Chapter Three

Mo creach, the man made her legs weak. Curse her pathetic legs.

Flora had come to Amstead Gardens, created a whole new identity for herself, and taken on a completely new gender so that she could learn everything she needed to learn about horse racing.

Not to swoon at the feet of her new employer.

If she weren’t flanked by Mr. Mubarak and Lord Amstead, she’d slap her own face for her foolishness.

She’d seriously underestimated Lord Amstead’s appeal. Because she had turned down more marriage offers than she could count, Niall had once asked her if she was attracted to men. She’d been surprised by the question, and even more so by the curious but nonjudgmental expression on his face. Despite his political ambition, if she had indicated that she wasn’t, she was certain he would have allowed her to return to Scotland in peace.

But meeting Lord Amstead’s deep brown eyes inside Asad’s stall had heated her blood to a rapid boil. Never had she responded to a man in quite such a way, and it disturbed her greatly. The marquess carried himself with great intensity, his gaze perceptive, as if nothing was beneath his notice. Flora would have to work hard at keeping her disguise in place.

But lord the man made it difficult. He was tall and broad shouldered, his arms roped with cords of muscle even his casual coat could not hide. His face, with its firm, square jaw and high cheekbones, was weathered from the sun, and made him appear hard and fiercely masculine. Dark stubble covered his jaw, lending him a rakish air that was supported by the twinkle in his warm brown eyes. Eyes the color of the bulrushes that grew around the loch near her Highland home.

He was the bonniest man she’d ever encountered, and she almost hated him for it. Why couldn’t he be like every other man she’d met during her four years in London? Boring. Self-absorbed. Condescending. She knew how to handle men like that—she’d been doing it, successfully, since her debut ball. For her entire life, really.

But Flora could not deploy her usual arsenal of complimentary words, flirtatious looks, and caustic commentary to subdue the Marquess of Amstead. More was the pity. She would have to keep her wits about her.

“Bring Asad over here, ya bintee,” Mr. Mubarak said, gesturing to the line he had marked in the dirt with his heel.

Pushing aside all annoying thoughts of her handsome employer, Flora forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She was looking forward to seeing how Asad did in his first race at the Gardens. Projecting as much positive energy as she could, she brought the stallion to the line, murmuring low sounds when he flicked his tail in annoyance. Asad was as moody as the sky was blue, but Flora strongly suspected he was still very much a foal at heart. He’d taken to neighing at her whenever she was around, whinnying loudly if he thought she was ignoring him. When she did spend time with him, he was constantly searching for the apples and other snacks she kept on hand as treats for her charges, practically prancing whenever he was able to nab one from her. Even now, he pressed his big body into her side, and she fought not to lose her balance.

“Come, let me help you up,” Mr. Mubarak said, bending over and linking his hands together.

She blinked. “You intend for me to ride him?”

She glanced to Lord Amstead in time to see his lip curl. She tried not to notice that the maneuver did little in the way of making him appear intimidating, as he probably hoped. Rather, it made him look rakish and appealing in a way she found aggravating.

“I’m certain Hopner or Carson would not balk at the chance to be on his back,” he offered, on an icy thread.

“You assume Asad would let them mount him,” she gritted out.

Senior grooms Stanley Hopner and Terry Carson had done their best to make her life at Amstead Gardens miserable because she had been hired as the assistant trainer over either of them, and she’d be damned if she let them near Asad. She placed her foot in Mr. Mubarak’s hands and he helped hoist her up. After she adjusted her seat, he handed her the reins and then tightened the girth. The trainer stared into her eyes for a long moment, and Flora wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but he stepped back without a word.

“Where in God’s name is Grey Belles?” the marquess demanded, looking toward the stables with a scowl.

Mr. Mubarak lifted his palms. “Perhaps the grooms do not listen to you, either.”

Lord Amstead smacked his thigh. “I asked Carson to have her saddled and brought around as soon as possible, and I expect to be obeyed.”

“Ahh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Flora looked off to the side to avoid laughing at the marquess’ dark expression.

The trainer, however, did not appear chagrined, continuing to deepen the starting line in the dirt with his heel. “Considering the amount of incompetence I’ve encountered since I arrived, I cannot say I’m surprised we’re still waiting.”

Flora didn’t realize she was frowning until Mr. Mubarak turned to her and smiled. “I do not include you in that comment. You have been a pleasant surprise.”

Feeling somewhat mollified, she suppressed a smile when Lord Amstead rolled his eyes.

“How relieved I am to learn William has been excluded from your censorious statement, but not me, your employer.”

Mr. Mubarak turned to the taller grass that grew alongside the track and plucked a red flag from amongst it. She wasn’t certain if he had heard the marquess until he looked up and winked.

“Let’s give our boy a chance to respond to the flag on his own.” He rubbed the side of Asad’s neck, a fond smile crinkling the seasoned planes of his brown face. “We don’t want him to embarrass himself in front a lady, now do we?”

Terror seized her lungs and squeezed them tight. When she realized the trainer was referring to Grey Belles and not her, she gasped out a breath in relief.

“I don’t want to be embarrassed,” Amstead mumbled.

The marquess’s expression had not changed, and yet Flora suspected there was a great deal of emotion weighted in his words besides just potential embarrassment.

