What Price Love? (24 page)

Rus gave a general description, then a more technical listing of the horses' points. Pris sat back, thinking rather than listening. When Dillon and Rus finished, she asked, “How are we going to find where they're hiding Blistering Belle and her imposter?”

Both Dillon and Rus looked at her, then exchanged a glance.

Dillon sat back, met her eyes. “
We
aren't. None of us can. We're all too recognizable.”

She frowned. He went on, “The last thing we need is for Cromarty and Harkness to know we're watching them. They know Rus has guessed enough to raise questions, but having seen me with
you
”—Dillon angled his head at her—“they'll assume Rus has already spoken with me, but I've taken no action and it's been three days, so presumably he failed to convince me of anything. With luck they'll feel safe again, enough to go ahead with the Blistering Belle substitution. If they run scared and don't, then we—myself and the authorities—won't have any chance to catch them and shut the racket down.”

Dillon paused, considering, then looked again at her. “Exactly how best to handle this situation…I admit I don't know, especially
when you add in the possibility of a ‘silent partner' lurking in the background. I want to expose him, too, not just bring Cromarty down. If his actions with Collier are any guide, at the first hint of trouble, this man will eradicate any link to himself and simply switch the substitutions to some other stable next season.”

He looked at Rus. “I don't want to act precipitously and show the villain our hand before we're ready to act, before we've identified him. And we're not in any position to do anything yet—we need more information, then we'll plan.”

Rus was nodding. Dillon switched his gaze to Pris. “So we'll find out who owns the imposters, and we'll have someone track Crom to learn where they're hiding the switched horses. One of my grooms—”

“Patrick.” She sat forward. “He's at the Carisbrook house, much closer to the Rigby farm, and he'll understand and be careful.”

Dillon nodded. “Good idea.”

Rus was frowning. “Patrick's here?” Then he grimaced. “I suppose he would be, if Eugenia is.” He shook his head. “I still can't take it in that you all upped stakes and came after me.”

Pris regarded him with affectionate scorn. “I can't believe you ever imagined we wouldn't.”

“Yes, well.” Dillon glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. “It's late—we need to get you back to Lady Fowles.” He glanced at Rus as he stood. “I'll introduce you to Jacobs—he'll show you your room. Other than our staff, all of whom have been with us forever, the only one here is my father, and he already knows the official side of this.”

“He was the Keeper of the Stud Book before Dillon.” Pris rose as Rus got to his feet.

Dillon led the way to the door, then paused and turned around. He studied her for a moment, then looked at Rus. “Lady Fowles, Miss Blake, and
Miss
Dalling will no doubt be keen to visit you. Luckily, our recent social appearances will serve as an excuse—no one will be surprised to see your aunt's carriage turn into the Hillgate End drive, or to find Lady Fowles taking tea with my father.” He glanced at her, and smiled. “The perfect camouflage.”

She saw the fleeting gleam in his eyes, part amusement, part…was it male satisfaction? She wished she could read what was going on in his brain. “We'll call tomorrow morning.” Stretching up,
she kissed Rus's rough cheek, then hugged him hard. “Patrick will come, too, and you can tell him about Crom, and in which direction he takes the horses to be hidden.”

Rus kissed her back, patted her shoulder. Then he looked at Dillon and held out his hand. “Thank you. It might be your duty to investigate this matter, yet I'm still in your debt.”

Dillon caught the flick of Rus's eyes Pris's way; lips curving, he grasped Rus's hand. “Don't worry—when we get to the end of this, the shoe might well be on the other foot.”

A nicely ambiguous statement; from the look in Rus's eyes, he caught both meanings. With Rus handed into Jacobs's care, Dillon ushered Pris away; he felt Rus's gaze on his back as he steered Pris down the corridor, heading for the stables and the long ride across the moonlit fields to the Carisbrook house.

Even before they left the stable yard, Pris's relief, until then deflected by their talk, was welling, threatening to spill over. Dillon saw her mounted, then turned away. Swinging up to Solomon's back, he looked across—and saw her cavorting giddily, letting the mare prance and dance as her emotion communicated itself to her flighty mount. “Pris!”

She flashed him a glorious smile—a wild, reckless and dangerous smile. “Come on—let's ride!”

A light tap to the mare's flanks was all it took to send her racing; jaw setting, Dillon sent Solomon surging after her. He caught up before she'd left the manor drive; she laughed and matched him, stride for stride. The pounding of flying hooves on the packed gravel, an insistent tattoo, was a drumbeat they both responded to.

