Taken by Storm (21 page)

There, also confined, was the real reason for Shareb’s challenging display; a huge, glossy red-chestnut steed with fire in its eye and fury in its stance.

Another stallion.

Colin sipped his tea, thankful for the fence that separated the two horses.

“Yes, but look at Shareb! Isn’t he beautiful? It’s the desert blood in him, you know. He wants to fight. He is pure fire, pure magnificence. Everything a horse should be.”

Desert blood?

Lightning flashed down again, and the two stallions screamed threats and challenges to each other across the small field that separated them. Inside that field the mares lifted their heads and began to mill nervously.

Thunder kept on eating.

Now the red stallion began to prance and pace the length of his fence, calling insults to Shareb. Shareb responded with a shrill scream. Then his ears swept back, he galloped across his paddock—

And a brilliant flash of lightning forked out of the clouds.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Colin saw it all: Shareb, bolting sideways as the resulting crack of thunder split the sky just overhead, wheeling, then plunging straight for the fence, where he paused for only the briefest of seconds before leaping the tall enclosure like Pegasus on the wing; then, without breaking stride, he tore across the grassy field and bore down on his rival at a speed that nearly burned the grass up beneath his hooves.

“Stallion fight!” shouted one of the patrons, and everyone ran toward the door on a mass exodus.

Colin was already on his feet and racing from the tavern. With Ariadne hot on his heels, he charged toward the paddocks, knowing he’d never make it in time. Shareb’s challenging scream split the air, and he saw the stallion hurl himself straight into the chestnut’s fence, heard the horrible crash of breaking wood and the other horse’s enraged squeal as it rose to meet Shareb’s attack. There was the awful sound of heavy bodies slamming together, hooves hitting flesh, squeals and screams and angry whistles, and over it all, the boom of thunder at close range.

“Get that damned bugger off my horse!” a balding man cried, running past them with a pitchfork. “So help me God, I’ll kill him!”

He paused, drew back his arm to hurl the pitchfork—and faltered as a tiny ball of salt-colored fur flung itself at him.

Bow.

But Colin had no time to grab his pet, no time to warn Ariadne back, no time to respond to the enraged man’s cries as he tried to fend off the little dog. The stallions were fighting with savage, murderous fury, and the chestnut was getting the worst of it.

“Colin!” he heard Ariadne cry, “get them apart!”

He raced past the mares. Their heads were thrust over the fence as they happily watched the two stallions fighting over them, and he could almost hear them cheering on their favorite. Grabbing up a broken piece of fencing and heedless of the danger, he dove between the two enraged animals, brandishing the wood like a club.

The chestnut, already losing the fight, bolted away to the side, his neck streaming blood where Shareb’s teeth had found purchase. Colin threw down the board and made a wild lunge for Shareb’s halter—but the stallion’s blood was up, fire was in his eyes, and without breaking stride, he turned, crashed back through the fence, and with lightning glowing against his flying body, galloped out of the broken paddock—

—and straight toward an elegant gray horse just entering the yard, whose handler screamed and dived out of the way as Shareb charged toward them.

In horror, Colin realized the newcomer was a mare.

There was nothing he could do to stop it, and he saw it all. The mare, flinging up her head in alarm as the mighty stallion bore down on her at a speed Colin would never have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes; her handler, fleeing for his life; and Shareb, teeth bared, neck outstretched, earth, grass and thunder flying from his hooves.

Shareb gave a piercing scream, nipped the mare’s rump as he galloped past, and tail high, thundered out of the yard and down the road at a speed so intense it was almost frightening. The mare, whinnying like a barmaid in love, went charging off after him, lead rope flying.

“Colin! Colin,
do
something!” Ariadne cried, her jacket flapping open as she raced up to him with Bow in her arms and Marc racing ahead.

But there was nothing that he could do. The stallion was gone. The landlord was barreling toward them, already screaming for recompense for the damage to his fence. And now the first drops of rain were beginning to pelt the earth, gathering in force, frenzy, and fury, and Colin found himself stuck with a geriatric gelding, two frightened dogs, and some thirty men who were all staring at Ariadne’s distinctively lovely chest.

