Taken by Storm (38 page)

Maxwell was just far enough away from the crowd milling against his private, roped off area that he couldn’t hear their broad Norfolk accents, couldn’t smell their sweaty bodies, didn’t have to listen to their gossip and news about births, deaths, and sicknesses. But he could see the money being passed at the betting booth, could feel the excitement in the air, could sense the eagerness the crowd had for its first glimpse of the late Lord Weybourne’s mystery horse.

An eagerness that was equally shared by Maxwell’s cohorts. After all, old Weybourne had never made a secret of the fact that his lifelong goal was to breed the fastest horse in the world.

And now, it was time to see if he had succeeded.

“I say, Maxwell, this is a most unusual site for a match race!” drawled Sir Randall Tapworth, quirking his thick gray brows. He gestured toward the sea with his wine glass. “A beach! Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Most unusual, indeed,” muttered Lord Chittick sourly, who had journeyed all the way from London for the event.

The Marquess of Sunningwell, looking polished and elegant despite the day’s warmth, stared disdainfully at the long beach. “I daresay you take the Sport of Kings to new lengths, Maxwell.” A friend of the late Lord Weybourne, he had bet an enormous sum of money on Shareb-er-rehh.

Too bad he would lose it all, Maxwell thought, as he watched several men pounding a marker into the sand a mile down the beach.
Most unusual indeed
. Well, a good, flat-out, run was what he wanted—a race that would leave Shareb-er-rehh in the dust and the fortunes—and legacy—of the late Lord Weybourne in his hands.

But what was taking so long?

He hoped he hadn’t given
too
much pastry to the stallion. He’d merely wanted to throw the animal off, not make him deathly ill.

He was just opening his mouth to reply to Sunningwell’s taunt, when a roar from the crowd heralded the arrival of the contestants.

He stood up, the platform that had been erected for his and his guests’ benefit affording him a superior view. He smiled with satisfaction. Ah, there was Black Patrick, undisputed king of the English turf, being led through the parting crowds. Maxwell’s eye was unusually sharp; he needed no assistance to see that the Irish import was in fine form indeed, lather flecking his glossy jet hide, nostrils flaring red, noble head snaking out to lash viciously at a child who tried to reach out and touch him. Maxwell saw his jockey slash at the brat with his whip before the mother grabbed it up and shielded it to her breast.

He smiled and reached out to pluck a bit of fruit from a tray that appeared beside his shoulder, never sparing the servant a second glance.

“There’s Black Patrick,” noted Sir Randall, stretching his neck until its withered old cords stood out in high relief. “A fine animal, a fine animal indeed. Who’s that on his back, Maxwell?”

“Spit Jordan.”

“Ah,
wonderful
!” Randall exclaimed, rubbing his bony old hands together and making it obvious which horse he had laid his money on.

Maxwell smiled down into his drink, the sea wind ruffling his hair. Spit Jordan was a cunning blackguard who’d stop at nothing to win a race, and had been well paid to make sure that his mount didn’t lose. He chuckled darkly to himself.

Soon, my financial problems will be over. . . .

“Where the hell is Weybourne’s nag?”

Forever.

“You sure there’s supposed to be two of ‘em racing, Maxwell old chap?”

“Maybe he chickened out,” Randall said, laughing. “There isn’t a horse in England that can beat Black Patrick!”

Maxwell pulled out his watch, arching one brow as he idly studied the time. “I suppose they’ll be along shortly.”

“Who’s riding him?”

“Weybourne’s groom,” he drawled, thinking that it wouldn’t really matter who was on Shareb-er-rehh, for no jockey in the world would be able to coax speed from a horse that was too ill to run—

Suddenly the crowd sent up another roar, one that grew so loud and deafening that Black Patrick, just emerging from the throng and stepping onto the beach, shied into several people who were unlucky enough to be near him. The cheering went on, until one by one, Maxwell and his companions were forced to stand up to see what the commotion was all about.

“Bloody rabble,” Maxwell muttered—

And went slack-jawed with shock.

It was Shareb-er-rehh. Head high, huge nostrils cupped and flaring, forelock sweeping back from his brow and his tail floating on the wind behind him, he made a magnificent sight. His coat glinted in the sun. His muscles rippled with power. He was fire and beauty and speed incarnate, and now, as he caught sight of Black Patrick, he gave a half-rear, his shrill stallion-call ringing on the wind.