They shot out of the drive and the fields lay before them. Dark, deserted, all theirs. With a whoop, Pris whirled her quirt and raced on.

Dangerous, reckless, and wild.

Mentally gritting his teeth, Dillon herded her. He was too wise—understood too well the reckless passion that had her in its grip—to try to head her, to hold her back. To restrain her. Instead, using Solomon's bulk and strength, and his own knowledge of every foot, every yard of the surrounding land, he guided the mare in her headlong dash, through the physical outpouring of Pris's joy.

Finding her brother, knowing he was safe—touching him, seeing him—had released a dam of pent-up emotions, of stresses and strains, worries and cares. Pris wasn't just free, she was soaring—carefree,
lighthearted.

Light-headed; he was certain of that. She seemed breathless, her laughter spilling out, the silvery notes falling like fairy dust all around them. They thundered through the night; every faculty stretched, he picked their route, keeping to well-beaten tracks that in the darkness only showed in his mind.

Over fields, through paddocks, flying over low fences, they streaked through the night. Anyone seeing them would have sworn they were mad; he knew they were both sane, just out of control.

Or at least, she was; he was doing his best to remain levelheaded, not to let her infect him with her wild and reckless passion. Having to concentrate helped; knowing that any error of judgment on his part could see her thrown and injured helped more.

Then the Carisbrook house loomed ahead, a dark monolith rising up out of the shadowy landscape. The mare was tiring, but far from blown; she was as game as her rider. He was about to correct course for the yard behind the house when Pris called a challenge; dropping her reins, she caught the mare's flying mane, crouched low, and put on a turn of speed that in less than a minute left Solomon two lengths behind.

And on a wrong heading. Dillon cursed, checked, and went after her. Pushing Solomon on, he closed the gap, but then they burst through the bushes lining the drive, crossed it in a lunge, and swept into the scattered trees beyond.

They had to tack this way and that around the trees, slowing them both, for which he was grateful. But then the mare reached a path and leapt forward again. And he knew where she was going—where she was leading him.

His sane self cursed; this was not a good idea.

Most of him, that side of him she never failed to speak to, was already with her.

With her, close on her heels as she pulled the mare to a halt beside the summer house, tumbled out of her saddle, looping the reins about the stair rail before, laughing giddily, she raced up the steps.

With her, mere steps behind her as she flew across the summerhouse straight for the central pole. With her as she reached it, wrapped both hands around it and, leaping high, exuberantly swung herself around. Dropping back to the floor, she faced him, her smile brighter, more glorious, than the sun.

“We found him!”

She flung herself at him.

Caught his face between her hands and fused her lips to his.

He caught her, staggered back, steadied, then pressed her back until her spine hit the pole.

And devoured.

Took all she not just offered but pressed on him, that she lavished and tempted and defied him to take.

He didn't take control of the kiss—it took control of him. And her. They fed from each other, hungered and burned until all either knew was a desperate want. An urgent need to conquer and surrender, to seize, to possess, to simply have.

Her mouth was his, his tongue was hers, their breaths beyond ragged and urgent. Fire flashed and raced through them; desire swelled and crashed through them. Passion rose in a tidal wave and swept them both away.

Madness. It gripped them. Wild, reckless, dangerous.

It whipped them, consumed them, drove them. Harried every breath, every gasp, every too-desperate touch.

He wrenched open the shirt she'd worn under her jacket, found the ties of her chemise and yanked it down, wrapped his palm about her breast and nearly groaned. He flexed his fingers and she did; he kneaded possessively and she gave voice to their hunger, even as her hands worked desperately at his waist, hauling up his shirt, then sliding beneath to spread hungrily over his chest.

Clothes flew. Her boots skidded across the floor, dispensed with so he could tug her breeches down and off her legs. His jacket and shirt disappeared, eaten, for all he knew, by her greedy hands.

Hot, grasping, urgent.

Needy, greedy, and wanting.

Heat throbbed beneath every inch of his skin. When she pushed aside the flap of his breeches and, reaching within, wrapped her hand around him, for one instant he thought he might die.

The desperation was that great.

His need was even greater.

As was hers.

Her tongue was in his mouth, taunting and pleading even while her fingers played.

His hand was on her naked bottom, gripping, possessing. His other hand toyed with one swollen breast, almost idly stroking the tightly furled nipple.

She tightened her grip, then with her nails lightly scored.

He couldn't breathe. Releasing her breast, he slid both hands down, gripped her thighs, and hoisted her.

With a surprised gasp, she released her hold, but even before he pinned her to the pole, she was winding her long bare legs about his hips. Before he pressed closer, she pulled him to her.

