Authors: Danelle harmon
“
Colin
.”
He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead into the heel of his hand.
“I don’t
care
about gowns,” she murmured. “I don’t care about those stuffy people that will turn their backs on me, as those that are my true friends will not; the rest can all go to the devil. I don’t care about money, though God knows I have enough of it to put the whole of
Norfolk
in beautiful gowns, and I would gladly trade every penny I own to find the one thing I always wanted—to be loved.”
He just looked at her, uncomprehending.
Tears rose in her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, can’t you see what you mean to me? I was a pawn to be used so that Maxwell could get his hands on the legacy of the Norfolk Thoroughbred, nothing more. My mother died when I was young, my father had no time for me and even less interest in me. Nobody has ever cared. But you—
you
have shown me what it feels like to be treasured, valued, cherished,
loved
. Not used, not neglected, not abandoned, but
loved
.
You
are all that matters in my world, don’t you see?
You
. I love you, Colin. And I wouldn’t care if you’re a poor veterinarian or the richest lord in the land, I’m still going to love you.” And then, looking into his eyes, she pulled off his cap, removed his spectacles, put them on the hay beside them, and began to kiss him.
He shut his eyes, the long lashes draping his cheeks, his hands clenched into fists as her kisses feathered against his face. She pressed her lips to his, tasting him, loving him. His breathing grew deeper, and finally, his hands came up to caress her back, at first tentatively, then with increasing confidence as he realized that he
hadn’t
lost her, that she loved him, still, and perhaps more, now, than ever. She felt her heart beginning to pound, and her hand drifted down to slip beneath his shirt and touch the warm skin just beneath.
His belly was flat and hard and warm. She leaned against him, until he finally sighed and drawing her close, lay back in the hay. It rustled beneath them, its fragrance coming up to envelop them in its sweetness.
“Colin . . . will you make love to me?”
His lips curved in a boyish grin. Somewhere beneath them, one of the horses stamped; from beyond the window a pheasant made a harsh, squawking noise before it departed with a whoosh of its wings.
And from just outside came Tristan’s loud cough, and the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Someone’s coming!” she whispered. “I have to go—”
He hushed her with kisses, and she felt only the strength of his arms, the heat of his mouth against hers, the feel of his hands . . . caressing her back, moving down her leg, catching the hem of her gown in his fingers and dragging the fabric up her leg, until the pin-prickliness of the hay was sharp against her flesh.
She sank down atop him, even as the footsteps grew louder and voices came from outside.
“Fine day, m’lord, eh?”
They clung together, breath and bodies hot and close, as the conversation wafted up to them.
“Indeed,” came Tristan’s drawled reply.
“’is Lordship wanted me to take Black Patrick out f’r some exercise, seein’s how the race is in just a few days. Not that the beast ain’t in good condition, but ye can’t be too sure, eh?”
“Of course.”
Ariadne began to giggle. She felt Colin’s fingers dragging the heavy skirts up over her bottom, and his warm touch upon her skin. She sighed and pressed closer, touching her mouth to his.
“I wish Tristan would
leave
,” she whispered, against the curve of Colin’s neck. “I have no wish for him to hear us!”
“He won’t. Not if we’re quiet.”
“Can you be quiet?”
“Aye.
I
can.” His fingers roved around the silken skin of her thighs and back over her bottom, until the searing ache was blossoming between her legs and her pulse was beginning to beat in her ears. “But, can
you
?”
She settled onto her side so that she could reach his trousers. From below, she could hear the servant entering Black Patrick’s stall, the slap of his hand against the powerful neck, the steed’s squeal and the challenging whistle of Shareb-er-rehh.
“You’re hard, Colin.”
“Mmmm . . . Painfully so, I think.”
“Do you need some
medicine
, my good doctor?”
He gave a short burst of laughter even as she thrust buttons through holes, slid her hand beneath the flap of fabric, and began to stroke his growing arousal. Softly. Agonizingly. He groaned, and she pressed her mouth against his, her hand against his rigid flesh, her thumb running up and down its side with torturous slowness.
“My God, Ariadne—”
“Shhhhh!”
He grimaced as the pad of her thumb circled and teased the engorged tip, and buried his face against her neck, his breathing coming hot and hard.