“Is
that
Weybourne’s horse?”

“Great God above! I think I’ve put my money on the wrong one.”

“Have you ever seen such bloody long legs?”

“Damn his legs, look at that depth of chest!”

Maxwell, blinking, could only shut his eyes and clench his fists in disbelief. Then, the fury began to build and swell deep within him, rising from the very pit of his soul like smoke from glowing embers, with nowhere to go but up. His head ached, and the rage popped out on his forehead as burning droplets of sweat.
Something must’ve happened. The damned horse must have neglected to eat the pastry. Either that, or it’s built up a resistance to it, because that bloody stallion has never looked healthier.

He opened his eyes, plucked a glass of wine from a passing tray, and pretended to toast the stallion. “Don’t forget, gentlemen, Weybourne’s horse has never been raced.”

“He’s speed. Pure, unholy
speed
.”

“Going to be a real contest, I tell you!”

“Yes, and look how well that groom is handling him!”

Following their gazes, Maxwell promptly dropped his drink.

It was Ariadne. Her fiery hair was stuffed under a cap, trousers covered her legs, and a light jacket concealed her figure—but there was no mistaking that exquisite, pixie face.

Nor was there any mistaking the identity of the tall, fair-haired man who walked beside the stallion’s shoulder, leading it through the crowds.

Colin Lord.

Who was supposed to be dead and buried and no longer a threat.

He clenched his fists in fury, the very arteries pulsing in his temples. He managed to raise his hand, and instantly his servant was at his elbow. Lowering his voice, Maxwell drew the man hastily aside.

“See that bay horse coming through the crowd?” he snarled, his black gaze boring into servant’s. “I want you to make sure he doesn’t win this race, do you understand?” He drew the servant close. “
Do you understand?
”

The man nodded jerkily, staring into Maxwell’s face.

Then Maxwell shoved him roughly away, and the servant melted off into the crowd.

“So, gentlemen . . .” Maxwell murmured, the picture of aplomb and poise once more. “You were saying?”

# # #

Shareb-er-rehh tossed his head, sending his black forelock spilling rakishly over his eyes. Fretting and prancing, he danced his way lightly through the crowd, neck arched, head tucked, mouth worrying the bit and his tail riding the wind behind him. Ahead, his rival’s haunches flashed in the sunlight as he was led past the crowd to the starting line, and Shareb-er-rehh raised his head and screamed out a challenge. Seconds later, the other horse answered him, his call piercing the wind.

Shareb reared, his ears sweeping back, and fought for more rein.

“Easy, boy,” Ariadne murmured, laying a hand against the stallion’s hot neck. She felt the taut, raw power coiled beneath her, and had no doubt that her father’s horse would leave Black Patrick floundering in the dust. But her mind was awhirl . . . with the memory of poor Thunder, rolling about in agony . . . with horror that Maxwell had tried to have Colin murdered . . . and with raw, sickened rage at what Tristan had told her about the evil man to whom she had been betrothed.

She looked up. Sunlight was just breaking through the high clouds in a magnificent, reverse-crown of glory, as though God had opened up the heavens and was shining His light down upon them.

Oh, God . . . please let this all turn out alright.

She looked down at Colin. He was tight-lipped and silent, and his eyes—normally gentle and expressive—were hard with fury as he scanned the crowds for Maxwell. If she didn’t hate him so, she could almost pity the earl.

Then she remembered Thunder, and his suffering.

Almost.

Now, hands reached out to touch Shareb’s burnished, gleaming coat as the veterinarian led him through the packed masses; the stallion’s one white-ringed eye turned to regard the crowds, and he stepped up his fine prancing, showing off for his many admirers.

They were almost to the racecourse now. The last of the crowd parted to let them through, and then there was only the sea before them, wide open and stretching into forever, sunlight glittering on thousands of waves, the tide swirling in great arcs of foam before eddying back into the azure expanse with a timeless, rhythmic roar.

She glanced down at Colin, wondering at the pain and longing the sight must surely bring him.
I will buy you a sailboat,
she thought, the idea coming out of nowhere and filling her with determined resolve.
You may no longer be in command of a great warship, but I know the sea is in your blood, and since we will live near the sea, I’ll make sure you have a boat so that you can always enjoy it. . . .