He thrust deep inside her.

Drew back and thrust again, harder, farther.

She broke from the kiss gasping; head back, she wriggled, adjusted about him, then she tightened her legs, holding him close, urging him into a deep, steady, forceful rhythm. One that rocked them both. One designed to fuse them beyond recall.

He caught the pole above her head and pushed her higher, pushed deeper and still deeper into her.

She caught her breath on a sob, found his head with her hands, tipped his face to hers, bent her head, and kissed him.

And they were lost.

Lost to the tempest, to the roiling turbulent need that rose up and swamped them. To the fire and hunger that roared through their veins, igniting flames beneath every inch of skin, spreading and searing, consuming the last shreds of sanity, the last vestiges of reservation, the last shadows of inhibition.

Until they knew only this.

This need, this want, this desperation.

The wild, the reckless, the dangerous—the all-consuming. The elemental power that poured through them both.

That gripped them, ripped them apart, and offered their souls to some higher power as ecstasy swept through them.

As it shattered them, battered them, then flung them, boneless, into some limitless sea.

Into the balm of aftermath that sealed them, healed them.

That finally, uncounted minutes later, receded, and left them clinging to each other in the dark of the night, in the cool shadows of the summer house by the lake.

H
el-lo! What have we here?”

Comfortably seated in his study opposite Rus Dalling, Dillon looked up to see Barnaby framed in the doorway. Barnaby's gaze had locked on Rus—whom he'd last seen in the moonlight behind the Jockey Club.

Rus had recognized Barnaby; cocking a brow at Dillon, he slowly rose to his feet.

Dillon did the same, waving Barnaby in. “The Honorable Barnaby Adair, allow me to present Russell Dalling. And yes,” he added, seeing the speculation in Barnaby's eyes, “Rus is Miss Dalling's twin.”

Rus offered his hand. “My apologies for the nature of our previous encounter. I had no idea who you were, and I had good reason not to dally to find out.”

Strolling forward, Barnaby glanced at Dillon, then gripped Rus's hand. “I take it you've thrown in your lot with us—on the side of the angels, as it were.”

Rus's brilliant smile flashed. “I was always on that side. I just didn't know who else was, who I could trust.”

Barnaby rubbed his jaw; the bruise there had almost faded from sight. “Speaking of trust, you could earn mine by showing me some of those maneuvers you used. I've been in brawls aplenty, but that was something new. And effective.”

Rus exchanged a smile with Dillon, then glanced back at Barnaby. “He said you'd say that.”

“Yes, well, predictable, that's me.” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “So you succeeded in persuading Miss Dalling to tell you all?”

“Not without considerable effort. Eventually she ran out of options and elected, at last, to tell me about Rus, and what she knew of his problems. Once you hear, you'll understand, but it was immediately apparent Rus was seeking to expose the same swindle we're pursuing.”

“From the other end, as it were,” Rus said.

“Excellent…” Barnaby's voice died away. Consternation dawning, he glanced from Rus to Dillon.

“What?” Dillon asked.

Barnaby nodded at Rus. “You've scrubbed up well—I do hope you're in hiding?”

Dillon frowned. “He is, but you haven't yet heard the reason why.”

“I can
see
a damned good reason why,” Barnaby returned. “Just look at us. One sighting by the local mamas of the three of us together and the news will be out in a flash. Well—you saw how it was when it was just you and me. Add Rus here, and I guarantee the news will reach London within hours.”

Looking at Rus, Dillon saw Barnaby's point. Barnaby was a golden Adonis, he himself was dark and dramatic, while Rus, a touch younger, was the epitome of devilish. He grimaced. “We'll need to remember that.”

Rus grinned. “It can't be that bad.”

“Oh, can't it?” Barnaby said. “How much time have you spent socializing in the ton, here or in London?”

Rus raised his brows. “None, really. Not socializing.”

“Well, you just wait. Take it from us—we're old hands. It's not safe for men like us in the ton.” Barnaby looked around for a chair. “You're young—you'll learn.”

“Learn what?”

They all looked around. The door was open; Pris stood on the threshold. Her gaze was on Barnaby; she inclined her head in greeting. Then her gaze traveled, slowly, from Barnaby to her brother, then finally to Dillon.

Her gaze lingered, then she blinked, and stepped into the room.

“There—see!” Barnaby turned to Rus. “Even she paused, and she's your sister and arguably the least susceptible female in the ton. I rest my case.”

Pris frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm just trying to warn your brother of a danger he doesn't yet appreciate he'll face.”