He turned, and looked bleakly at Thunder.

The gelding was still munching his hay.

“Time to go,” he said, and spinning Ariadne around and shoving her toward the barn, ran to get the horse.

The long legs. The unusually deep chest. The sloping, powerful hip, the great lay-back of the shoulder, and the speed.

Especially, the speed.

After witnessing that blistering display of pure lightning out of the courtyard, Colin now knew the truth. Shareb-er-rehh was no high-stepping riding horse. He was no carriage horse, pleasure horse, or lady’s pet.

He was a racehorse.

A damned
fast
racehorse.

And now, an hour and a half after he’d made his blazing escape, he was still missing.

With Colin leading Thunder and Ariadne walking on the gelding’s other side, they trudged through the drizzle, Colin tracking the stallion by his fading hoofprints, Ariadne gripping Shareb’s lead shank like a nun with her rosary beads, both of them huddled in their coats and neither of them saying much. Marc ran on ahead, chasing a rabbit, while Bow, her fur wet, tangled and muddy, trotted at Colin’s heels; every so often she, like Colin, shot a worried glance at Lady Ariadne. The little noblewoman’s face was white and strained, and only the dictates of her breeding and upbringing prevented her from giving in to the tears Colin knew lurked just beneath the surface.

It was that same threat of tears that kept him from confronting her.

No gait-horse at all, but a
race
horse.

It hurt and angered him that she had lied to him. That she had not trusted him. Who did she think she was fooling? How long had she expected to keep a horse like that hidden under a disguise?

But the raw misery on her face was enough to do him in, and for now, he’d hold his tongue.

She paused for the tenth time in as many minutes to cup her hands over her mouth and call the stallion.

“Shar-e-e-e-e-e-e-eb!”

Colin stopped, too, listening to her voice echo emptily over the green hills. Only the rain answered, coming down harder now and obliterating the awful silence.

“
Shar-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eb
!”

Nothing.

“Come, Ariadne. Let’s keep moving.”

Ignoring him, she called the stallion one last time, her voice rising in desperation and cracking under the strain; then she wiped at her eyes, jerked her chin up, and trudged along beside him.

“He’s gone, Colin,” she said miserably. “Someone must have stolen him and turned him in for the reward. If he was out here, he would have come to me.”

“Now, now,” Colin said soothingly, walking just to the side of the long, muddy puddles that pooled in the wheel-ruts. “We still have another two hours of daylight. And rain or not,
I’m
not ready to give up.”

She shot him a watery look. “Oh, Colin. . . I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You’d still be dilly-dallying in London,” he teased, trying to coax some humor back into her. Bravely, she tried to smile, but he saw her face crumple, and she looked quickly away before he could witness her loss of composure.

They continued on. A black-and-maroon mail coach thundered toward them, its wheels spraying great arcs of muddy water as it tore through the puddles, the scarlet-clad guard clinging for dear life to the back of the coach; then the vehicle was past, the team of horses that drew it sending up great clods of muck from their galloping hooves.

Silence, and the sound of the rain once more.

Colin stole a sideways glance at his companion. The lead shank drooped from her hand, her feet dragged in the mud, and her eyes were vacant and staring. Gone was the piquant vibrancy of her personality, the sparkle in her eye, the saucy, snappy spirit that had so captivated him.

“We’ll not find him tonight, Colin,” she said bleakly, pointing at the empty road ahead of them. The mail coach had obliterated most of the stallion’s tracks, and what was left of them were fading, the edges cut by his shoes growing blunter and blunter as the rain hammered them into mud. And then, as though nature itself was against them, the skies opened up and the rain came down in cruel, slashing torrents that ran like tears down Ariadne’s cheeks. Maybe they
were
tears; at this point, it was impossible for Colin to tell.

Moments later, all that was left of Shareb-er-rehh’s tracks were washed away into puddles of mud.

Ariadne stopped and bowed her head against the rain, her shoulders slumped in defeat as the torrents beat cruelly down on the back of her head and neck.

