Taken by Storm (3 page)

He reached out to stroke the nose of a stout gray gelding whose head hung over a stall door. Better not to think of those years. Nor, of the disgrace that had ended them forever, toppling him from the pinnacles of public and military acclaim to spend his life in forgotten obscurity, bringing shame on his family’s name, and condemning him to nightmares that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. He might as well have just disappeared off the face of the earth, really. And yet, the man he had been still remained, and the parallels between the two, vastly different careers were not lost on him. Once, he’d been a hero. And sometimes—like today, he thought with a little smile, as he remembered the mastiff coming alive under his hands, the boy’s tearful shriek of glee—he still felt like one.

Giving the horse a last fond pat, he continued on, his limp more pronounced than usual, remembering that beautiful, elegant woman sitting astride the stallion.

Watching him.

Sharing a smile with him.

What had
she
thought?

He’d probably never know. Just as he’d never know who she was, nor why she had concealed her gender, nor why she’d been staring at him so intently.

He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind all day. Surely, such obsessions were a direct result of spending too much time with animals instead of people. Perhaps he
should
have joined the two stable hands for a wet or two at the local tavern, just for a change of scenery . . .

He completed his nightly tour, the straw and dirt sighing beneath his boots. For a moment he stood listening to the sounds of a happy, healthy stable—horses munching their hay, the occasional swish of a tail across a sleek haunch, the stamp of a foot, the rattling of a bucket. All was as it should be. Satisfied, he stepped into the small office where he treated the occasional dog or cat that found its way to his mainly-equine practice, intending to retrieve his bag and his nightly dose of educational reading.

He stopped in surprise. A man stood there, a stained hat clenched between his stubby fingers.

“Can I help you?” Colin asked.

The man put out a thick, broad hand. “Name’s John McCarthy. Just wanted to stop by and thank ye for savin’ that dog today—he belongs t’ me son, ye know. The wife baked ye a loaf of bread f’r yer services; I put it there on the table.”

Setting the lantern down, Colin returned the handshake. He thanked the man and heard himself making some inane comment about what a good patient Homer had been.

“I know ye don’t remember me,” the farmer went on, the lantern light gleaming off his balding head as he gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the vials and jars of salves, pills, and powders that competed for his attention on the wall-shelves. “But I came to the talk ye gave last week at the lecture hall, the one on lameness in the horse. Enjoyed it a real lot, Mr. Lord. Thank ye for leavin’ out all those eee-ses and oh-ses so that us plain folk could know what ye was talkin’ about.”

Colin nodded, smiling in amusement as the man screwed up his brow and peered at a bottle of pills whose cobalt color he seemed to find particularly attractive.

“I, uh . . . I’m sorry to be botherin’ ye, ‘specially at this hour when ye probably want to go home and eat yer supper, but . . . well, I was wonderin’, Mr. Lord, if ye might suggest a remedy for me little mare. She’s got a cold—you know, runny eyes ‘n’ nose an’ the whole lot, and I’ve already had her bled once. It didn’t do no good, sir, and I was just wonderin’ what
you
, bein’ one of these new
vet-rinarians
, think I ought t’ do.”

“Do you have her with you, Mr. McCarthy?”

“Well, er, no . . . figgered she was best left at home since she was feelin’ so poorly.”

Overhead, rain began to drum softly upon the roof, and Colin felt his leg throbbing right along with it. Leaning against the examination table to take the weight off it, he bent his head, raking a hand through his hair and pushing it back off his brow.

“F’rgive me, Mr. Lord. Ye look tired—I can come back in the mornin’—”

“No, no, I’m fine, really.” Colin looked up and gave a reassuring smile, his mind drifting back to the woman. The memory of that pixie face would put off any hopes of a peaceful night’s sleep, as surely as the pain that was plaguing his leg. “About your little mare . . .”

“Do ye think I ought t’ get her bled again, Mr. Lord?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But the farrier said—”

“I
know
what the farriers say,” Colin said, with more sharpness than he intended. “
And
the cow leeches,
and
the surgeons,
and
my own colleagues, even. Phlebotomy is the accepted treatment for everything from colic to pneumonia. But it is cruel and unnecessary, and I don’t believe in it. Cover your little mare with a blanket instead, give her a hot bran mash, get her away from your other stock so she does not infect them, and rest her from her work for a day or so.”

