Chapter Seven

Flora stared at the ceiling of her room. It was smaller than the wine cellar at Campbell House, but it afforded privacy, her most valued currency. She did not have to share it with others and thus could retire her disguise for a time. The occupants in the bunkhouse were not as lucky.

No light sneaked through the cracks of the sad little curtain that stretched across her tiny window, but she suspected that, if she looked, she might catch the beginning wisps of pink and gold dancing across the horizon, promising a glorious sunrise.

She wished she could burrow back under the wool covers and let sleep reclaim her. In her sleep, her goals came without struggle. Without sacrifice. Without binding her breasts with linen. Without men talking down to her as if she didn’t know a horse’s head from its arse. She could only imagine how they’d treat her if they knew she was a woman.

Or the catastrophe she’d have faced if the Duchess of Claremore had seen her and revealed her identity. Just the thought sent her heart to her throat, and she attempted to swallow around the panic.

But, in her dreams, her current path was not necessary for her to be successful. Attaining her goals was merely an outcome. Expected. Assured. The long, hard struggle was an abridged line or two in the story of her life. Faith, but there were moments where she wished she could just sleep and awaken to the knowledge that she owned her own stud farm. That she was beholden to no man.

Rubbing the heels of her palms into her eyes, Flora willed away such useless notions. She’d never gotten anywhere by lying about all day. She may have been lucky enough to have been born with a title and wealth, but neither of those things had helped her secure her position at the Gardens. And they had not helped her keep it. Her hard work was to thank for that. So she climbed from her would-be cocoon and made her way to the basin under the window. Today was her half day, and the sooner she began Asad’s lesson, the sooner she could slip away to bathe in a place free from the possibility of discovery. Pouring crisp water from a small clay pitcher into the basin, she splashed her face, thankful it no longer froze at this time of year.

A quarter of an hour later, she emerged from her room, her breeches tucked into her riding boots, her waistcoat and shirt large enough to hide the linen disguising her breasts, and makeup applied to darken the complexion of her chin and upper lip. Her hair had proved difficult to twist up under her hat, and she chafed at the thought of cutting it once again. But she would, because she must.

Her arrival at the paddock was heralded by soft nickers. She greeted each horse by name and offered an affectionate pat and several kisses to horsey muzzles. Arriving at Banrigh’s stall, she found the mare with her head over the door, her amber eyes reproachful.

“I do this every day, and every day you act as if I’ve given all my love away and have none left to share with you.” Running her hands up both sides of the horse’s head, Flora pressed a kiss to her forehead. “And every day I must remind you that you’re my best nighean and always will be.”

Banrigh stared mournfully at her for a long moment before nuzzling Flora’s chin and jaw. Flora laughed and pushed the horse away, reaching for the stable latch to check her water trough. Satisfied that it would meet the mare’s needs until a stablehand refilled it later, she grabbed a brush and started to work on untangling knots the feisty horse had earned rolling about in the straw.

“Good morning, Banrigh.” Mr. Mubarak’s gaze found hers. “And you, too, of course.”

Blinking, she looked toward the eastern pasture, noting the sun was just about to burst forth from his nightly cage. “And good morning to you, Mr. Mubarak.”

“How is your Scottish lady…that’s not right, is it?” A frown slipped over his otherwise jovial face. “Girl? No, not girl.” He tapped his mouth in thought until abruptly his eyes went wide. “Lass! It’s lass, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

The Egyptian man clapped his hands. “Excellent. Now tell me how your Scottish lass is doing.”

Fighting back a chuckle, she said, “Banrigh is in a merry mood. She deigned not to bite my hand when I arrived late after greeting her stablemates.”

“A contrary female, is she?” The older man’s eyes suddenly latched onto hers, and wariness tingled on her skin. “Contrary females have always been a weakness of mine.”

“And why is that?”

“I appreciate a bit of unpredictability. Life, in general, is rather mundane. Routine.”

“If you’re lucky, it is.”

He dipped his head. After listening to the sound of the brush running over Banrigh’s coat, he continued, “Are you here because you were escaping from a mundane life?”

Cotton fluff seemed to fill her mouth. With effort, she managed to shake her head. “No. This is not a lark for me. I’m here because I want to be.” A second clicked by loudly in her mind. “How did you know?”

“Mrs. Mubarak noticed immediately. She said your features were too delicate, your build too slender to be a man’s.”

The trainer had introduced his wife on the day of her arrival. Her disguise hadn’t even protected her identity for a day. Flora wanted to kick something.

“Do you know this duchess in your real life?” Mr. Mubarak asked, taking the brush from her limp hand.

