Chapter Fifteen

Where was she?

Flora had agreed to meet him at the pond an hour ago. Yet, here he sat in the grass under the chestnut tree, waiting for her to arrive. Alone.

Snatching a handful of grass, he tore the blades apart, scattering the pieces in the breeze. There were a myriad of reasons she could be late. As assistant trainer, she was pulled in multiple directions all over the estate. While Asad had become her major focus, there were many other horses who raced for Amstead Gardens. Her position meant that she was involved in all aspects of their training regimen, and she excelled at what she did. Not only had Asad blossomed under her care, but so, too, did Grey Belles, Sandstone, and the many other horses who were gifted with her time and attention.

Yet he wanted a portion of her time and attention. Since their afternoon ride the week before, Christian had had to content himself with exchanging playful, cutting banter interspersed with stolen kisses in barns, crowded stables—and, once, in a hayloft. Anticipating when he would see her again was a diverting break from the cloud of stress that always hovered over him. Flora had become his own personal sunbeam.

He refused to ponder how such romantic poetry had slipped into his vocabulary. Instead, he focused on the possible causes for her tardiness and gritted his teeth. He’d been hard and aching all week remembering the slide of her calloused palms against his chest. The playful flick of her tongue against his cock. The flush that stained her cheeks and the way her eyes turned to molten emeralds when she rode him with frenzied abandon. He’d be a fool not to hope he’d get such a taste of her again, but if he were truthful, he simply wanted to spend time with her without their positions interfering. While he knew her to be a beautiful, passionate woman, the rest of his employees in the stables knew her as William Grant, and he would not expose her secret for all the wanton afternoon assignations offered.

He was tempted to offer her a new position. A position that did not keep her so busy that she could not visit with him. A position that made her readily available to him whenever the fancy struck.

Such a position would also keep her from engaging in the more dangerous aspects of her job as a trainer. Aside from the accident with Sandstone, Flora had not been injured during her time at Amstead Gardens, and he did not want to think of the many opportunities for serious harm that arose in the stables on any given day.

But he knew better than to make such a proposition. She would probably throttle him with her riding crop. If he wanted to keep her for himself, he’d have to sacrifice the progress she had made with Asad, and he wasn’t a selfish enough bastard for that. Flora had risked her reputation, as well as his own, to work at the Gardens, and she would be insulted by the notion of giving up her training to entertain him and his whims. She wanted more, and she deserved it.

The soft jingle of a bridle grabbed his attention, and he rose to see Flora leading Banrigh over the rise. She was dressed in her usual attire, her silky black hair pulled up under a nondescript hat. As she escorted the mare to the water’s edge, Christian noticed that her usual brisk gait was off. Instead of each step proclaiming purpose, as if she were anxious to reach the next item on her mental to-do list—and he knew how she loved to keep lists—her steps were stilted. Her shoulders slumped and she approached him with her head down.

Christian stiffened, concern seizing him. He stepped out from under the boughs to meet her, taking her hands in his. “Has something happened?”

A deep groove cut between her brows. “What do you mean?”

“You do not seem like yourself,” he said, taking in the pinched lines around her mouth.

“I’m merely tired.”

She pulled a hand from his and yanked off her hat. Tossing it on the ground, she worked her hair free from its bond, running her fingers through her loose curls. They fell in a black cloud around her face, delightfully messy. Christian smirked, smacking her hands away when her fingers began to sift through the curls again.

“Allow me.”

Taking her by the elbow, he pulled her down onto the ground with him, bracing his back on the tree trunk and situating Flora so that her back rested against his spread thighs. Leaning over her, he slipped free a button on her waistcoat. She jerked her head up to look at him.

“I simply want you to be comfortable.”

At her nod, he continued to undo the remaining buttons and finally pulled the garment free from her shoulders. Smoothing her hair back from her face, he ran his fingers along her scalp, pressing in firm circles.

“Faith, that feels amazing,” she purred, her eyes closed.

“My mother used to rub my head when I was a boy. I had…nightmares for many years”—he swallowed—“and she would come into my room every night when I awoke crying and soothe me back to sleep.”

“How very lucky you were.”

“I was.” He’d been lucky to have two loving, doting parents and he’d lost both of them before he was ready.

“What were your nightmares about?”

He sucked air into his nose. He hadn’t expected that question, but he should have. It was what he would have asked. “Being trampled.”

“Trampled?” Her mouth quirked. “Why?”

“When I was six years old, I saw a groom thrown from a horse and trampled to death.”

Flora went still, her gaze horrified as she looked back at him. “But that’s horrible! Especially for such a young child to witness.”

Christian could close his eyes and still replay the scene on the back of his eyelids. “It was horrible. And I remember being terribly confused. I couldn’t understand why the mount had bucked him off and then trounced him so. I was convinced that if Achilles, one of my father’s prize breeding stallions, could turn so viciously on a groom who worked with him every day, then any horse was capable of such violence.”

