. Blast, her leg hurt!

“Are you unwell, Miss Kendrick?” Lord Lampton asked. “You do not seem quite yourself.”

“I am fine.” Did he notice the grimace she had desperately fought to hide?

“Now it is your turn to pry into the details of my life.” Lord Lampton’s teasing tone seemed a bit forced. “I assure you it is best to know as much about one’s enemy as possible.”

“Another war tactic, no doubt.”

“You have no idea the extent of my war tactics.” A self-effacing chuckle accompanied his words.

“Your brother, Jason, tells me the Jonquils hail from Nottinghamshire.” That simple sentence had taken far more effort than Sorrel would have guessed. She tried to covertly rub her right hip in a vain attempt to soothe it.

“The closest thing we have at Lampton Park to a seaside is the banks of the Trent,” Lord Lampton replied amusedly. “That quite often proved a battlefield as much as the Continent has at times. With seven of us, and all boys, there were plenty of wars reenacted at the Park over the years.”

Sorrel smiled. She and Fennel had staged a few reenactments of their own. She had always regretted, for Fennel’s sake, that there were no other brothers in the family. Sorrel had, in many ways, been as much an older brother to him as an older sister. She had taught him to ride and fence and climb trees. How she missed those days!

“You seem to have had a very happy childhood.” She tried to ignore the pounding in her head.

“My parents doted on one another and on all of their children,” Lord Lampton said. “It was a rather picturesque upbringing, I suppose.”

“Must have been wonderful.” Sorrel wasn’t entirely sure she’d kept the remark to herself. If she had spoken aloud, she sincerely hoped she’d kept the wistful tone out of her voice.

“There are days when I would gladly go back to romping around the grounds. Back when life was simpler and all my brothers were happy and carefree.”

“Are they so unhappy?” Sorrel asked. She continued rubbing at her almost unbearably painful leg.

Lord Lampton shrugged. “Probably no more so than most people.” His nonchalant mannerisms and tone were underscored by a look of concern that flitted momentarily across his face.

Sorrel tried to shrug off the look. She’d come to think of Lord Lampton as a self-absorbed fop and didn’t feel ready to reevaluate that opinion, especially with her head throbbing and her vision spinning.

They continued riding without speaking. If the silence bothered Lord Lampton, Sorrel didn’t notice. Perhaps she simply wasn’t paying enough attention. Staying mounted required all her concentration.

Despite the late December weather, Sorrel felt clammy. She was in pain and dizzy and had begun to shake. What was wrong with her? Being on horseback wasn’t as unnerving as she’d expected it to be, and yet she was falling apart.

Lord Lampton said something beside her, but Sorrel couldn’t make sense of the mumbled noise. She put a hand to her temple, attempting to hold her head still. The landscape around her swayed so much her head had to be swaying as well. Why in heaven’s name couldn’t she focus on anything?

Sorrel thought she heard Lord Lampton’s voice again, though farther off. Blast the man! Had he gone on without her? Not that she cared. She just . . . just . . .

Unable to put together a coherent thought, Sorrel tried to say something, call out for help, as she felt herself falling.

“Sorrel!”

She was falling off her horse!

He tried again. “Sorrel!” She didn’t reply, didn’t acknowledge he’d spoken despite having used her Christian name. If she were as fine as she’d earlier claimed, General Sorrel would have given him a stinging set-down.

Having dismounted and wrapped the reins of Devil’s Advocate around an obliging tree limb, Philip rushed to where Sorrel swayed in her saddle and plucked her off Fairy Cake’s back. Disturbed by how light and fragile she felt, Philip attempted to set her on her feet, but she seemed entirely unable to stand.

Doing the only thing he could think of, Philip swept her into his arms and carried her to the base of a tree and set her gently on the ground. She seemed completely unaware of everything around her.

“Sorrel,” Philip said firmly, looking into her glazed eyes with alarm. “I am taking unforgivable liberties with your name. Aren’t you going to snap at me? Tell me I am a presumptuous lout?”

Her brows knit in obvious pain. Each breath came out ragged and labored. The color had all but drained from her face. Her nearly colorless lips twitched a moment. In a voice no more than a whisper, she quite unexpectedly pleaded with him, “Help me, Philip. Please.”

For a moment he froze. What had happened to the warrior he’d been brangling with for a week? She had no right to be vulnerable and broken! He found to his further confusion that her razor-sharp tongue could utter his name in a way that tugged at his very heart.

“Please.” Her voice had grown even quieter.

Sweat beaded on Sorrel’s forehead. Sweat? Outside in December? He placed a hand cautiously to her forehead then shifted it to her cheek. She was burning up.

“Blast you, Sorrel,” Philip grumbled. “You told me you were fine.”

