Authors: Danelle harmon
Taken by Storm (39 page)
“No, Colin . . .
you
have to . . . “
And then her eyes closed, and her head fell back against his arm. The crowd was in an uproar. The stallion circled his fallen mistress, mane and tail streaming in the wind. He made one pass by Colin. Another.
Ariadne opened her eyes. “Do it, Colin . . . for Tristan . . . and for me.”
He looked up, seeing the black horse a quarter mile away now. And then, before he could deliberate any further, the crowd had surged in and it seemed that a hundred hands were there, hauling him to his feet and tossing him up bareback aboard the rearing, plunging Shareb-er-rehh as he plowed to a halt before them, sand spraying up from his front hooves.
“Bloody
hell
,” was all Colin had time for—and then the stallion exploded out from under him.
He’d been in battles with shot and lead flying inches from his ear. He’d faced storms, stood up to his admiral’s temper, survived a hideous fracture that should’ve cost him his leg if not his life. But never had Colin felt the desperate, exhilarating fear he felt now, as the mighty steed beneath him thundered down the beach like a man-of-war’s unleashed broadside, carrying him to certain death if he were to fall off. He heard the crowd screaming off to his left, where nothing but colors passed in a speeding, dizzying blur.
God help me.
The wind tore at his eyes, slashed at his shirt, whipped the flying black mane into his face until tears ran down his cheeks. He bent low over the stallion’s surging neck, desperate only to stay aboard the animal as it took him on a ride straight into hell.
And Shareb, running like a thing possessed, showed no signs of slowing, stopping, or tiring. He poured on more speed, his angry scream echoing through Colin’s head, great muscles pounding beneath him.
The crowd was roaring. Through Shareb’s mane and past the backswept ears, Colin could just see Black Patrick circling the far marker in a wide arc, beginning his homestretch run back up the beach.
They’d never catch him now.
Not in a million years.
“Go, Shareb,” Colin cried, into the small, savage, backswept ears. “For God’s sake,
go
!
Black Patrick galloped toward and past them, now into his second and final mile, and Shareb slowed, teeth bared as he tried to go after his rival without completing the far turn. With all his strength, Colin hauled on the outside rein, the leather cutting into his hand as he tried to turn the stallion and keep him on course. The mighty body rose beneath him in protest, plunged to the ground, and then Shareb was back on course and galloping toward the marker. He swept around it, body angled toward the ground like a ship coming about, and as he finished the turn and plunged down the beach at a speed that defied belief, the crowd rose to its feet, hundreds upon hundreds of people screaming, roaring, cheering—
A quarter mile ahead was the churning black rump, the streaming tail. Far beyond, at the finish line, Colin could just see Ariadne, leaning heavily against the starter, Bow at her feet and Marc pressed against her calves.
“Go, Shareb, damn your lazy, bloody, spoiled, hide!” Colin cried, and touched his heels to the pounding flanks. “Win this damned thing and you can have all the pastry and ale your heart desires! You hear me?
Pastry and ale
!”
It was enough. The great body beneath him seemed to flatten itself to the sand, the reins were ripped from Colin’s hands, and he buried himself in the whipping mane, the wind screaming past his face leaving him faint for lack of air—
Please, Lord, don’t let me fall off now, please, not now—
Knees buried in the stallion’s sides, fists anchored in the stinging black mane, he hung on for dear life, knowing that if he fell off now he was a dead man. Through flying mane and watering eyes he saw the black horse’s hindquarters coming closer, closer. . . .
By God, they just might make it—
—Heard the thunder of its hooves, saw its jockey glance under his shoulder to look behind him, felt clods of sand from the animal’s hooves pelting his face. He couldn’t see. There was no stopping Shareb-er-rehh. Not now. The black hindquarters were a length away now . . . half a length . . . and then Shareb’s head was darting out, snakelike, lunging for his rival’s neck as the two pounded furiously down the beach toward the finish line—
The other jockey’s whip came savagely down on Shareb’s nose; still, Shareb went for the other horse, more intent on killing him than winning the race, even as the two hurtled toward the finish line at a blistering speed, the crowd screaming in a wild frenzy around them.
Shareb was falling back, teeth going for Black Patrick’s jugular.
And then Colin looked up and saw Tristan, running out beyond the finish line with a lure.
The lovely white mare, Gazella.
Up went Shareb’s ears—and in a blazing burst of speed, he shot past Black Patrick and won the race.
A warm stable in
Norfolk
,
England
. . . fifteen months later.
In a roomy box stall piled thick with straw, a tiny colt stood with his mother, his belly full with milk, his body warm and ready for bed. His legs were wobbly, his eyes droopy with fatigue. Beyond the windows darkness had fallen, and it was long past time for the little fellow to go to sleep—but he seemed restless, and Colin and Ariadne, gazing fondly down at the new arrival with the newest little Lord held safely in his father’s strong and loving arms, were reluctant to leave.
“Looks like his papa, doesn’t he, Colin?”
The colt’s tiny face, one eye ringed with white just like his sire, turned toward them. The fuzzy forelock seemed to stand straight up, and the tiny body swayed on the absurdly long, stilt-like legs as he took a hesitant step forward.
“Oh, I think he rather looks like Thunder, myself,” Colin joked, enduring a playful swat from his wife as the old gelding whickered from a nearby stall. He yawned, tiredly. “Plague take it, is this little fellow ever going to call it a night?”
