What Price Love? by Stephanie Laurens
Rounding it, she looked ahead.
On the far side of the copse, wreathed in fog, a lone figure sat ahorse. Black hair, good seat. He was staring intently into the copse—perhaps through the copse at the horses?
He was too far away; she couldn’t judge his height and build, yet…
In the instant her heart lifted in hope, the man turned his head and saw her.
Horror speared icelike through her veins.
The man cursed, lifted one arm.
Swallowing a yelp, she ducked, simultaneously clapping her heels to the mare’s flanks. A ball whistled over her head, whining eerily through the fog; a split second later, the report of the pistol crashed over her.
Spooked by the sound, by her fear and her urging, the mare shot off, streaking across the green, parallel to the copse.
Past the man, but separated by sufficient distance for Pris to see him as nothing more than a blurred shape through the billowing fog. A blurred shape drawing forth another saddle pistol.
Her heart in her mouth, she swung the mare around the copse, forcing the man, cursing again, to wheel his horse before he could follow.
She headed straight for the exercising string, the horses trotting and galloping disrupted as, having heard the shot, the stable lads reined in.
Pressing low, clinging to the mare’s neck, the black mane whipping her cheeks, Pris streaked through the milling horses—straight through and on across the Heath.
The man on his heavier horse thundered after her.
Harkness. He looked like the very devil and had a temper to match.
Pris felt her heart rising into her throat; swallowing, she rode with hands and knees, urging the little mare to fly.
The mare was nimble and had a good turn of speed. It had been years since Pris had ridden so fast, so recklessly, so desperately, but as the minutes elapsed she sensed the heavier horse falling behind. Easing the pace, she rose up and risked a quick glance back.
Harkness was still there, doggedly coming on. The heavier horse would outstay her mare, and the Heath was immense.
Facing forward, Pris held the mare one notch back from her previous headlong pace and forced her mind to function, to ignore her clamoring fear.
She couldn’t outrun Harkness; she would have to lose him.
Somewhere in a landscape that was open grassland with no stand of trees large enough to hide her.
The map in the lending library took shape in her mind. She recalled the wooded estate bordering the Heath to the southeast—dense woodland, not paddocks. Hillgate End, Caxton’s home.
It was the closest cover in which she might lose Harkness. Allowing him to catch up with her was out of the question.
The gallant mare responded as she veered southeast and picked up the pace. She eased the horse into a fluid gallop; quick glances behind showed Harkness closer, but he was once again falling behind.
She could almost hear his curses.
Facing forward, her own lungs tight, she urged the mare on.
Sooner than she’d expected, a line of trees rose before her. She headed for them, then swung along the line, searching for a bridle path.
A dip in the land, an area of worn turf, pointed to the entrance she sought. Her eyes locked on the spot.
She was fifty yards from it when a horse man appeared coming out of the woods, blocking the opening.
Pris recognized him instantly.
In the same instant he recognized her.
Her heart leapt again; cursing, she swerved away from the trees, swinging the mare back out onto the Heath.
The new direction took her closer to Harkness. She inwardly swore; she no longer had breath to spare for words. Desperately urging the mare on, she wondered how much longer her game little mount could last.
The thunder of hooves coming up hard on her right reminded her she had another pursuer.
One glance at him, at the black he once again had under him, and all thought of eluding him fled. Her brothers would have described the black as a good ’un, a sleek Thoroughbred, elegant and powerful, relentless and remorseless.
Much like his rider.
If he caught her and they stopped, would Harkness risk a shot? Worse, would he brazenly approach and accuse her—
She didn’t get a chance to evaluate her options; the black drew level, then, ridden to an inch, surged ahead and headed the mare…toward Harkness.
Panic rose; Pris swore and reined in hard, bringing the mare, heaving and snorting, to a plunging halt.
Under exquisite control, the black slowed and circled her.
Pris glanced at Harkness, but he was temporarily hidden by a dip.