Black Patrick was just ahead, his long strides carrying him along the beach.

Colin, however, was not thinking of the sea, but of Maxwell, and of Thunder, and his fears for Ariadne’s safety in the upcoming race. He looked up at the little noblewoman, perched so high atop the great stallion’s back.

“Can this nag of yours run in sand?” he joked, trying to bolster her courage and confidence.

“Shareb-er-rehh’s ancestors came from the desert. Of
course
he can run in sand.”

Exchanging private smiles, they neared the starting line, where Black Patrick was rearing up on his hind legs and striking out at his groom. A vicious animal, that one, Colin thought. He turned and looked up at Ariadne. “I want you to be careful up there,” he warned. “Don’t get too close to that demon.”

“Really, Colin!” she said airily, tickling his shoulder with her foot. “We don’t intend to be anywhere near him, do we, Shareb?”

The stallion tossed his head, and slammed it so hard against Colin’s shoulder that he nearly knocked him over.

“Shear off, you arrogant beast!”

Shareb made a soft whickering noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter, and then settled down to business. He resumed his prancing, all elegance and grace as he moved past the crowds. He ignored the children that scooted out from beneath the ropes, trying to touch him before being hastily grabbed by their mothers. He ignored the gulls that wheeled and screamed just overhead. He ignored the waves pulsing at his hooves, ignored the thrumming roar of the crowds, ignored all but that huge, black rival that awaited him at the starting line.

The two stallions exchanged challenges, their high, piercing screams piercing the wind, and it took all of Colin’s and Ariadne’s combined strength to keep Shareb-er-rehh from attacking the other horse. The starter was there, gesturing to the red marker placed far down the beach.

“Easy course,” he said, taking off his hat to wipe his thinning hair back from his brow. “Down to the post and back, two miles, and the first one back wins. Got it?”

Spit Jordan cast a malicious glare at Ariadne and curled his lip in contempt as he gazed at Shareb, as though dismissing him already.

“When you’re ready,” the starter said.

But Ariadne’s heart was hammering, and she suddenly felt a tickle in the arch of her foot. She tried to press it against the stirrup iron, to no avail. Tried to rub it with her hand, but couldn’t reach the itch through the leather sole. Finally, with a quick apology to the starter, she leapt down from Shareb’s back and yanked off her boot, hastily rubbing the offending area while Colin raised a brow and bent down to help her.

“Problem?”

“My foot itches,” she said, sheepishly.

No one saw the shadowy figure that darted up on Shareb’s opposite side and was gone in the blink of an eye. But the stallion did, and let out a sudden scream, one hind foot lashing viciously out.

“Easy, Shareb!” Ariadne soothed, the sudden motion startling her. Then, stepping into Colin’s cupped hand, she vaulted back into the saddle.

“
Now
I’m ready,” she called to the starter, who nodded and motioned them forward.

Colin reached up and squeezed her hand for good luck. The course stretched ahead of them, open, free, and flat, the ocean on one side, the crowds pressing fifty feet away on the other. It would be a good race. A fast race. He let go of her hand, and slapped Shareb’s glossy rump as a final farewell.

But as the fiery, prancing stallion moved up to take his place at the starting line, sudden dread seized his heart.

“Ready—”

Desperately, he tried to run forward.

“Set—”

And saw it.
The girth
. Cut.

“
Ariadne!
”

The pistol shot cracked the air, and the horses were off.

# # #

Shareb-er-rehh’s mighty lunge broke the threads that held the girth and sent the saddle tilting crazily from his back. Colin heard his shout of panic over the crowd’s sudden roar as the saddle fell away, felt the pain in his bad leg as he ran to the tiny figure crumpled on the sand; then there was only Ariadne, clinging dazedly to him as he fell to his knees beside her and gathered her up into his arms.

Shareb-er-rehh came racing back, reins flying, head turned to regard his speeding rival.

The crowd was screaming.

And Black Patrick was already gone, running like fire through a trail of gunpowder.

Ariadne raised her head, her cap falling off to reveal her fiery hair. “Got to ride Shareb . . . got to ride him, Colin.”

“You aren’t riding him, damn it,
you aren’t riding him
!”