“He’s not going to go to sleep until you tell him a tale, Colin, and neither is little Caleb, here.” Ariadne leaned over to take the infant, now beginning to fuss, from her husband, and planted a loving kiss against the downy blond head. “Don’t you know that all babies need a bedtime story?”
“You tell it, love.”
“Oh no, you’re much better at telling stories.”
“And which one would you have me tell?”
“The one about . . .” She thought for a moment, then her face lit up, her eyes sparkling. “About us. And how I took you by storm!”
He laughed. “Dear God, that will take all night.”
The little colt looked at them, eyes huge and imploring, tiny muzzle frosted with droplets of milk. He stumbled forward, tottering precariously, and put his miniature nose into the palm of the man who had brought him safely into the world.
“See, Colin? He’s
asking
you.”
Colin gave a heavy sigh, affecting great weariness, but he was grinning. Gazella had had a rough time of it, and for a while there, as he’d struggled to help her through the hard delivery, he’d wondered if the legacy of the Norfolk Thoroughbred was going to die right along with her.
But she hadn’t died, and neither had the colt, and now they had a tall, healthy baby to show for all their shared pain and effort. Still smiling, Colin opened the door to the box. He sat cross-legged in the straw to get down to the little one’s level, and gazed into the huge, dark eyes.
“So you want to hear a story, eh, young fellow?”
The colt stared at him, waiting, tiny ears twitching back and forth. His dam stepped forward and touched her muzzle to Colin’s shoulder, and in the adjacent stall, Shareb-er-rehh put his head over the divider, his rapt gaze, like his son’s, on the veterinarian.
Even the dogs sidled into the stall. Marc lay down against Colin’s thigh, and Bow put her paw on his knee, her scraggly tail wagging with anticipation as he patted her fondly.
Audience in place, his own little son watching him from the safety of his mother’s arms and finally beginning to settle, Colin ran his hand over the colt’s sloping shoulder, his fine, long legs. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he’d have to relate the tale—not only to Shareb-er-rehh’s heir, but in the years to come, more babies of his own.
He couldn’t wait.
And so he settled himself in the straw, smiled up at his wife and young son, and began, starting with the beginning . . . about how the Lady Ariadne had all but abducted him, how they had fallen in love on the journey to Norfolk, how Shareb-er-rehh had defeated Black Patrick in the match race of the decade. His kept his voice low and mild, gentle and soothing, and at the door he saw Ariadne, her cheek resting lovingly against Caleb’s golden head, an adoring smile on her face as she gazed down at him.
The good doctor sighed, and gazed affectionately at each equine face. “And then,” he said, cradling the jaw of Shareb-er-rehh’s tiny heir in his hands and gazing intently into the wide, attentive eyes, “just as we accepted the prize money for winning the race, Lord Maxwell’s servant came running out of the crowd, babbling hysterically about how his employer had ordered him to kill me. Later, at the trial, he and several others came forward and testified that Maxwell had set the fire that burned down Ariadne’s papa’s barn, all because he was angry that he was trying to break off their betrothal. The authorities came and took the earl off to jail, Lady Ariadne married me so that we could live happily ever after, we settled here in Burnham, and then . . . well then, your mama and papa had
you
.”
The little colt wobbled with fatigue, but his eyes were wide with wonder. He turned his head and stared up at his proud father, as though seeing him for the very first time. Colin smiled, and touched the fuzzy little neck. “And someday,” he said, “you, too, will grow up and be a famous racehorse—just like your papa.”
Colin got to his feet, running his hand over the fuzzy back, aware of Ariadne watching him with her heart in her eyes. He moved across the stall, plumped the straw piled thickly in the corner, and beckoned the colt with his hand.
“Time for bed, little fellow.”
But the colt’s eye was challenging, his stance defiant.
“I think he wants a bedtime snack,” Ariadne said, her voice bright with laughter. “Pastry and ale.”
“Well, he can want it all he likes, he’s not getting any!”
As though in understanding, the colt threw a tantrum, squealing and kicking his tiny heels against the door. He turned a mutinous stare on Colin, the breath whooshing in short, angry bursts through his flared nostrils.
Colin and Ariadne looked at each other and burst out laughing. And in the end, it was Shareb-er-rehh who sighed heavily, leaned over the divider, and flattening his ears with fatherly authority, scowled fiercely at the young scallywag.
The colt returned his stare; then, his tiny head drooped and with a heavy sigh, he turned and flung himself down at his dam’s feet.
Grinning, Colin crept out of the stall and joined his wife and son, now fast asleep in his mother’s arms, just outside. For a long moment, they stood gazing down at the tiny foal.
“What do you think Shareb just said?” Ariadne whispered, as Colin put his arm around her shoulders and the two stood watching the little Norfolk Thoroughbred drift off into slumber.
He looked up at Shareb-er-rehh. The stallion’s dark eye gleamed, and he seemed to smile as he looked steadily at Colin.
“I think,” the veterinarian murmured, returning that equine smile, “that he just agreed with me.”
And then he took his sleeping son back from his wife, and arm-in-arm, with Marc and little Bow following at their heels, led her from the stable.
- the end -
# # #
Bestselling, multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten novels, previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at [email protected] or through any of the means listed below:
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