Chapter Twelve

After checking the girth, Flora patted Sandstone on the neck. “You’ve been running great, lad. Let’s give it one last go down the track and you’ll be back in the pasture and flirting with the fillies in no time.”

Swinging onto his back, she adjusted the reins before nudging him in the flanks toward the starting line. Sandstone was a handsome brown colt, four years old, who regularly raced on smaller dirt tracks with respectable success. Lord Amstead was debating whether to enter the gelding in the Gold Cup, and Flora wanted to show the horse in his best light. He was an easy-going lad who liked to nip at her hat whenever she walked too close to him. Riding Sandstone was a pleasure because he had a swift, even gait which gave her the sensation he floated above the ground. Flora was immensely fond of the gentle but competitive gelding.

Once she had positioned Sandstone on the line, she looked to the marquess and awaited his signal. Their eyes met and held for the briefest of seconds before he dropped the flag, and she urged the beast on with a swift nudge to his sides.

Sandstone dashed away, thundering over the dirt in track-eating strides. Elation filled her heart as the wind whipped against her cheeks and the world sped by in a blur. A grin teased at her mouth, as it always did whenever she rode on the back of a galloping horse.

Abruptly, his gait changed. His massive body seemed to seize below her, every muscle clenching, every tendon straining, until he reared up on his hind legs, his screams those of agony. Moments before she was thrown from his back, Flora’s gaze met his. It was wide and filled with fear. And pain.

She crashed to the ground, her world turning black in an instant.

…

It was a scene from a gothic novel. Christian had no other way to describe watching Sandstone jolt violently back, his front hooves clawing at the air, his terrified whinnies sounding like ominous wails across the track. But when Flora flew through the air and landed in a pile on the ground, unmoving, his lungs seized.

As he sprinted to her still form, his mind noted that Sandstone had also crashed to the ground. He looked wildly over his shoulder for help, not slowing his stride. Relief made his feet light when Baniti and a groom rushed to the fallen gelding.

Flora looked like a lifeless doll. Her hat had been dislodged from her head, and black wisps of hair lay all about her pale, still face. Her legs were twisted awkwardly, and one arm lay under her body. Christian sent up a silent prayer that none of her limbs were broken.

Kneeling near her head, he stripped off his gloves and ran a hand across her brow, pushing silky strands of hair aside. “Flora, are you hurt?”

She remained silent and still.

“Please wake up.” He grasped the hand that lay across her waist, squeezing her fingers. “The Flora I know could never be felled by a simple fall from a horse.”

Her eyelashes fluttered and hope welled up his throat.

“Sandstone.”

Christian startled. He had not even thought of the horse since his gaze fell on her twisted form.

Baniti knelt by the horse, stroking a hand down his head. As if sensing his attention, the older man met his gaze. His somber expression told him everything he needed to know about the young horse’s condition.

“Sandstone?” she repeated. Her eyelashes fluttered open, and her green gaze locked with his. “Is he all right?” She gasped, sucking deep breaths through her teeth.

“Mr. Mubarak is tending to him.” Christian did not think it the time to share the news with her. He was not certain if she was injured, and he did not want her risking further injury. The thought of his fierce trainer broken made him unexpectedly angry.

“He just seized up under me. His whole body seemed to be in agony.” She clenched her eyes shut. “I think he had a heart attack.”

Based on her description, Christian agreed. Sandstone had been a good, solid racehorse, and he had taken to training with ease. He’d always been eager to run, and it seemed appropriate that his last moments had been spent doing what he loved.

“I suspect we’ll know soon enough.” He brushed a bit of dirt from her cheek. “In the meantime, I’m concerned about you. Tell me what hurts.”

Flora peeked at him from under her lashes, the gesture more stubborn than flirtatious. “I’m fine.”

She tried to lift herself so that she could drag her other arm out from under her body, and groaned. Christian moved to assist her but stopped when she glared. Gritting her teeth, Flora continued to raise her chest until her arm was pulled free. As she collapsed back into the dirt, he caught her, gently lowering her until her head rested on his lap.

“Can you wiggle your fingers?” he asked, visually inspecting her arm.

Her fingers moved, a tad slower than he’d like.

Sliding his gaze to her legs, he mentally braced himself. “Now, can you move your toes?”

Scrunching her nose, she nodded. “I think so.”

Christian looked at her feet expectantly…until his gaze landed on her boots. “I suppose I should wait until the physician arrives to check them.”

“Are you sure?” A hint of a smirk curled her mouth. “Surely you can see through boots.”