“Leg.”

“What the devil kind of response is that?” His mind spun, trying to decide how to get Sorrel back to the house as quickly as possible.

“Leg.”

“If you are trying to secure a victory by completely confusing your enemy, congratulations. You win.” Philip worked at unbuttoning his overcoat. Sorrel, in the midst of her incoherent mutterings, was shivering. “Although I think contracting a fever is a rather underhanded strategy.”

Philip draped his coat over her, feeling the cold almost immediately. Now, how in heaven’s name ought he to get her back? They’d gone too far to carry her himself. In her condition, Sorrel would never stay mounted.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you are a great deal of trouble?”

Sorrel nodded.

“And I will have you know I am no hero,” Philip told her.

He wiped a trickle of sweat from Sorrel’s eyebrow. What had he gotten himself into? The house could only be reached on horseback. Sorrel would not stay mounted for more than a moment unless she rode back with him. Philip knew instinctively that offering such monumental assistance to his prickly adversary was tantamount to laying his head under the guillotine blade. Once Sorrel came to her senses, she’d slaughter him.

“Don’t you know dandies are never intrepid?” He brushed a stray strand of obsidian black hair from her tightly closed eyes.

After pulling his coat more snugly around Sorrel’s shoulders, Philip tied Fairy Cake’s reins to the pommel of his saddle. Devil’s Advocate was being unusually docile. Now would be the best time to mount.

Philip knelt beside Sorrel once more. “Sorrel.” He touched her face—something he found he enjoyed more than he ought. “You are going to have to help me with this.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She watched him with an intensity he hadn’t anticipated. The obvious pain in her eyes made Philip question her lucidity.

“Come on, then.” Philip lifted her from the ground, still startled at her frailty. Somehow he’d pictured his adversary as something of an Amazon: sturdy, warrior-like. A stab of some emotion struck him as he carried her. Guilt, perhaps? It didn’t feel precisely like guilt. Philip told himself he’d think about it later.

Getting Sorrel on the back of Devil’s Advocate proved a bit awkward. Philip breathed a sigh of relief as he set his feet in the stirrups and put a steadying arm around Sorrel’s waist. He nudged the unusually cooperative horse forward.

Sorrel’s fever had not, apparently, impaired her alertness as Philip had guessed. She managed to keep a distance between them even while sharing a saddle, though she swayed precariously. Stubborn woman! Didn’t she realize she was making their journey far more difficult than it needed to be? If she would just let him support her!

Rolling his eyes at her obstinacy, Philip closed his arm more closely, forcing her to lean against him. For a moment she seemed to struggle against the new position but quite suddenly gave it up, leaning heavily against his chest.

“That isn’t entirely unpleasant, now, is it?” Philip smiled to himself, knowing full well it would kill her to admit as much.

“Thank you, Philip,” she whispered, but Philip easily heard her over the pounding of hooves.

Quite suddenly he didn’t feel so cold. Words couldn’t be warming, could they? Lud, he needed to lighten the mood!

“That is the second time you have used my Christian name, I will have you know,” Philip said, the smell of citrus in her hair teasing his senses. “I do not recall giving you permission to do so.”

“I feel blasted awful.”

Why the sound of Sorrel uttering a less than dignified word made Philip laugh, he couldn’t say. “I can honestly say no woman has ever told me
that
while we were out for a ride.” Philip held her just a little more tightly to him, because she was unwell, of course. “You have wounded my pride, I will have you know.”

“How much farther?” She did not sound well at all.

“Not much farther, Sorrel. Not much farther.”

Philip pushed Devil’s Advocate ahead faster. Their arrival at the Kinnley stables instigated a flurry of frantic activity. Grooms appeared seemingly out of nowhere helping him dismount and seeing to Sorrel’s needs. Leaving the two positively spent horses in the capable hands of the Kinnley stable staff, Philip retook possession of Sorrel, who obediently put her arms around his neck as he carried her anxiously into the house.

As luck would have it, the first people he came across were Miss Marjie and Fennel. Marjie’s “Good gracious!” mingled with the young man’s “What’s happened?”

“She grew feverish during her ride,” Philip answered quickly. “She seems to be in quite a lot of pain.”

“She rode?” Fennel asked, looking both disbelieving and excited at the same time.

“I have told Sorrel so many times to be more careful of her health,” Miss Marjie interrupted with a look of disapproval for Fennel. “The fevers have been less frequent. Why did she have to put herself in peril?”

Miss Marjie laid a hand on Sorrel’s forehead. In the first show of life Philip had seen in his armful in some minutes, Sorrel swiped her sister’s hand away. Now
that
was the Sorrel he knew! Miss Marjie was not remotely deterred but continued her attentions.

