Taken by Storm (10 page)

He was doomed.

They continued on in heavy, awkward, uncomfortable silence.

Ariadne knew she should feel contrite, and her question hadn’t been entirely innocent. It also hadn’t been dishonest, because this kind, unassuming man with the gentle eyes was, indeed, someone she was feeling an increasing attraction to, and the idea of stealing a kiss from him before she was forever tied to the decidedly dispassionate Maxwell was, well . . . exciting in a forbidden sort of way. Still, she hadn’t counted on the veterinarian’s reaction nor, for that matter, Shareb’s.

Why had the stallion flown out of control?

Shareb was an intelligent horse, but she was pretty sure he didn’t understand much English. No, her words had rattled the doctor, and that anxiety had gone straight down the reins and to the horse.

She sat there, pondering it, as the miles passed beneath them and the sun rose higher and higher.

“Nice day it’s turned out to be,” she said, trying to make benign conversation.

“Aye.”

“Good that it isn’t raining.”

“Indeed.”

“Dr. Lord, are you aware that you seem to have a way with animals?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“That was odd, how he behaved back there . . .”

“Yes, well, something probably spooked him. Nothing more.”

“Nothing spooked him, and you know it. And I also find it very strange that he didn’t kick you when you were showing me how to harness him. He would have kicked anyone else, you know. And he’s behaving admirably well for a horse who has never been driven. What do you say to
that
, Dr. Lord?”

He gazed ahead, negotiating a turn in the road. “I’d say that Bow probably told him to behave.”

“I’m serious.”

He shrugged, the sunlight glinting off the brighter strands in his hair. “Animals like me, I guess.”

She thought of the effect he had on Shareb—and wondered suddenly, shamefully, what feelings those strong, capable hands would evoke if they were laid on
her
.

Oh, dear God, what is the
matter
with me? Please, help me to stop thinking such thoughts. Handsome as he may be, he’s not for me.

Shareb-er-rehh had settled into a comfortable trot once more, his small ears back, listening.

“Do you think we should stop for lunch soon, Dr. Lord?”

“We’ll give it an hour, then look for a place.”

He was obviously not receptive to conversation, and Ariadne found herself wishing she had a book, or embroidery, or something to occupy her. The silence loomed like an uncomfortable hole between them begging to be filled with something. The awkwardness was all but unbearable.

She could not know that her companion was also wishing for something; not to preoccupy his hands, but his thoughts, which were focused most acutely on his companion.

So, she wanted him to kiss her. Maybe it had been out of a genuine desire to see what she would be missing by marrying this man her father had chosen for her. Maybe it had been just a way to get under his skin, for he knew she was still piqued by the fact that he’d taken over this venture that she had previously controlled. Still, though—why? Did she lack feeling for her future husband? She certainly didn’t behave like a woman in love with the man she was supposed to marry. . . .

It doesn’t matter to me. I shouldn’t care. I
don’t
care. My task is to get her to
Norfolk
, deliver her to this fellow who doesn’t kiss her, turn around, and go home. That is all.

But suddenly, that didn’t seem to be quite enough, and he found himself feeling increasingly troubled by the whole situation.

Marriages in the
ton
were arranged all the time. Love had nothing to do with those agreements; they were made based on money, land, favors, power. Why should he care?

I don’t.

He shot a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She had gone unnaturally quiet, and for some reason, he found that he didn’t like the peace and serenity of the silence as much as he had thought he might. Her bald honesty—unusual in a lady of the
ton
—was quite startling, and, coupled with her air of self-importance, amusing. But her vivaciousness, her energy . . . it fueled something in him, touched something deep inside him, buoyed him in a way that, well . . . was rather nice, and he found himself rather missing it.

He couldn’t help himself.

I don’t care.

“So when is the wedding to this man who doesn’t kiss you?”

Sure, I don’t.

“Not for another year at least, as I’ll have to complete a period of mourning for my father before I can marry Maxwell.”

Maxwell.
That bloody name again.