“That’s completely understandable. Especially if there was no discernible reason for Achilles’ behavior.” She cocked her head to the side. “Was there?”

“My father said the groom had nudged Achilles too hard in the flank.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Surely there was more to it than that.”

“Naturally. I learned years later that the groom, Silas was his name, had buckled the girth too tight and too far back on the stallion’s belly. The horse was uncomfortable as it was, but the kick to the flanks was more than he was willing to take.”

Flora pondered this, her lips pressed into a flat line, and he wondered what she was thinking. “How long did you have nightmares for?”

He raised a shoulder. “I still have them on occasion. Although the scene has changed.”

Comprehension softened her mien. “The fire?”

“Indeed,” he managed, around the shards of glass that suddenly scoured his throat.

She laid a hand on his arm, its warmth like an embrace. “Were you there when it happened?”

“I was the one who started it.”

…

Flora believed she was owed a small amount of credit for not gasping in horror at the marquess’ revelation. She couldn’t stop her fingers from squeezing his firm forearm, though.

She had heard all about the fire that had raged through the Amstead Gardens’ barn. The old marquess had perished trying to free his beloved horses from the flames that ultimately incinerated them, along with the three-hundred-year-old structure. But no one had ever mentioned how it was started.

Now she knew why.

“I had just returned from London that morning. I had been at my club and then a gaming hell the night before, and I’d had very little sleep.” His jaw was like granite, his brown eyes glazed in memory. “My father had been looking to add new blood to the stables and had compiled information about several mares he was considering purchasing. He wanted my opinion on the lot.”

Flora held her silence, although her grip on his arm remained firm.

“I remember entering the trainer’s office to review the papers, but not much else.” His tone grew gruff and a piece of her heart splintered. “I awoke after the flames had started to lick up the paneling. I had apparently knocked over a candle in my sleep. I tried to evacuate as many people as I could and opened all the stable doors I passed. I did not know my father had run into the blaze until I stumbled out, weak from the smoke.”

“That could have happened to anyone, my lord. Fire is always a danger in stables.”

“But it happened to me. Because of my negligence. The man I loved and respected more than anyone else in the world was made to pay.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “And it’s Christian. When we’re alone, we are equals. I’ll call you Flora and you’ll call me Christian.”

A sob rose in her throat and she choked it down. She was overwhelmed by the faith he had shown in confessing such a painful episode to her, and she was touched by the respect he showed her.

Straightening her spine, she said, “Did you make him run back into the barns?”

He jerked his head back. “Of course not. As I said, I did not know he had returned until later.”

“So if you didn’t tell him to race into the fire, who did?”

“No one,” he growled, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “He loved his horses and didn’t want them to perish in such a god-awful way.”

“Obviously.” She threw her hands up. “Who would? But, Christian, your father ran back into the fire of his own accord. He might have been trying to free the horses, but you did not send him into the flames. I am certain he knew what he risked.”

His expression was blank, yet his voice was ragged when he said, “But I started the fire. He wouldn’t have had to go back in there if not for my carelessness.”

Grasping his face between her hands, she waited for him to meet her gaze. “It was an accident. The fact that you were even in that room, reviewing the paperwork he’d asked you to, means you were trying to please him. You could have gone straight to bed, uncaring of your responsibilities, but instead, you tried your best to meet them.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed several times as his gaze burned into hers. She’d had no idea he’d been carrying such guilt around with him, but now that she did, so many of his actions and his motivations made sense. His fierce drive to rebuild Amstead Gardens, to see Asad succeed, was rooted in his belief that he’d destroyed everything that had existed before.

While she maneuvered and toiled to build her future, he had done the same to rebuild what had been lost.

She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. His sandalwood and hay scent comforted her, and she inhaled it so deeply she felt it in her bones. “You were a good son, Christian. And you are a good son, still.”

After a moment’s hesitation, his arms tightened about her. He kissed the top of her head and rested his chin there. “I did not think our conversation would be so maudlin when I set out here earlier.”

“I apologize for my tardiness. Chaucer threw a shoe right as we were preparing for his next heat, and I couldn’t find the blacksmith to fix it.” She turned her head until it rested against his chest. “So I had to help Mr. Mubarak adjust the training schedule, and before I knew it, I was woefully late.”

“Does Baniti still plan on training Asad at three o’clock?”

Flora nodded, the material of his silky cravat stroking her cheek. “He is much more cooperative and energetic in the afternoon, so we made sure not to disturb his time.”

“Excellent. So we still have an hour or two until we have to return.”

“By my count.” She angled back to meet his gaze, her lips curving up. “What do you propose we do until then?”

“Hmm… That is a good question.” He tapped his chin with a long finger. His eyebrows winged up. “I propose we create a new list.”

“A new list?” She scowled, disappointed. “What sort of list?”