McCarthy stared at him for a moment, mentally digesting the information. Then he nodded, slowly. “Blanket, bran mash, and rest,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “No bleeding.”

“No bleeding.”

He pumped Colin’s hand, beaming with gratitude. “Thankee, sir. Much obliged. And what do I owe ye for yer good advice?”

“Not a thing. Just your promise that you won’t have her bled. And please, if she doesn’t improve, send for me and I’ll come take a look at her, personally.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Lord.” Smiling, the farmer clapped his hat down atop his balding pate and reached for the door. “Thanks again . . . and I’m sorry for botherin’ ye.”

“You’re not both—”

But he was already gone, his cheerful whistle and heavy footsteps following him as he pulled open the door and disappeared into the rainy night. For a moment, Colin stood leaning against the examination table, listening to the gentle tap of rain against the roof. He could smell it as it came sweeping through the open window on a feathery gust of wind, and the fresh, earthy scent of springtime; damp dirt and grass, blossoming flowers, clean, newly washed air. He looked forward to a refreshing walk home in the damp.

Another trait, left over from his years at sea. He liked weather, in all of its many facets and moods.

He was just retrieving the key to his bookcase when the door opened once more, admitting two young men who had a look of nervousness and secrecy about them.

“Are you Mr. Lord?”

“I am.” He pocketed the key. “What can I do for you?”

“We, uh . . . we have a horse, and we need you to, er, come look at him.” said the taller of the two.

“Sick?”

“Well, not really,” said the other one. “But he might
get
sick.”

“Yeah, you never know, he just might.”

“And even if he doesn’t get sick, La— I mean, our employer wants to know if you’d accompany us to Norfolk—“

“To make
sure
he doesn’t get sick.”

“And to cure him if he does.”

“But he’s not sick, now.”

“And he never
gets
sick.”

“So it would be a really easy task.”

‘Very easy.”

“You really wouldn’t have much to do.”

“So will you come with us?”

Colin just stared at them. The taller one flushed, his gaze darting toward the door. The other was nervously picking at a thread in his coat; both had the look of trapped animals about them.

“Let me get this straight,” Colin said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. “You want me to accompany your employer to Norfolk to make sure his horse doesn’t get sick?”

“Yes, will you?”

“It would be an easy job!”

“And you’d be well paid!”

Colin bent his head to his hand as he kneaded his tired eyes. “How much?”

“Well, we really don’t know, that would be between you and—and our employer.”

“And where is this employer?”

“At the moment? At the moment, um, well, I don’t really know, but I’m sure we can find him.”

“He’s, um—he’s in hiding.”

“Hiding,” Colin said flatly.

“Yes, hiding.”

Colin felt the last of his patience waning. His stomach was growling, he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than a meal, a bath, a few minutes with a book, and bed.

“Gentlemen, I have had a long day,” he said. “If you have a horse that is truly sick, then by all means, come and seek my services. In the meantime, if you will excuse me—”

“But Mr. Lord, you must listen, must hear us out!”

Colin was already guiding them toward the door. “I believe I have heard enough. Good night, gentleman.”

“You won’t come with our employer to Norfolk?”

“No.”

“But—“

“I said, good night, gentlemen.”

And with that, he opened the door, saw them out, and shut it behind them, wondering what the devil that had been all about. It must be the lateness of the hour, he thought. Or perhaps it was the full moon. He shook his head, unlocked his bookcase and selected the second volume of Delabere Blaine’s
The Outlines of the Veterinary Art
and Bracy Clark’s recently published
A Series of Original Experiments on the Foot of the Living Horse
—the former for its discussion of laminitis, the latter for its theories regarding elasticity of the foot, complete with an anatomical and physiological dissertation long and complicated enough to keep him well distracted into the wee hours of the morning. Heavy reading, but certainly easier to rest on than thoughts of that petite beauty who’d been watching him earlier. Tucking the books beneath his coat, Colin reached for his bag.

He was just turning when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow slide past the window.

His head jerked up and he stared at that ominous black square for a long moment. The rain suddenly seemed louder, the room darker, and unconsciously, his hand went to his hip. But there was no longer a sword there; that had been part of his former life, though the instinctual motion remained.