Dillon halted Solomon parallel to the mare, a foot apart. He frowned at Priscilla—Pris—not at all liking what he saw.
Her mare was one step from blown, and so was she. She was desperately sucking in air, her breasts rising and falling beneath the thin hacking jacket that was part of her disguise. Her eyes were wide, slightly wild; as he watched, her hair tumbled from beneath her hat and cascaded in a tangle of heavy curls down her back.
Fear hung like an aura about her, and that he didn’t like at all.
“What the devil are you about?”
Her eyes, until then staring past his shoulder, shifted to his face. She swallowed. “Nothing.”
When he looked his irritation, she drew in a breath, held it as if seeking strength, then amended, “I was out riding. Just”—she waved—“riding.”
“Do you always ride as if the devil himself were after you?”
She lifted her hat, wiped her damp brow with her sleeve. “I…the mare needed a run. She likes to run.”
A withering retort burned his tongue, then he saw…his blood turned to ice in his veins.
Reaching out, he plucked the hat from her fingers.
Pris looked up, lips thinning; reaction and more coursed through her as she reached out and tried to grab her hat back.
He anticipated her move and easily avoided her, leaning away, the black shifting back a step.
Dillon didn’t look at her, but stared at her hat.
She frowned. “What…?”
He raised the hat brim to his face and sniffed.
Then his gaze lifted and fixed on her face.
Pris’s lungs seized. She couldn’t breathe. The look on his face, stark, the classically perfect planes stripped bare of even the thinnest veneer of social glamor, the veil of civilization wrenched aside to reveal…something that hungered, that hunted, that trapped and devoured and possessed.
Something that burned in his dark, dark eyes, something primal and ruthless and haunting.
That look was focused entirely on her.
Slowly, without letting her free of his gaze, he lifted her hat, and tilted it so the brim was visible.
She dragged in a breath and glanced—at the deep scallop punched through the edge of the hat’s brim, the partial hole ringed by a rusty burn.
Fear congealed in her veins. He touched the hat’s crown with one long finger, drawing her gaze in fascinated horror to the nick in the hat’s crown.
Shock shivered through her. Harkness’s shot hadn’t gone all that wide…
Her world was suddenly edged in black.
She heard Dillon swear, felt him press the black closer, sensed him near.
The distant thud of hooves reached them. She blinked; they both looked.
The morning sun had burned off the mists; Harkness was clearly visible as he crested a rise a hundred yards away.
He saw them and pulled up, wheeling his mount in the same movement. With a glare Pris felt even across the distance, he rode back the way he’d come, immediately disappearing from sight.
Eyes narrowed, Dillon turned to her. “Who was he?”
Steely menace colored his tone.
She looked down. “I don’t know.”
The word he uttered was very far from polite.
After a fraught moment, he said, the words clipped and tight,
The question had her looking up, realizing. “I…ah, don’t know.”
Harkness had mistaken her for Rus. He’d been waiting—following precisely the same logic she had.
From the look on Dillon’s face he knew she knew the answers to both his questions. Turning her head, she stared after Harkness.
Had he realized his mistake? Her hair hadn’t fallen until she’d stopped; Harkness wouldn’t have seen it, and from a distance, on horse back, dressed as she was, it wouldn’t be easy to distinguish her from Rus.
And Harkness wouldn’t be expecting her to be there, for there to be someone about he could mistake for her striking brother.
Yet if he’d thought she was Rus…Pris looked at Dillon. She knew Harkness’s reputation; the man was bad and bold. Why had he so readily turned tail rather than come after Rus?
Dillon had been facing away from Harkness. Her gaze slid to Dillon’s horse. The black was an exceptional specimen, tall, with long, elegant lines, and totally, completely black. “Do you often ride him?”
Dillon’s eyes remained on her face. “Yes.”
“So he’s known about the town?”
He didn’t answer, but after a moment said, “Are you saying that man recognized me because of Solomon?”