“But maybe that’s a good thing,” she mused. “It will give me time to . . . well, to get to know him better. I know it’s the done thing, a father arranging his daughter’s marriage, but you know, we women have feelings too, and he is not the man I would have chosen for myself, had I had a say in things.” She looked down, gently stroking Bow’s soft fur. “I only went along with this to make Father happy. And if I never come to love Maxwell, and he never comes to love me, I will spend my life wondering what it is that I have missed.” She glanced over at him. “Wondering what a
real
kiss feels like.”

Bloody hell
, Colin thought.

“Don’t ask me to show you,” he said, directing his gaze up and past Shareb’s churning hindquarters.

“After your reaction back there?” She gave a little laugh, and her chin came up again in an attempt to reclaim some of her pride. “Not to worry, Dr. Lord. Besides, even though I might like it, Maxwell most certainly would not.”

“No, I can’t imagine that he would.”

“He’s a very dangerous man, you know. If you even so much as
looked
at me with any passing degree of interest, he would call you out. It would not be wise to insult him. He is expert with both sword and pistol, had gained a reputation as a deadly duelist, and I would fear for your life if he were to suspect that you had behaved in a way that is inappropriate.”

“Then he’s going to be overjoyed that we’re to spend the next hundred miles alone, pressed against each other, and talking about kissing.”

Her chin came up another inch. “I have to believe that he will make a fine husband.”

“Yes, of course. He certainly does have good credentials, doesn’t he? I mean, not everyone is so competent with sword and pistol. It is a commendable, fabulously useful talent, one that every husband ought to have.”

“Yes, yes, I quite agree—” She paused, frowning as she caught him trying to hide a grin. “Dr. Lord, are you teasing me?”

“I might be.”

“I think you’re just jealous because
you
don’t have Maxwell’s talent.”

“Yes, I am quite inept with both sword and pistol,” he lied.

“It
will
be a good match. We have a lot in common. Besides, he’s very knowledgeable when it comes to judging horseflesh. In fact, he has Black Patrick, the fastest racehorse in England, in his stable. That is to say—” she glanced at Shareb-er-rehh, then quickly away— “the fastest
tried
racehorse in England. Oh, and he’s rich, but that doesn’t matter, because so am I.”

“So, he has lots of money, a fast horse, and can kill people in duels. Sounds like a prime catch. I wish you every happiness, my lady.”

She went silent.

“So, how did you come to meet him?” he ventured, at length.

She shrugged, pulling Bow’s long, silky ear through her fingers until the little dog was all but smiling. “He was an acquaintance of Father’s. A business associate, and a Jockey Club friend, as well as a distant neighbor. Quite a bit older than me. Someone who could
control
me, rein in my wild ways—or so Father said.” Sudden tears sparkled in her eyes, and she pulled herself up on the seat with false bravado. “I just have to tell myself that he knew what he was doing. That Maxwell will make me a fine husband.”

Wordlessly, Colin reached out and touched her hand. But she quickly snatched it away, holding Bow close to her chest and hugging the tiny dog more fiercely than was comfortable for her. Bow never protested, only tilting her head back to lick the girl’s chin.

It was obvious that if she was grieving, she wanted no comfort.

And really, he shouldn’t have thought he could give her any. She was out of his realm, beyond his reach,
taken
. Her life was a neat and tidy package, cut to pattern by others and sewn up by herself. He should be happy for her. But still, there was a part of him that couldn’t help but think,
If only I’d met her when I was the man I once was, I could have had a chance at her.

But he was no longer that dashing hero, and never would be again.

No, he was only an animal doctor of modest means, and she, a high society beauty who would despise and pity him if she were to learn of his fall from grace. He could not have her. Better not to let himself even think it could be otherwise.

It couldn’t.

He sighed and redirected his attention to the stallion, watching the countryside passing by as the animal’s long strides put the miles behind them.

“You’ve grown awfully quiet, Dr. Lord.”

“Forgive me.” He grinned. “I was trying to think of a way to polish up my skills with sword and pistol before we reach Norfolk.”

She looked at him, saw the cajoling light in his eye, and laughed. “Is that all?”

“That, and thinking the sooner we part company, the better. You’re not good for me.”

“Not good for you? Is this another one of those pastry-dictates?”