“As much as I enjoy displaying my not insignificant strength,” Philip said, “would one of you be so kind as to direct me to Miss Kendrick’s chambers? I believe she would greatly appreciate being set down.”

Miss Marjie pinked then spun around to lead the way. Philip shifted his hold on Sorrel, and she winced.

“My apologies,” he whispered to her. “I told you I was no hero.”

Sorrel offered no reply, verbally or otherwise. Philip found he rather preferred when Sorrel snapped at him or offered rather unflattering assessments of his character. The silent, feverish Sorrel worried him more than he cared to admit.

“One more flight,” Miss Marjie called over her shoulder as they finished their first ascent.

“You go up and down this many stairs every day?” Philip gazed into Sorrel’s face. It was a wonder she hadn’t collapsed a few days sooner.

“My leg hurts.”

“She is not terribly coherent,” Philip told Fennel, who had followed.

“It’s the fever,” Fennel said quite matter of factly.

“This has happened before?”

“Quite often, ever since her unfortunate incident.”

He’d heard that phrase before: “unfortunate incident.” Philip could only guess they were referring to however Sorrel had sustained her disabling injury. He thought it odd her family never discussed it beyond that evasive title.

They reached the next landing. Philip followed Miss Marjie to the left all the way to a door, which she opened. Philip stepped inside. Miss Marjie flitted to the bell pull and tugged, watching anxiously as Philip laid Sorrel on her bed. Sorrel looked miserably ill.

“Should I seek out your mother?” Philip offered, still watching Sorrel. She lay perfectly still except for the slow rise and fall of her chest.

“No,” both Fennel and Miss Marjie answered in unison.

“She might appreciate knowing.” Philip couldn’t imagine Mater not wishing to know if one of her children were as ill as Sorrel appeared to be.

“Mother finds these episodes quite uncomfortable,” Miss Marjie explained while fussing over Sorrel once more.

Mother does not believe in being uncomfortable.

“What can I do?” Philip offered, noting with growing discomfort that Sorrel no longer objected to Miss Marjie’s attentions.

“She will need bandages and fever powder,” Miss Marjie replied without blinking an eye—the Kendricks had obviously been through this before. “Her abigail, Jenny, will have the recipe for the plaster Sorrel requires.”

“Shall I have Lord Cavratt send for a physician?” Philip pressed. Sorrel looked more ill by the moment.

“Only if he does not believe in cupping,” Miss Marjie insisted quite decisively.

Fennel stepped closer to Philip and, sotto voce, explained, “About a year after her accident, Sorrel was suffering with a bout of fevers. The physician who attended her advocated cupping. She nearly died before we insisted he stop bleeding her. Afterward she quite quickly recovered. Marjie and I are convinced Sorrel ought not to be cupped.”

“I have never been convinced that bloodletting is as beneficial as it is generally believed to be,” Philip said.

Fennel hadn’t taken his eyes off Sorrel. He looked concerned but not panic-stricken. Was that Fennel’s natural, easygoing nature? Or was he, who had seen Sorrel suffer through similar episodes, not overly anxious about her recovery?

A young serving woman entered the room, her face immediately betraying her confusion.

“Sorrel’s having one of her fevers, Jenny,” Miss Marjie explained.

Understanding dawned on Jenny’s face. She turned to Fennel and Philip. “’Taint no place for the two of you.” She motioned them to the door. “Miss Sorrel will be right as rain soon ’nough.”

Philip offered a bow to Miss Marjie and looked once more at Sorrel, hoping Jenny’s assessment was accurate. The door closed firmly.

“She actually rode?” Fennel didn’t wait a single moment to accost Philip.

“That hardly seems consequential considering—”

“It is beyond consequential, Lord Lampton,” Fennel countered. “She hasn’t ridden since her unfortunate incident. She hasn’t gone anywhere near horses. She used to practically live in the stables.”

“Her return to horseback did not seem to do her a lot of good.” Philip had quickly come to regret his role in goading her to ride.

Philip thought he saw Fennel roll his eyes. “The fever has been coming on for days. She hides it well, but I can always tell. She’d have been in the throes of it whether she’d stayed to the house today or not.”

It was only a minor comfort. She could have been safely indoors when the fever hit. She could have been spared the further ordeal of getting back to the house. At least she was warm and cared for now.

Walking determinedly down the corridor in search of Crispin, Philip decided he would apologize to Sorrel as soon as she recovered enough to comprehend what he said. Although playing the humble repenter while Sorrel remained only marginally lucid seemed a much safer plan. Once she recovered, she’d probably despise him more than ever.

For some reason, the possibility made Philip’s insides wrench.