That was the only explanation for Harkness’s abrupt retreat. She shrugged, leaned over, and grasped her hat, twitching to retrieve it.
Fingers instinctively tightening, Dillon held it for a moment, then let her tug it free. Through eyes still narrow, he watched her tuck up her hair, then cram the hat over it. The result was wobbly, but apparently satisfied, she gathered her reins, then looked at him, and inclined her head.
“Good day, Mr. Caxton.”
He snorted. “Dillon. And I’ll escort you home.”
Her chin rose; she glanced sharply at him as he brought Solomon alongside the drooping mare. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Nevertheless.” He couldn’t stop himself from grimly adding, “You’ve had enough adventures for one day.”
She looked ahead and made no reply.
He’d much rather she’d ripped up at him. He was tempted to say something to prick her Irish temper; the knowledge he wanted an excuse to rail at her—to release the gnawing, clamorous need to react, to act and seize and wield a right some part of him had already decided was his—held him back.
He’d never felt such a reaction before, had never been even vaguely susceptible to its like. Why she—who aroused so many emotions in him, and all so easily—should likewise trigger such a powerful, almost violent response simply by being reckless, by being in danger, by doing things—reckless things—that put her in danger…
The roiling tide rose, welling at his thoughts. He cut them off, slammed a door on his urges—primitive, he knew, and unlikely, in this instance, to be met with anything but haughty and contemptuous dismissal.
Jaw clenched, he glanced at her, riding easily by his side.
After a moment, he looked ahead. Trust—hers—that’s what he was after. Time enough once he’d learned her secrets to introduce her to this other side of him that she and only she evoked.
Provoked.
Riding silently beside him, Pris was very aware of his leashed temper; it rubbed against hers like a hand ruffling fur the wrong way. There was heat there, too, lurking behind the anger, using it as a screen. It tempted her to engage, to let her temper flare and clash with his, but she was simply too weary, too exhausted, to risk such a foolhardy, reckless, and wild act just now.
No matter how tempted.
It was like riding beside a tiger, but…
Harkness had shot at her thinking she was Rus, and he’d been aiming to kill. The realization slid through her, solidifying and growing colder, more icy and sharp with every passing mile.
The mare plodded on. Dillon held his black to a walk; the horse was beautifully schooled. Despite wanting to run, he obliged, and like a gentleman paced neatly alongside the weary mare. Almost protectively.
Very like his master.
The understanding intensified the coldness spreading inside her. She couldn’t afford to lean on Dillon Caxton, not now, not yet, perhaps not ever. She didn’t know if she could trust him. The events of the morning had brought Rus’s plight even more forcefully home. Her twin was in very deep trouble.
The cold had seeped to her bones, to her marrow. She was shivering inside, but fought to hide it. She hunched her shoulders, her arms tight against her body.
From beside her came a muffled curse. Dillon shifted in his saddle; before she could summon the energy to glance his way, warmth fell around her shoulders, then engulfed her.
She stiffened, lifted her head even as her fingers greedily gripped and held the heat to her, the coat about her.
“For God’s sake, don’t argue!”
She shot him a severe glance.
He returned it with interest. “Disobliging female that you are.”
Her lips twitched. Looking ahead, she kept the coat close, savored its warmth, his body heat trapped in the silk lining. Without looking his way, she inclined her head. Stiffly said, “Thank you.”
The horses walked on. The icy chill inside her thawed.
By unspoken accord, they’d taken a route circling the town; no need for any ladies or gentlemen out early to see her. By the time they neared the Carisbrook house and reined in fifty yards from the stable, she felt warmed through, restored to her customary health, her usual decisive temper.
Shrugging out of the coat, she handed it back. “Thank you.”
He responded with a dark look. Taking the coat, he slung it about his shoulders and shrugged into it. She forced herself to look away from the enthralling sight of the muscles of his chest flexing beneath the fine lawn of his shirt.
He should come with a warning tattooed on his forehead.