Before Barnaby could say more, Dillon waved Pris to the armchair he'd vacated and drew his admiral's chair from the desk. Rus sat again; Barnaby pulled up a straight-backed chair and elegantly subsided.

“Right then.” Barnaby looked at them eagerly. “Enlighten me. Start at the beginning.”

Exchanging a glance with Pris, Dillon started at the point where she'd finally told him of Rus, described how they'd found him, then let Rus explain all he'd discovered before they'd joined forces.

While Rus talked, Dillon studied Pris. He hadn't been surprised by her arrival; today was the second day Rus had been hiding at the manor.

Yesterday, she, Eugenia, Adelaide, and Patrick had arrived midmorning. Having made Rus's acquaintance and heard his tale over breakfast, the General had been in excellent form, delighted to welcome the visitors to Hillgate End, to play host and sit chatting with Eugenia and Adelaide when, with Rus and Patrick, Dillon had withdrawn to discuss searching for where Harkness was concealing the substitute horses.

If the three of them had had their way, Pris would have been excluded from that discussion; they were as one in wanting to keep her apart from what they knew to be dangerous. Regardless, their wishes had been overridden by a display of feminine will they hadn't been able to counter. Rus had tried to argue; with her, he had the freest hand. Having listened to the needle-witted exchange, Dillon felt certain that Rus was the elder twin; he was more responsible and openly concerned for Pris's safety. The fact he understood, indeed shared, her wild and reckless streak only sharpened his concern.

But he hadn't succeeded, so Pris now knew that, always late at night, Crom took the horses north and east, away from the Rigby place, farther from Newmarket and the Heath. Patrick would watch
the Rigby farm until they learned what they needed to know; he hadn't seen any activity last night.

Pris was watching Rus and Barnaby talk, impatient to get on, accepting that Barnaby needed to know all they'd learned, yet chafing at the time necessary to inform him. While Barnaby questioned and Rus answered, Dillon let his gaze slide from Pris's vibrant face to her figure, today elegantly gowned in forest green twill.

He wasn't sure which of her incarnations—the unconventional female dressed in breeches or the exquisite, faintly haughty lady—distracted him more. The former reminded him of that heated interlude in the summer house two evenings before, while the latter evoked potent memories of the night just passed—and the provocative promise arising from that.

Last night…he'd been restless beyond bearing. Driven by he knew not what—by some impossible-to-deny impulse he hadn't want to examine closely—he'd surrendered and, close to midnight, had saddled Solomon and ridden to the Carisbrook house.

To the summer house. He hadn't expected her to be there, had had no thought in his head other than simply to be near her. He'd imagined sitting on the sofa and looking over the lake, until his restlessness had faded.

He'd been doing just that, sitting staring over the still water, when he'd seen a wraith moving through the trees. Her, in a pale gown with a shawl about her shoulders.

They hadn't made any arrangement; it hadn't been an assignation. Yet she'd entered the summer house without hesitation. Showing no real surprise at finding him there, she'd walked directly to him, halted before him, and let her shawl slide from her shoulders.

She'd spent the next hours in his arms, in an interlude unlike any other he'd ever known. She'd taken his restlessness, and shaped it, transmuted it into something else, something she'd wanted, and had taken into herself.

Much later, at peace in a way he'd never before been, he'd walked her back to the house, seen her slip inside, then had returned to Solomon and ridden home.

That sense of peace still lingered, even now.

Just gazing at her somehow soothed some part of him he hadn't before realized needed anyone's touch.

“So!” Barnaby turned to him. “Did your clerks find anything?”

He shifted, refocused. “They've found something, but we don't yet know what it means. The two horses Rus identified as look-alikes for Flyin' Fury and Blistering Belle are owned by a Mr. Aberdeen. He's a gentleman, owns a reasonable stable of runners, and employs his own trainer, yet it appears he's sent—or is it lent?—those horses to Cromarty.”

Barnaby frowned. “He's not a local owner?”

Dillon shook his head. “Based near Sheffield. He usually runs his horses at Doncaster or Cheltenham. My clerks are trying to identify the two horses Cromarty had in Ireland, that Crom took somewhere after the string landed in Liverpool. If those horses are Aberdeen's, or are Cromarty's but are look-alikes for two of Aberdeen's runners, then it's possible the groundwork for substitutions at Doncaster and Cheltenham is also in hand.”

Barnaby looked at him. “This is not a small enterprise.”

“No,” Dillon agreed. “And that brings us to today's news. Yours.”

“Indeed!” Barnaby glanced at Rus, then Pris, then looked at Dillon. “Perhaps we ought to adjourn to Demon's house? His opinion would be useful, and it would be better if we were all there to hear it.”