She closed her eyes. “I do. But more importantly, she knows me.”

He seemed to grasp the importance of this distinction and laid a hand on her shoulder. Briefly. “I do not care if you are a man or a woman. I only care about the quality of the work you do. And you, ya bintee, have done excellent work.”

The sound of the stable door creaking wide opened her eyes.

Mr. Mubarak settled the door back into the frame and snagged her gaze. “As long as you continue to do fine work, I see no reason for anyone else to know of your secret. But if my wife was able to ascertain your identity, others may as well. And then I suspect that scandal, the very thing Amstead has feared, will find its way to the Gardens.”

Without another word, he left, and Flora wondered if her lungs would ever be capable of filling with air again.

…

The pond looked much the way it had during his last visit the previous summer. The bulrushes along the east bank had grown dense, and the grass had matured into a lush, rich-green carpet thanks to spring rains. He smiled as he noticed that the boughs on the old chestnut tree had grown thick and full with leaves, making it the perfect place to relax and doze for a time. With each breath, he pulled the crisp Suffolk air into his lungs.

Leaving Loki to graze on the new grasses in the far west meadow, Christian made his way down to the poplar. His life had been a succession of tasks, duties, and responsibilities since his father died, and all of it had been accompanied by a constant, choking pressure of guilt. That he hadn’t done enough. That he would never be able to do enough. And that fear, that guilt, had driven him. It was the most relentless taskmaster, and he was exhausted.

When Baniti had told him Asad needed to be reshod, Christian had taken the opportunity to slip away. Normally, he would have found another task to see to, but words young William had shared the week before had replayed in his mind.

“Asad is not thinking of the next race. He thinks of eating. When he’ll be let out to the south pasture to run freely and high-step for the mares. When race day arrives, he won’t feel stress. Just anticipation. The need to run. What I would give to live in the moment like he does.”

Christian never lived in the moment. At least, he hadn’t since he’d become a marquess. He was always thinking two or three moves ahead. The very future of Amstead Gardens required him to. But on this day, at this moment, he was determined to think only of his current pleasure and spend some stolen time alone.

With that in mind, he shrugged out of his coat, sank onto the ground, and leaned back, using the garment as a pillow. It would be horribly wrinkled; but then, what were valets for, if not to complain over the state of their master’s clothes?

Filling his lungs again, he closed his eyes and slipped off to sleep.

He wasn’t certain how long he had dozed when he abruptly snapped back to consciousness. Confused, he blinked his eyes open. Wind softly whistled through the boughs above him and birds called to each other from amongst the brambles, but what had awoken him?

Sitting up, he looked about. Loki was out of sight, but he knew the gelding was on the other side of the rise. Below him, the pond was placid, its mirror-like surface reflecting the midday light and spreading it about the clearing like a kaleidoscope.

A sound to his right drew his attention.

William appeared over the south bank, weaving his black mare through the bushes, weeds, and wildflowers that grew freely about the pond. He avoided the colorful clump of blossoms as best he could.

Christian wasn’t aware the lad knew of the pond, and while his mind told him he should be annoyed that William had found his private sanctuary, he couldn’t muster the indignation. The young man had been working hard to ensure Asad was ready for the Guineas, and he’d certainly earned his respite. There was no better place than the pond.

He debated whether he should make his presence known, but decided against it. He was in no mood to socialize, and he would feel obliged to do so if he greeted William. It was also not hard to guess that the young man had escaped there for similar reasons. Privacy was hard to find in the stables, and Christian didn’t fault him for wanting some time to himself.

Extending his arms behind him, he dropped his head back and stretched his neck. Damn, but his whole body ached. Sleep had been an elusive thing, worry over Asad’s progress stealing it from him more nights than he cared to count. The beast carried a great burden, even if he didn’t know it.

Distractedly, he glanced in William’s direction. The lad had set his mare loose, allowing her to sample the abundance of spring thriving about them. He carried a small sack with him to the water’s edge and took a long moment to glance about the clearing, his gaze sliding over the tree under which Christian lounged without recognition. His cheeks puffed on an exhale.

Apparently satisfied with his reconnaissance, William pulled various items out of the bag, and Christian squinted to make them out. Recognizing one as a bar of soap, he rolled his eyes. Of course the man would prefer to bathe away from the crowded stables, and with the weather sunny and warm, he was smart to choose this place to scrub away the dirt of Asad’s many practice sessions.

Turning his head, he observed a pair of squirrels argue over stolen contraband, his gaze on their agitated movements but not really processing them. Without thought, he looked in William’s direction again and pulled up short.