He settled into his saddle and reached for his reins. She looked at him, calmly met his gaze. “I’ll bid you a good day, Mr….” Briefly, she smiled. “Dillon.”
He didn’t smile in return; large, lean, and relaxed in his saddle, he held her eyes with a steady gaze she found a touch unsettling. After a moment, he asked, his voice low, a hint of the sexual seeping through, “When are you going to tell me the truth?”
She didn’t look away from that dark stare, heavy with unspoken implications. After a pause she allowed to grow fraught, she lightly raised her brows. “When are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
A minute ticked past as they eyed each other, an acknowledgment they still stood on opposing sides of a fence.
“Priscilla, you are playing a very dangerous game.”
The words were low, precise, uttered with little inflection; they still set something inside her quivering.
Her temper stirred; haughty willfulness infused her as she lightly arched her brows, then, gathering her reins, she turned the mare and started her for the stables—glancing back at the last to say with sultry deliberation, “Until next time…Dillon.”
7
You’re absolutely sure?” Seated in an armchair in Demon’s study, Dillon stared at Barnaby; he didn’t know what to think.
Earlier that afternoon, Barnaby had returned from London, found him in his office, and insisted on dragging him out to the Cynster stud to share his discoveries simultaneously with Demon and Flick.
Perched on the window seat, Barnaby nodded. “No question at all—Vane and I had the same story from different sources. The spring races the rumors concerned were the New Plate at Goodwood, and the Cadbury Stakes at Doncaster, and in both cases, the losses were sustained on runners from the same stable—horses whose runs were completely inconsistent with their previous form. That stable is Collier’s, near Grantham.”
Seated behind his desk, Flick as usual perched on the arm of his chair, Demon looked at Dillon. “Collier’s dead.”
His gaze still on Barnaby, Dillon nodded. “Yes. I know.”
Barnaby
“Definitely,” Demon said. “It created quite a stir. Collier was well-known. He’d been in the business for decades and had some fine horses. Apparently he was riding by a local quarry, something spooked his horse, and he was thrown down the quarry cliff. His neck was broken.” Demon looked at Dillon. “What happened to the stable? Who inherited?”
“His daughter. She had no interest in the stable or the horses—she sold them off. I saw the paperwork crossing my clerks’ desks.”
“Who bought them—any particular party?”
“Most went in singles or pairs to different stables.”
Demon frowned. “No mention of a partner?”
Dillon studied Demon’s face. “No. Why?”
“Collier got into difficulties at the end of the autumn season last year—he bet on some of his own runners and lost heavily. I’d wondered if he’d be racing again, but after the winter break he returned, not only with no cuts to his string, but with two very classy new runners.”
“Not Catch-the-wind and Irritable?” Barnaby asked. “Those were the horses involved in the suspect races.”
Demon described the two horses; Dillon agreed to check. He looked at Barnaby. “Was there any suggestion the horses were stopped—that the jockeys held them back?”
“No. All those complaining seemed certain the jockeys did their best—they didn’t want to implicate them, but couldn’t see how else it was done.”
Demon and Dillon exchanged a look. “How it was done,” Dillon said, “we can guess. Who benefited is the question.”
“Actually,” Demon said, “the first question might be: how did Collier die? Was it an accident, or…”
“Or given the rumors”—Dillon’s voice hardened—“and the likelihood someone would eventually look into them, as we are, was Collier silenced?”
“Silenced? Why?” Barnaby asked.
“So he couldn’t implicate whoever had funded the substitutions,” Flick replied.
Barnaby looked puzzled. Flick explained, “The other way to fix a race and make a great deal of money is to run a particular horse that does well until it establishes a sound reputation—excellent form—and then, for one race, switch another horse for it. Your ‘favorite’ then loses. After the race, you switch the real horse back. By the time any inquiry is afoot and the stewards think to examine the horse that unexpectedly lost, it’s the right horse, and there’s no evidence of any wrongdoing.”