Downstairs, the sound of Black Patrick’s shod hooves rang against stone as he was led outside.
“This is your punishment for not telling me about your past,” she murmured, smiling.
“Then I swear I’ll never tell you anything again.” He sucked in his breath as she stroked and teased him, a sheen of moisture breaking out on his forehead.
She leaned over, kissed his eyebrows, his long, sweeping lashes, his mouth—and then his hand grazed her hip and swept over her inner thighs.
“Co
lin
!”
“Fair is fair,” he gasped. “Dear heavens, you keep doing that and I’m not going to be able to last—”
She persisted, lightly dragging her fingers up, over and around his hard length, until a warm pearl of moisture came oozing out to dampen her thumb. She gasped as he wreaked havoc on her senses as well, his fingers slipping beneath the heavy folds of her skirts and into the silken, cinnamon-colored hair at the junction of her thighs; beneath her the hay stabbed, and a burr was sticking against her ankle, but none of that mattered, for—
“Oh!” she gasped, nearly crying out as his fingers parted her damp warmth and slid gently inside her.
“Tell me to stop, then,” he murmured, suddenly clenching his teeth as she ringed his arousal with thumb and forefinger and slid her hand slowly up and down his length. “I’ll bet you can’t.”
“You know very well that I—oh!—that I can’t . . .”
“So hush, dearest, and let me make love to you.” He kissed her, his finger finding parts of her that she didn’t know existed, until sobs of pleasure were clogging the back of her throat. His mouth was there, against hers, and she felt him straining against her hand, heard the hay rustling beneath their bodies, heard his hot, heavy breathing and the frantic slam of her heart in her ears—
“Make love to me, Colin.
Now
.”
With the very likely chance of someone discovering them, time was not a luxury that they could afford. Colin gently rolled her onto her back, withdrawing his hand only to coax her thighs apart. Her skirts lay bunched between their bodies and he impatiently pulled them aside, even as he looked down at her fair, flushed face with the damp strands of fiery hair caught across her cheeks, even as her hand continued its slow and wicked massage, even as her eyes, jewel-like with passion, gazed up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes.
He could not wait any longer. The hay pricking his forearms, he eased himself down to her tiny body and drove himself deeply into her, feeling himself sliding in on a tide of wet heat all the way to the hilt. He groaned with the feel of it. She arched up to meet him, sighing, and then her hands were cupping the back of his head, sliding down his neck, his shoulders, her nails driving into his back as he began the slow, agonizing rhythm, trying to hold out, trying desperately, frantically, futilely, to make it last, even as he felt the first waves of climax beginning to seize him and knew that he was lost.
She convulsed beneath him, her soft cries quickly muffled by his mouth as he, too was carried away by the sweet agony of passion. And when it was over and they lay panting and gasping in the hay, Colin raised his head and put his lips against the damp hair at her ear.
“Ariadne?”
“Yes, Colin?”
“Thank you . . . for loving me, just as I am.”
Midnight.
Hours before the great match race would start, hours before the sun would claw its way out of the sea, hours before the crowds would line the racecourse, pressing and shoving and making last frenzied bets, Clive Maxwell was awake.
He was sitting in the library, calmly thumbing through a book by the light of a single candle, when the knock came.
“Enter.”
The massive doors opened and the sleepy-eyed Cook stood there, a burlap bag clenched in one hand.
“Here ye go, m’lord. Early breakfast, just like ye wanted.” She opened the bag, bending her grizzled old head over it and inhaling deeply. “Peach pie, apple pie, and some of those blackberry tarts yer lordship fancies . . . fresh from the oven and enough t’ feed a horse, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so meself!”
Clive Maxwell took the bag with an icy smile that never reached his eyes.
If you only knew. . . .
“Thank you, Cook. You may bring it here, please.”
“Though Oi don’t know why ye be wantin’ me to pack it up like ye did, less’n ye be plannin’ t’ take it with ye t’ the racecourse to share with those friends o’ yers—”
“Yes, Cook, that is exactly what I intend to do. The bag, please?”
She handed it to him, stifled a yawn, and left.
Maxwell waited until her footsteps faded and the great manor house was silent once more. The candle flickered in a draft, striking tiny diamonds of light off the sugar that still clung to the outside of the bag. He snuffed the single flame and headed out of the room, malice in his heart and a smile on his lips as he envisioned how this race on the morrow was going to go.