“I see the fall didn’t relieve you of your caustic wit.”

“I’m certain nothing short of death has the power to do that.”

Remembering the way her body had flown through the air like a marionette without its strings made any laughter wither on his tongue. “After witnessing that accident, I’d rather not speak of death, thank you.”

Flora swallowed and turned her head away. “He’s dead.”

It wasn’t a question, so Christian didn’t answer it. He looked about, relieved to see the physician he retained at Amstead Gardens rushing toward them, his large, black leather bag bouncing against his thigh with every hurried step.

“Dr. Palmer is almost here,” he said. An uncomfortable lump lodged in his throat at the tear tracks on her cheeks. “Damn. Are you in a great deal of pain?” He stroked a hand over her hair. “You were jesting with me, so I assumed you were well. I’m sorry.”

She met his gaze, her own a stormy sea. “I will be fine. I definitely hurt, but nothing feels broken. It’s just—” She pressed her lips together.

Dropping his head close to her face, he prompted, “It’s just…?”

“Sandstone.” Flora swallowed reflexively, the motion halted. “I can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a lovely lad. He never gave me a bit of trouble. Was always happy when he saw me approach his stall with a bridle in my hand. He loved to run. And he’s gone. Just like that.”

“He is gone.” Christian saw no point in denying it. He was certain Flora had experienced loss in the stables before and she would experience it again. “But you’re still here to be a burr in my side.”

At that, she smiled. A true smile that brought out the dimples he found completely alluring. It was fleeting. “I suspect you’ve done something to offend the Almighty if he saw fit to punish you with me.”

Despite the stress of the situation, he laughed. A full belly laugh that helped ease the tension that held his whole body taut. “Oh, I’m certain I have done a great many things to earn His ire…but you seem like a particular form of punishment.”

A pucker appeared between her eyes and he had a sudden urge to smooth it away. With his lips. “How so?”

How could he tell her he’d thought about her every day since he’d seen her at the pond? How her husky laugh and mocking smile taunted him… How watching her move about the stables with easy assurance left him confused and intrigued… How memories of what lay under her ridiculous boys’ clothes found him with his cock in his hand more nights than he cared to confess.

Removing his hand from her hair, he glanced over his shoulder. “I would think it should be obvious.”

Christian looked back at her just in time to see her bite her lip. Any feelings that surfaced in the wake of such a look needed to be ruthlessly crushed.

“Dr. Palmer will look you over, make sure nothing is broken, and ensure you’re hale to return to your duties,” he said, striving for a matter-of-fact tone.

She grabbed his hand abruptly. “But what if he discovers I’m not a lad.”

He hadn’t thought of that. Christian pressed two fingers to his temple. “You have to be seen by someone. You could be hurt.”

“I’m sure I’m not.”

He blinked at her, taking in the mulish set to her jaw. “You were unconscious. One does not simply get thrown from a galloping horse with no injuries.”

“That you know of,” she countered, her gaze darting between him and the approaching physician. “I’ve taken a tumble off plenty of horses and escaped with no injuries.”

“You. Were. Unconscious.” He grasped her by the shoulders and forced her to meet his gaze. “Is your secret worth your health?”

She gazed at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “I cannot bear the thought of not being able to do this anymore. If Dr. Palmer discovers who I am, he could destroy everything.”

Christian tweaked her nose. “You forget, my dear, that everyone has a price.” Turning his attention to the doctor as he knelt at Flora’s side, he smiled. “Doctor, allow me to present to you Miss Flora Grant, who goes about her duties here at the Gardens addressed as William. As she will be under your medical care, I thought it best for her true identity to be made known to you, but I trust you will keep this knowledge to yourself. Do you understand?”

The gray haired gentleman regarded her with a crinkled brow and then glanced at Christian. “Perfectly, my lord. It would be unprofessional and unethical to discuss a patient’s private information with others, and I am neither.”

“Very good,” Christian said, with a knowing nod to Flora, who scowled in return.

Observing Dr. Palmer examine Flora was an oddly personal experience for him. He had known the older man for most of his life, having been seen by the kind doctor since a young age, so he trusted him implicitly. And Flora seemed to trust him, as well, because she was honest about how it felt when he tested each limb, sometimes stating that there was no pain and other times biting her cheek to keep her tears at bay.