For Colin, it was too much. Blinking against the deluge that slashed his face, he took off his coat, tenderly wrapped it around her head and shoulders, and fashioned a sort of hood out of it to protect her from the rain as she stared miserably up at him. Then he took Thunder’s bridle in one hand, drew the noblewoman into the protection of his other arm, and half carrying her, ran as fast as his bad leg would allow to a grove of oak trees.

There they stood, relatively sheltered by the canopy of leafy branches above their heads, the two dogs huddled around their feet. Around them, the rain came down in torrents, then white sheets of fury, beating against the earth with such force that steam began to rise from the grass. The drumming roar obliterated all sound, and instinctively, Ariadne huddled closer to the veterinarian, seeking shelter beneath his arm.

She looked up at him. His hair was plastered to his head and curling loosely at its ends. Water dripped down his brow, clumped on his lashes, trickled down his cheeks. His wet shirt clung to his body, emphasizing the muscles of his arms and chest.

Even soaked, he was beautiful.

He sensed her staring and glanced down, an encouraging little smile playing about his mouth. She smiled hesitantly back, and moved closer to the steamy warmth of his body. He made no protest, merely watching the mad torrents bombard the earth around them and keeping his arm wrapped securely around her shoulders. A part of her wished he would keep his arm there forever, and closing her eyes, she laid her cheek against his wet shirt. It occurred to her that she had not had to resort to flirting, to
bad behavior
as Father would have called it, to gain his attention. It occurred to her that his kindness wasn’t just for animals, as her father’s had been, but for others, as well.

For her.

Somewhere out there in the rain was Shareb; but sheltered by Colin’s body, comforted by his presence, Ariadne’s fears began to subside, and as she’d done when she had first seen him saving the mastiff from bloat, she relinquished her fears and placed all her trust in him. They would find Shareb. The doctor would make sure of it.

# # #

She opened her eyes. The roar of the rain faded to a dull thrum, then individual spatters against the leaves, leaving the exhausted earth to catch its breath in gratitude.

Colin’s arm was still around her shoulders. She knew she should step away now that the rain had tapered off and his gallant protection was no longer necessary. But she did not move, and neither did he, and at last, the rain was only a soft, lulling drip as it trickled from the leaves overhead.

From somewhere nearby a songbird called, then another.

And still, Ariadne did not move.

She laid her palm against his chest, then her cheek against the back of her hand, and stared off over the green, green hills. Beneath her hand, she felt his heart beating.

“Colin.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“You are very kind, giving me your coat as you did.”

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, letting the rain drops splash against his upturned face and smiling with the enjoyment of the sensation. “Oh, I think any gentleman would have done the same.”

“I know plenty that would not have,” she returned. She studied the intricate weave of his shirt, thought of the strong body it clung to, listened to and loved every precious beat of his heart. God help her, but she wanted to peel the wet shirt off of him and bury her lips in the hair that sparsely covered his chest; God help her, but she wanted to stand on tiptoe and kiss the damp skin at the base of his throat; God help her, but if she never saw Maxwell again, she really wouldn’t care as long as she could be with Colin Lord.

I don’t want to go to
Norfolk
. I don’t want to marry Maxwell. I want
this
man.

“Colin?”

She felt his heartbeat quickening beneath her palm. “Yes?”

“Do you think it’s wrong, that we’re standing here as we are, with your arm around me and me enjoying every moment of it?”

“You’re not the only one enjoying it, Ariadne.”

She colored a bit, and looked earnestly up at him. “
Is
it wrong, Colin?”

“I don’t know anymore. Wrong it may be, but if feels
right
.”

“Yes. . . . I daresay that is what I was thinking, too. That it feels right.” She sighed, and inhaled deeply of his clean, wet, male scent. “You are very dear to me, Colin. I only wish . . .”

His arm curled around her back, and she felt his gentle hand against her shoulders, pressing her body closer to his. “You only wish what?”

“I wish that . . . things could be different, I guess. That you were Maxwell. I—oh, Lud, I know that sounds terrible, but I don’t know any other way to put it.”

He said nothing, only holding her tightly and allowing her to continue. Rain dripped from the trees, and the grass sparkled in the brightening, late afternoon sunlight.