“Milord?”
Maxwell swore beneath his breath. It was a footman, young, eager to please, just passing in the hall outside and probably on his way to bed.
“Ah, Edward. Just the man I wanted to see.”
“I beg your pardon, Milord?”
Maxwell thought fast. “Lady Ariadne has entrusted me with a favor, but I wonder if I might transfer its execution to you. It appears that her ladyship’s horse runs best with his favorite treat in his belly, and she has implored me to give this to him in preparation for tomorrow’s race.” Maxwell offered the bag to the young footman. “I’m tired and on my way to bed, so take this down to the stable, and give it to her horse. You can’t miss him; he’s bay, with a wide blaze and a black mane and tail.”
“Yes, Milord!” the youth said, puffing up with importance as he took the bag.
“Thank you, Edward. Good night.” Maxwell turned and, smiling maliciously, headed for the stairs.
Young Edward, swinging the bag, left the great house and quietly made his way to the stable. He had not been down here before, his duties requiring him elsewhere, and glad he was of it, too, as horses were big, frightening beasts that made him nervous. He pushed open the door. The stable was dark, the air thick with the mingled scents of hay, grain, horse-sweat and leather.
Bay horse,
he thought, trying to get his bearings in the heavy gloom.
Bay horse
. . . .
He moved down the single row, looking in each stall. In the darkness it was all but impossible to tell color, save that they were all some shade of brown, but even so, none of these had a wide blaze. Edward continued slowly on, and there, an animal he’d seen from a distance, was the famous Black Patrick, inhabiting the biggest stall in the barn. Filled with a sense of awe, he paused for a moment to admire the huge beast. He could see a tiny star in the middle of the great racer’s forehead, the bandages that protected its fine, long legs. He reached out to touch the animal’s nose and jerked back in alarm as it struck savagely out at him. Another inch, and he would have lost his fingers.
His heart pounding, Edward moved quietly on. Past more stalls. Past the only white horse here, which must, he reasoned, be the fabled Gazella, her mane like a unicorn’s and her coat so bright it almost glowed in the darkness. He paused, his eyes searching the pitchy gloom, trying to locate the Weybourne horse by the wide blaze that Maxwell had told him the stallion possessed. Somewhere, a horse gave a low whicker, and got to its feet. Swinging toward the sound, Edward turned and saw the animal he sought.
It was wide awake and staring at him.
He let out a sigh of relief; the master wasn’t the only one who was eager to get to bed, and the sooner he could complete this task and turn in for the night, the better. Still nervous after Black Patrick’s attempt to take off his fingers, he moved hesitantly toward that tell-tale blaze, the only thing he could see in the darkness, and slipped quietly into the stallion’s stall, thinking that if he were silent and quick, it would be less likely to attack him.
But unlike Black Patrick, this horse was not vicious. The big head swung toward him, only the blaze visible in the stygian gloom and the animal’s breath coming in short, inquisitive blasts against his hand. He stroked the warm muzzle, and pulled a piece of still-warm pie from the bag.
The horse sniffed it, warm breath blowing against his fingers; then, ever so gently, the animal lifted the treat from his hand with velvety lips, and began to chew, slowly at first, then, as the taste apparently agreed with it, faster.
No mere legend then, what they’d been talking about in the kitchens this afternoon: the Weybourne horse had a taste for pastry.
Warming to the animal’s friendliness, Edward gave it another piece of pie.
The big head pushed against the bag, eager for more, and he quickly dumped the contents of the bag into the food trough.
Then, with a pat on the animal’s neck and a whispered wish of good luck on the morrow, he left the box, the horse’s happy munching fading behind him.
# # #
Gray light streamed through the windows of the sleeping stable, touching first upon partitions and walls, then hay racks, buckets, and troughs. Both Colin Lord and Shareb-er-rehh were in the deepest stages of sleep, the veterinarian’s head pillowed against the stallion’s glossy croup, the animal’s wiry black tail laced with straw and lying haphazardly over Colin’s legs and the speckled brown-and-white bird-dog that lay sprawled against them. One dreaming of a red-haired noblewoman, the other of a white-maned mare, neither Colin nor Shareb was aware of the agonized moans coming from the bay horse in a nearby stall.