Watching her struggle to keep her composure, to maintain a stiff upper lip, did odd things to his chest. It was unbearably tight. His stomach dropped. To battle such bizarre side effects, Christian forced himself not to consider his reactions and instead to focus on hers. Her hand still clenched tightly in his, so he stroked his finger over her knuckles. He cracked a joke or made a nonsensical comment whenever he sensed she was growing uncomfortable. And she always rewarded him with a smile. Sometimes it graced her lovely pink lips. Sometimes it shone in her vibrant eyes.

Finally, Doctor Palmer stood and dusted his hands, his expression serious. “Well, young lady, you appear to have escaped without any serious injuries. But I caution, you will be very sore for the next several days. Possibly even a week. I recommend you not ride until you’re completely hale. Stick to lighter duties about the stables and leave the heavier lifting to the grooms.”

As soon as the good doctor began to list his recommendations, Flora narrowed her eyes. When he was done, she shook her head. “I don’t trust anyone else to see to the horses the way I can. I promise not to push myself too hard, but I refuse to turn over my responsibilities to anyone else.”

“You don’t have a say in this. Doctor Palmer said you need to proceed with caution, so you will,” Christian said, employing his firmest tone.

Flora didn’t blink. “I will always have a say over my person. Do not presume to tell me otherwise.”

Sucking a breath through his nose while he counted to ten, he considered the slip of a woman lying in the dirt before him. Her chin was set, color high in her cheeks, and her eyes blazing. She was upset. And he also suspected she was in more pain than she was letting on. He could continue to challenge her head on—he found the prospect inexplicably appealing—but not in such a setting. The situation required a bit of finesse.

Raising a finger to a waiting groom, he said, “Please have the stretcher brought over. Mr. Grant will need to be carried to his quarters.”

Despite Flora’s outraged protests that she was “fine,” the groom nodded. “Right away, my lord.”

Christian squeezed her hand. “I know you’re fine, but it would make me feel better if you allowed me to see you to your room. We can discuss your duties at greater length tomorrow after you have had a night’s sleep. Additional injuries might make themselves known by then, and it’s important that you’re well to help Asad in the lead up to the Guineas.”

“I know what you’re doing,” she grumbled, bracing her hands on the ground and launching herself to her feet. She swayed, her face strained for the briefest of seconds before it relaxed into placidity. “See? I’m perfectly hale.” Lurching forward, she began walking in the opposite direction.

“You don’t seem perfectly hale when you’re going the wrong way.”

“I’m going exactly where I intend to,” she called over her shoulder, her steps slow but sure.

Christian followed her for several seconds before her path became clear. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, aware she would not be deterred.

Sinking to her knees, Flora lightly ran her palms over Sandstone’s still form, stroking his neck and then his face. Her motions were halting, her whispered words affectionate. She finally curled her hands into his mane and laid her head on his neck.

“I’m so sorry.” Her words were hoarse and she clenched her eyes closed. “I’m sorry your heart couldn’t contain your great big spirit. But I’m happy that you left us doing what you loved…and that I could be with you when you did. Rest well, my friend.”

That odd emotion clawed at Christian’s chest again. It annoyed him…but also alarmed him. Yanking on his cravat, he sucked in a breath. He did not have the time or inclination to decipher it.

Wiping her cheeks, Flora stood—and wobbled. She offered him an equally wobbly smile. “In spite of appearances, I am able to walk back to my quarters on my own two feet.”

“I’m certain you can.” Christian looped an arm across her shoulders, propping her up against his side. It irked him how well she fit there. “But you do not have to prove yourself to me. I already believe you to be one of the most talented horse handlers of my acquaintance, and my father always said that a good horse person knows when it’s acceptable to lie about in the hay for a spell.”

Flora stared at him, her pale face devoid of expression. “He didn’t truly say that, did he?”

Christian jerked his chin in outrage. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He barked a laugh. “Well, rest assured I’m being truthful. My father believed it was important to make time for play, as well as rest and relaxation. He used to say that a horse race only lasted for two minutes out of the day, and the rest of the time the horse was simply living his life.”

She focused on her steps for several moments, but when she looked at him, there was a deep groove between her dark brows. “But what if a person doesn’t have the luxury to simply live? Some horses run all day long.”

He frowned.

“When Mr. Mubarak got a bit of the ague, he did not have the luxury to stay in bed and rest.” Flora held his gaze. “When young David burned his fingers melting the boot wax, do you think he was given time to heal?”

Christian opened his mouth to respond, but she waved it away. “When it was time for my womanly courses last month and I had pains so wretched I feared I would vomit, I still dragged myself out of bed and tended to my duties.”