What was that under his shirt? The lad had discarded his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and untied his shirt, revealing an odd material underneath. Curiosity kept Christian watching as William pulled his shirt over his head and folded it neatly, placing it on a pile of other clothes. Christian frowned as he took in the material that encircled the lad from his armpits to his waist…but his confusion turned to realization as William began to unwind the strips.

Beautiful, upturned breasts greeted the sun in all their rosy glory. His heart stuttered as heat rushed over him. William continued to unfurl the linen strips, revealing creamy, pink-tinged skin and glorious curves while a small, distant portion of Christian’s brain realized that he was digging his hands into the dirt as each new area of skin was revealed.

William was a woman.

Slapping a hand to his mouth, Christian watched as he—she—flung her breeches to the side and walked to the water’s edge, her shoulders thrown back and her head high. Although he’d known that the lad had worn his black hair pulled into an outdated queue, he’d always figured it was some Scots affinity for long hair; perhaps a tribute to his long-ago warring ancestors. Christian had been amused by the thought. But seeing the glossy tresses loose and caressing the woman’s pale shoulders left his fingers itching to touch them. To drag his nails along her scalp and pull them gently through each strand before raising a feathered end to rub across his lips.

She was ravishing. Lithe and shapely, but also strong, with muscles flexing in her shoulders, across her back, and down her legs. They were no doubt a result of her hours spent in the training ring and on the back of a horse. He’d always been attracted to soft, buxom women, but this lass made Christian’s groin rise to attention. The knowledge of what she could do with all those glorious feminine parts, the power she could exert over Asad and the other horses in the stables, had him gritting his teeth.

How could he have been so blind? Why had he ever thought her a boy? He’d immediately noticed William’s dainty features, and he knew that the other grooms had teased him because of his “pretty” face, but he’d never really considered the possibility that he might be a woman.

He’d been blind.

Christian watched, enraptured, as she lathered soap in her hands and washed her hair. He wondered what it would look like long. Would it curl or grow into sleek tresses a man could wrap around his hand and use to reel her close for a scorching kiss? Would it smell clean and fresh, or of roses? Or violets? His mouth dried at the thought of all that striking hair and her pink, silky flesh smelling like lilies under all her masculine attire.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away as she finished bathing and emerged from the green waves, water sluicing off her body and setting his every nerve ending on fire. She grabbed a length of cloth and dried herself, and he itched to stride down there, snatch the material from her hands, and finish the job for her. But he forced himself to stay where he was. He doubted she would be pleased to see him. More likely she would be upset that her disguise had been revealed and angered that he had watched her at such a personal, vulnerable moment. The realization made him cringe inwardly. He really was a cad.

Now dry, she slipped a linen shirt over her head and plopped down into the grass, taking a small brush in hand and running it through her short, silky strands. When her task was complete, she relaxed back on her elbows and stared at the waters. Lounging in an Eden-like garden, with her striking horse grazing peacefully behind her, she looked like a picture just begging to be memorialized on canvas. If he were an artist, she would surely be his muse. He had never seen a more exquisite woman. And for the last few weeks he’d worked side by side with her and called her William. A lad he had come to respect and even esteem. But he’d been so consumed with ensuring that Asad was ready to race that he hadn’t really known William at all.

Who was she?

What kind of woman disguised herself as a man to work in a racing stable? What kind of woman was willing to muck out stalls, groom temperamental stallions, stay up till all hours of the night with laboring mares, and subject herself to the harsh physical labor required of a stablehand?

With a snort, he remembered that she wasn’t a stablehand, but the assistant training manager. Baniti trusted her and was confident enough in her abilities that he’d assigned Asad to her care. And so far, she had lived up to every expectation that had been set for her. She had impressed even Christian, which was no easy task.

Indignation fired through his veins. What sort of game was she playing? Was she a spy sent from a rival farm to report on Asad and his training, and when the timing was right, sabotage his progress? Why else would she have deceived Baniti and him so egregiously? Just the idea that she could have hurt Asad in some manner made red cloud his vision.

She finally rose to her feet, slipping on her breeches and boots before stripping her shirt off to bind her lovely breasts once again. Christ, if his cock didn’t harden and his heart race like an out-of-control two-year-old on his first track run. She wrapped the long strips of linen around herself again and he contemplated what to do.

By the time she had mounted her mare and ridden from the pond, Christian had decided on a course of action. Women didn’t belong in the stables…especially not one he responded to so viscerally. And since he now questioned her motives for disguising her true identity, he found it impossible to trust her with the very creature keeping the fate of Amstead Gardens alive.

He had to sack his assistant trainer.