Frowning, the lantern in hand, he moved toward the door, his gaze on that black window and his suspicions aroused.

He pulled the door open and stared out into the rainy night.

Nothing.

Let it go, Colin. You are no longer an officer on watch, with the responsibility of a man-of-war and some eight hundred men resting on your shoulders. You’re just a humble
London
veterinarian. Get used to it.

Feeling a bit foolish, he picked up the bread that the farmer had given him and, blowing out the lantern, set it on the floor. For a moment he stood listening, all alone in this room with only his thoughts, and two years of warm memories played out within its walls—of saving, healing, and helping those poor, gentle creatures who could never voice their complaints of just how much it hurt.

He pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool spring night. Rain tapped against his face, moist wind kissed his cheeks. He locked the door and pocketed the key, thinking, still, of
her
.

He had just turned when there, in front of him, were the two men he had just sent from his office. The taller one had a pistol, and he was pointing it directly at Colin’s heart.

“If you wish to rob me,” Colin said flatly, “I’m afraid I can offer precious little with which to reward your efforts.” And then, looking the man straight in the eye, he calmly reached out, palm up, fingers beckoning. “Even so, I suspect the only thing you might actually steal from me is my patience with the two of you. Give me the pistol.”

“Simon, don’t give it to him!”

“I said,” Colin repeated, giving the taller one an implacable stare, “give me the pistol.
Now
.”

He saw the resolve wavering in the other man’s face beneath his tone of command; and then, slowly, and with cool, unflappable intent, Colin reached out, took the pistol from the other man’s suddenly nerveless hand, and, removing the flint so that the weapon could not be fired, handed it back to him. The man stood staring at him, slack-jawed at his audacity and total lack of fear.

“Forgive me for depriving you of both your dignity and your flint, but violence is not necessary, and neither of you look as though you should be playing with guns. And now, since you have finally succeeded in arousing my curiosity, perhaps we should all go and meet this employer of which you speak?”

Lady Ariadne waited restlessly in the darkened street. What was taking them so long?

She was terrified.

A part of her vast inheritance was sewn into Shareb-er-rehh’s saddle blanket, but the thought of having it stolen from her by thieves was not the only cause of her fear.

It was the veterinarian.

What if he recognized her as the most wanted fugitive in London? What if he didn’t wish to leave his veterinary practice to escort her to Norfolk? What if he refused the money she was prepared to offer, and turned her in to the authorities instead?

As though sensing her distress, Shareb-er-rehh moved forward, shoving his head against her arm and rubbing hard. She threaded her fingers through his mane, trying to calm her racing heart. Moonlight was infusing the mist now and making it look ghostly and ethereal; shadows crept from the trees, stretching across the street and reaching for her, and from somewhere off in the night, she heard two cats fighting, their angry, drawn out wails winding through the darkness before ending on a high screech of synchronized fury.

She tried to take comfort in the stallion’s presence. He stood quietly beside her, his mane, singed by the fire, trimmed sparse and short. His scorched tail had been chopped, racehorse style, to the level of his hocks. The blinkered hood enclosed his expressive head, the saddle blanket covered part of his back, and weighted leg-bandages threw his long, fluid gait off enough to disguise it. No one would know who—or what—he was. But Ariadne was still nervous. She couldn’t risk Tristan or anyone else tracking them down by Shareb’s description.

Or, she thought, looking ruefully down at her masculine attire, her own.

Clenching her fists, she tilted her face up to the moon that now sailed through the silver clouds.

Oh, Papa . . . why did you bequeath Shareb-er-rehh to Tristan? Didn’t you know that he doesn’t care for him the way I do, that he will sell him to pay his debts? Were you so caught up in your dreams of creating the
Norfolk
Thoroughbred that you were blind to the weaknesses of your only son?
Sudden tears stung her eyes, as she thought of her father—the man that she had loved from afar, the man whose attention she had spent her life trying to gain, the man who was always too busy, too preoccupied, too involved in other things, to spend time with a motherless daughter who was starved for love and affection. Even now, Ariadne was not unaware that, in trying to keep Shareb safe, she was
still
trying to gain her father’s attention . . . even if he was now in a place from which he could never again give it.