He tore his gaze from hers. It was dashed uncomfortable to find that his attitude about such a small thing as staying in bed when he felt ill was a byproduct of his privilege. No one blinked when a marquess postponed his responsibilities because he had a cold. Or if he was the worse for wear after a night carousing about town.

Exhaling loudly, he glanced down at her. “I had never really considered it from anyone else’s perspective but my own.”

“I think that’s perfectly understandable.” She stared at her toes. “It was not always a thought on my mind, either. Working here has taught me a great deal.”

Flora’s words snagged his attention. “So the toils of the common worker are new to you, too, I see.”

Her dimples appeared. “I suppose you can say so.”

“Oh, I do say so.” He dipped his head until he could whisper in her ear. “Chastising me for not understanding the plight of those who work for me when you yourself have not always been employed.”

“But I’m employed now.” She sighed. “I may have grown up with servants, but I have never been ignorant of the trials of the working class.”

Christian stopped abruptly, jolting Flora. When she glanced at him questioningly, he sighed. “I still don’t understand why you’re here. You’ve professed your desire to learn about training racehorses, but was subterfuge really necessary to gain this education? Whyever would you disguise yourself as a lad to work in my stables?”

Her eyes widened, but before she could answer, two grooms appeared with the stretcher. Christian helped ease her onto it, ensuring she was as comfortable as could be expected. He watched the grooms carry her toward the bunkhouse, a feeling of frustration setting his teeth on edge.

“Because I wanted to learn from the best,” Flora called, even as the grooms continued to carry her away. “And you’re the best.”

Christian grimaced. Christ, but it was a wonder that she hadn’t realized by now how very wrong she was.

…

“You are not supposed to be doing that.”

Flora bit off a groan even as a bite of awareness assaulted her skin. Schooling her features, she looked over her shoulder. “Doing what, exactly?”

Lord Amstead stood just outside the stable, his jaw shadowed by dark bristles and his fine riding attire accentuating his broad shoulders and athletic physique. Why he should be the one to find her dirty, no doubt smelly, and grumpy as she cleaned stalls seemed cruel. What woman didn’t want to look her best in the eyes of a handsome man?

He glared. “That.”

Glancing down at the shovel in her hands, she rolled her eyes. She had been bored nigh to distraction in the week since the accident with Sandstone. Mr. Mubarak had severely limited the duties she could see to, imploring her to relax and rest. His wife and their son had come to call every day, bringing food and visiting with her over tea.

While she had appreciated their solicitous visits, Flora longed to return to normal life. She had never been content to lie about all day, and she could not abide to do so now, even if she was ordered to. So, that morning, she had decided that, while she might not be able to ride the horses and participate in their training, she could assist in other duties about the stables.

“Bonnie’s stall is filthy. I refuse for her and her filly to endure these conditions.”

“So you’d rather clean up manure than rest?” When she huffed, Christian shook his head. “Then have Hopner do it. Or one of the other grooms.”

Leaning on the wooden shovel handle, Flora speared him with a firm look. “You know Mr. Mubarak has Hopner seeing to Asad while I recuperate.”

“Of course I know. Those sessions have not been nearly as productive without you there.”

“And yet, you still will not let me return to my training duties,” she grumbled, lifting the shovel again.

“Indeed I will not. That still doesn’t mean you should be mucking out stables.”

“I’m doing what needs to be done.” Flora flexed her hand around the handle. “Sometimes you have to do the jobs no one else wants to do.”

Amstead dipped his head at that. He held his silence for so long that she finally returned to her task…until she heard him softly ask, “Does it still hurt?”

Flora was tempted not to answer. He was being autocratic and she did not owe him a response. Then, however, a flash of his anxious face looking down at hers after the accident came to mind and she sighed. “It doesn’t. I just feel stiff. And slow.”

“I’m sure you despise being slow.”

“It’s vastly irritating,” she conceded.

“I suspect Asad misses you for the same reason.”

She shook her head at the abrupt change of subject. “Did he tell you this?”

“He did. He’s been swinging his head about, as if he were seeking you out.” The marquess paused for a heartbeat. “Everyone has missed you this week.”

She scooped up a clump of dirt with more force than needed, hay and horse droppings flying from the shovel and into the pile she was forming. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, she’d thought of him endlessly since that horrible day on the track. In between mourning Sandstone, chafing at her restricted duties, and trying to ignore her aches and pains, she remembered the gentle care Amstead had taken with her. The feel of his fingers on her cheek. The forceful light in his brown eyes when he insisted that she rest and care for herself.

And now, here he stood, reminding her of her fragility. Reminding her of everything she was missing.

Reminding her that they could manage without her.