He shot her a confused look.

“What I mean, is—” She shrugged, for her words had made perfect sense to her—how can I not be good for you? I make you laugh, don’t I?”

“Yes, and you talk about kissing me and you put images in my head that have no business being there. I am a man, Lady Ariadne, a man with normal, healthy, appetites, and spending time together may very well inflame something that is better left dormant.”

“Do I inflame you, Dr. Lord?”

“Lady Ariadne,
please
.”

“Well, do I?”

“You make my head ache. That’s what you do.”

“I can kiss it and make it better, you know.”

“You’re a damned flirt,” he said, but not unkindly.

To his surprise, she let loose a peal of high laughter, and put her hand on his arm. “Yes, Dr. Lord, I suppose I am. Now what do you say we start looking for a place to stop for lunch? My stomach’s growling and I’m sure yours is too.”

The stallion came up lame several miles later.

Colin felt the sudden lurch of the reins through his hands, the quick stumble before the horse recovered himself. He pulled back to get the animal to halt, but Shareb-er-rehh only shook his head, fighting him and staggering a few last steps before finally answering the pressure on the bit. He stopped, shuddered, and dropped his head dejectedly as the two humans leapt simultaneously from the chaise.

“Shareb!” Ariadne cried, racing to his head.

The stallion raised his foot and held it up beseechingly, his eyes large, wounded, and hurt.

“Shareb! Oh, Shareb, sweetheart! Dr. Lord, his leg!” She was close to tears. Shivering in pain, Shareb put his face against her chest.

Colin put one hand on the stallion’s hot and sweaty shoulder, and ran the other down the long foreleg.

“That bandage is going to have to come off.”

“Oh no, I can’t take it off, it’s on there to conceal—”

“Hold his head then, and
I’ll
take it off.”

She bit her lip, about to protest. Colin knelt down, his shoulder close to the stallion’s, his hands quickly unwrapping the thick, unnaturally heavy bandage.

He removed it and looked up at her, his gentle eyes suddenly angry. “Why the
devil
do you have weights wrapped in this bandage?”

The stallion shifted his weight, regained his balance, plaintively raised his foot once more.

Sheepishly, she looked away. “To . . . disguise his gait.”

Colin made a noise of disgust and flung the hot, damp bandage to the grass at the side of the road. The stallion’s leg was long, fine, and straight, the bones strong and well-formed. It was the leg of an aristocrat, but all he was concerned about was locating the injury. He checked the carpus, ran his hands down the long cannon bone, palpated the flexor tendons in search of a blown tendon.

Nothing.

“What is it, Dr. Lord?” she asked anxiously, hovering over his shoulder. Her voice sounded perilously close to tears. “Is he all right?”

He palpated the splint bones.

Nothing.

Searched the joints for swelling.

Nothing.

“Dr. Lord? Please, tell me, is he all right?”

“So far,” he answered, and moving his hands down to the stallion’s white-ringed fetlock, gently picked up the animal’s foot.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a nail, a stone, or a bruise on the sole.”

He pressed his thumb against the tough triangle that made up the hoof’s frog. The stallion didn’t flinch. He examined the hoof wall; aside from some caked mud, it was strong and healthy.

Gently, he let go of the stallion’s hoof.

Shareb stamped it down on his toe, hard.

“Ouch!” Grimacing, Colin pushed hard on the animal’s shoulder to get its weight off his foot. The stallion stumbled, and drove his head into the cradle of his mistress’s arms. One ear remained on Colin, and he had the strangest feeling that the animal was laughing at him.

“Oh, Dr. Lord, I knew it was a bad idea to hitch him to that dreadful chaise, now he’s lame, he’s injured, and what if he’s broken something and has to be destroyed—”

“He’s fine,” Colin said, wryly. He grasped the bridle and tried to pull the noble, cunning head around so that he could stare into the stallion’s dark eye, but Shareb jerked away, his ears flat back.

“He’s not fine, he’s in pain! His leg hurts, Dr. Lord, and you must do something!”

“I can’t find anything wrong with him to do anything
about
, my lady.”

“But he’s
lame
!”