Dillon nodded. “Good idea. He was away all yesterday looking at horses. I've yet to introduce him to Rus or Pris, and fill him in on all we've learned. Flick and he were expected back this morning.”

“Demon,” Rus said as they all rose. “Demon Cynster?”

Recognizing the awestruck look in Rus's eyes, Dillon grinned. “There's only one Demon, believe me. He's my cousin-in-law, but you can interpret that as brother-in-law. I grew up with Flick, now his wife. Demon's stud is the neighboring estate.”

“Oh, I know.” Rus fell in beside him as he followed Pris and Barnaby to the door. “While I was hiding in the woods, I used to fill in time by sneaking close to his paddocks and watching the horses. He's got more prime 'uns in one place than I've ever set eyes on before.”

“For Demon, horse breeding is more than a hobby—it's his passion.” Dillon caught Pris's eye as she glanced his way, and smiled. “After Flick, that is.”

He didn't hear her sniff, but was quite sure she did.

They walked the short distance to the Cynster house, discussing various points, filling in details Rus and Dillon had skimmed over earlier. No matter how they probed, Barnaby refused to divulge anything of what he'd learned, not until they had Demon there, too.

Both Demon and Flick were at home; both were eager to hear their news, even more so when they learned who Rus was.

Pris hung on to her patience and waited with what decorum she could muster; what she really wanted was to pace, plan, and act. She'd assumed finding Rus would be the same as finding peace, yet although she'd been immensely relieved to have her twin back hale and whole, the existence of a continuing threat to his life wasn't something she could bear with any degree of equanimity.

She wanted that threat ended, eradicated, and she wanted that now. But she needed Dillon's, Barnaby's, Demon's, and Flick's help, so she bit her tongue and forbore to hurry them.

At last, once Dillon had noted the as-yet-unclear involvement of Mr. Aberdeen, all eyes swung to Barnaby. She'd expected him to relish the moment; instead, he looked grave.

“What I have to report”—he glanced around at their faces—“when added to all you've learned, suggests the whole is more serious, indeed blacker, than we'd thought. Gabriel and his contacts tried to trace the ten thousand pounds Collier received. Montague, who I gather you both know”—Barnaby nodded to Dillon and Demon, who nodded back—“assured me that had the transfer been made in the normal way of business, they would have found some trail, but they didn't. Wherever that money came from, it didn't move through any bank. Collier must have received it as cash—literally a bundle of notes. Both Gabriel and Montague suggested the most likely source was a wealthy gamester, someone who regularly handles such sums.”

Barnaby paused; his expression grew harder. “Then Vane appeared with the latest he'd gleaned, not from the clubs but from various rather seedier locations. The latest gossip concerning the suspect race run here a few weeks ago”—Barnaby looked at Rus—“and yes, the horse involved was Flyin' Fury, is that positively
huge
sums were laid
against
Flyin' Fury winning.

“Certain bookmakers are wailing and gnashing their teeth, but, of course, few have any sympathy. However, Vane learned enough to
estimate the winnings solely from those bets as more than one hundred thousand pounds. The point that most interested everyone was that the individual bets weren't large—nothing out of the ordinary, all to different people or betting agents. So while the bookmakers are certain they were stung, they have no way of knowing who to blame.”

Demon looked grim. “If they did know who, that person would no longer be a concern.”

“No, indeed.” Barnaby nodded. “Gabriel sent a message. He, Montague, and Vane believe that whoever's behind this will prove deadly. This is not the usual sort of scam, but one operating on a massive scale. The monetary risks being taken are enormous, the potential gain gargantuan. Consequently, if threatened, whoever's behind this won't hesitate to deal death into the game.

“I told them we believed that particular card had already been played with Collier.” Barnaby looked at Demon and Dillon. “Vane sent a message, too.
Beware
.”

Demon exchanged a glance with Dillon. “Sound advice.”

Pris got the distinct impression that to them that
Beware
meant something different, certainly carried more weight than the usual interpretation. She noticed Flick watching Demon, faintly narrow-eyed, but couldn't guess the direction of her thoughts.

Everyone paused, piecing together all they knew. Demon summarized, “So we've yet to find where the switched horses are hidden. Once we know that”—he met Dillon's gaze—“we'll have to give serious thought as to how best to proceed.”

Dillon nodded and rose. “We'll let you know what we discover.”

Demon and Flick saw them to the front door. The conversation along the way revolved about the runners they were preparing for the upcoming race meet—the first October meeting, a major event in the Newmarket calendar.