His hands settled on her shoulders and slowly slid down her arms. His smoldering gaze followed as he grasped the hem of her shirt and tugged it over her head. “I thought we could keep track of how many different ways I could touch you. Kiss you. Make you sigh.” His complexion darkened. “How many ways I can unwrap you from these inconvenient bindings.”

“You have only had to contend with them twice.” She yanked on the end she had tucked between her breasts. “Imagine having to wrap and unwrap yourself every day.”

“I do not want to imagine it.” He pushed her hand away and jerked on the linen, rapidly loosening the bindings and watching them fall about her waist with satisfaction. “I just want you bared to me. Now.”

She tsked, even as she moved this way and that to help him rid her of the blasted strips. “My, so impatient. And quite high-handed.”

“I think you like when I’m high-handed. You are always in charge, but you know that, with me, you do not have to be. I’ll care for your needs and bring you pleasure.” He grasped her chin before twining his fingers through her strands of hair and pulling until her mouth was a breath from his. “And you know I’ll give you a chance to take the reins. All’s fair.”

Her nipples hardened at his words and she pressed her lips to his, moaning deep in her throat.

Easing her away, he continued to unwrap her with exacting precision. “Patience, darling. I know a thing or two about patience, as I have wanted you since the moment I pulled my cock from your sweet body the last time we were here.” He kissed the top of one breast, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin. She bit back a gasp. “I’ve had to wait a week to hold you and kiss you and worship you in the all the ways I promised myself I would the next time you consented to meet me. All the ways I listed on a sheet of foolscap in my study.”

“You did not list such things.” Flora’s voice had gone breathless under the onslaught of his fingertips and mouth. “Did you?”

“I did, indeed. Look.” Regrettably pulling away, he extracted a small roll of parchment from his coat pocket.

Flora managed to unfurl it, even as Christian ran his fingertips over her heated skin, and she choked in surprise as she read.

“Surely th-this isn’t possible,” she said, even as she grew warm at the picture that formed in her mind.

Lifting his head from her breasts, he smiled, devilry bright in his eyes. “Oh, they are all possible. Would you like for me to prove it to you?”

“But of course.” She curled her arms around his neck, pulling him close. “I have my own list to compile, after all.”

With a wicked chuckle, he captured her lips in a kiss surely designed to incinerate her very bones. When he returned to exploring her body, Flora did not think much about lists. Or who was in charge. Or breathing. She surrendered herself to Christian’s touch. To his attentive care.

Placing a gentle hand between her breasts, he pushed, gently easing her to the soft grass beneath them. His eyes devoured her as he quickly divested himself of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. He ripped off his boots, then slowly unfastened the buttons on his breeches, each flick of his fingers sending sparks of excitement down her spine to simmer in the juncture of her legs. He eased his trousers over his hips, down and off his muscular legs, coming to brace himself nude above her. She bit her lip. He looked impossibly handsome. Powerful. She imagined Daphne had gazed upon such a face. Perfect. Intent. God-like. Except unlike that unfortunate Greek girl, Flora welcomed his attentions. Craved them. His skin was golden, a testament to the time he spent working under the warm sun. Ridges of muscle lined his abdomen, leading her eyes down to his manhood. It stood tall and proud against his stomach, begging for her attention. Her mouth went dry at the sight.

She reached up to run her nails down his chest and gritted her teeth when he closed his eyes and tossed back his head.

“I don’t know if I can take it slow,” he confessed, grasping her knees and spreading them wide. He settled between them as if the space had been made just for him. “I am mad for you.”

Gripping him about the waist, Flora sunk her nails into his buttocks. “Good thing I’ve never been a fan of slow.”

Shuddering in surrender, he rubbed his hard member against her once…twice, before he took her with a ferocity that had her arching her back and moaning. Christian slipped his arms under her, anchoring her to his chest as he plunged into her wet heat with a recklessness that made her giddy. She’d been intimate with a few other men, her attraction to them born out of curiosity and a desire to be the mistress of her own life. Those experiences had not prepared her for this. They had not prepared her for Christian.

They had not prepared her for how she would feel when she was with him. He made her feel electric. Alive.

Vulnerable.

But as his hips thrust between hers, and ecstasy built in all the places they touched, Flora found her vulnerability crowded out by desire. And limb-weakening pleasure.

“Come for me, darling. I feel how wet you are. For me.” Christian kissed her, his tongue coaxing. “When you direct the action in the stables, only I see the real you. Only I know that a beautiful, sensual woman lies underneath a set of lad’s clothes. Only I know how soft your skin is. How sweet you smell. How delectable you taste.”

With her eyes rolling back, she met his thrusts with ones of her own. “You should be so lucky.”

A laugh burst from him a second before he spasmed. The look of ecstasy on his face pushed her over the edge, and she shuddered in delight around him.

“That wasn’t fair,” he managed after several minutes, nuzzling his cheek against her breast.

“Whoever said anything about fair?”