Crunching on the gravel behind them drew Flora’s attention, and she looked over her shoulder to see Carson walking the spirited gray filly toward them. Grey Belles was a good two hands shorter than Asad, but what she lacked in size she more than made up for in speed and spirit. Flora had ridden her several times and found her to be responsive, smart, and very competitive. She would not be intimidated by the fiery stallion and would run to win. A smile contorted her face as she thought about the upcoming duel.

“Damn, I had expected to find Belles’s tail braided.” Amstead’s voice was dry boredom. “Or her coat freshly bathed and brushed. But here she stands, just as I saw her this morning.”

Carson darted his gaze between the marquess and Mr. Mubarak, a wrinkle in his brow. “She just had a bath yesterday, my lord.”

Amstead rolled his eyes and Mr. Mubarak allowed amusement to stretch his mouth, but he said nothing as he collected the filly’s reins. After assisting Carson into his seat, he studied the two of them. Flora worked hard to keep Asad in place. The animal stepped to the side, nickered loudly, and tried to rub his head against Grey Belles’ flank, but she was able to pull him up.

For her part, the filly stood still, her ears rotating back and forth the only indicator of her annoyance. Or impatience. Apparently, all females, regardless of their species, had to deal with irksome males on occasion.

Mr. Mubarak grabbed the red flag and Flora maneuvered Asad back to the starting line. He sidestepped in anticipation, straining at his bit. Grey Belles stood silently. If it weren’t for the way she stared down the track, Flora would have thought the filly had drifted off to sleep.

Carson smirked. He thought he had the race in the bag, and she couldn’t fault him for his confidence. Grey Belles was a serious competitor, and Flora relished working with the young filly. But, at the moment, she wasn’t concerned with Belles. She needed Asad to perform. It was essential she show Amstead she was more than capable of working with his spirited stallion. Pressing a hand to Asad’s neck, Flora hummed low in the back of her throat.

He tossed his head in anticipation, and she bit back an internal sigh. Just another male who wouldn’t listen to her.

Mr. Mubarak raised the flag over his head, his gaze darting between Flora and Carson. When it rested on Flora once again, his lips curved ever so slightly.

The flag came down a moment later and Flora dug her heels into Asad’s sides. He hopped into a canter that quickly morphed into a gallop. She leaned low over his back, her hands tight upon the reins. The ground whipped by beneath her, and she resisted the urge to whoop. Surely this was what it felt like to fly?

To her right, Grey Belles was a length ahead. Flora’s lips mashed when Carson struck the filly on the flank. Crops were appropriate for key moments in a race, but this was not one of them. An inconsequential match race was hardly the time to use a whip on a responsive, quick young horse, and Flora intended to have words with the man.

Tearing her gaze away, she peered down the track. The maintenance men had managed to clear away the worst of the low-hanging branches on the oak tree that grew next to the track, but there were still enough to possibly spook her young charge. Clamping her teeth, she willed herself not to go stiff or in any way signal to the responsive stallion that possible danger lay ahead.

Asad sailed past the distraction, hot on the heels of the young filly, who seemed determined to create some distance between them. But her mount was just as competitive as Grey Belles, and he tussled with her hold, determined to be given his head. Flora kept him in check. Her job was to teach him not to expend his energy too soon, and, at this point in the race, he would have nothing left for the stretch. Still, she let up a little, allowing the stubborn young horse to stay within two lengths of the swift-footed filly.

As they came around the far turn and headed into the straight, Flora relaxed her grip on the reins and whispered, “Run, sabiy!”

And did he run. The colt’s long strides ate up the ground, and within two great heaves of breath, Asad pulled even with Grey Belles. When they crossed the finish line, he nudged her out by a nose.

“Excellent!” Mr. Mubarak clapped as Carson and she pulled up their mounts twenty or so yards down the track.

Despite herself, Flora slid her gaze to Amstead. Was he pleased with Asad’s run? She hoped so. His opinion was all that mattered.

As Asad high-stepped to the side, aggravated to have been halted in his run, the marquess’s strong hand reached out to grip his halter and make it very clear the race was over.

“Smart of you to wait until the final curve to give him his lead,” Lord Amstead said, his gaze trained on Asad, who went still at the sound of his voice. Flora leaned into its pleasing tenor. “The lad wants to run flat out and his tongue would be lolling out of his mouth long before the last curve if he’s not brought to heel.”

Flora dipped her head to hide the pleasure that spread across her cheeks at his praise.

“Tell me,” the marquess continued, sliding his hand down the animal’s broad neck, “did he strain against the bit much?”

Flora valiantly tried to ignore the tingle that slid along her spine at the gentle movements of his hand. She risked meeting his eyes. “The whole race. He wanted his lead from the moment he broke away from the starting line,” she said in a low voice.

Lord Amstead nodded, his face revealing no surprise.

Mr. Mubarak appeared at the marquess’s side. “His breaks still need work. That hop at the beginning is simply a forfeiture of seconds that could mean a win or loss in a close race.”

The marquess looked up at her. “Take him back to the line and we’ll run him through a few practice breaks.”

Dutifully, she led Asad back to the starting line, keenly aware that the marquess had made his way to Grey Belles and was speaking to Carson as his big, capable hands continued to run over the filly’s side.

Flora almost envied the horse.

“Tell me, ya bintee, what do you feel when you bring him to the line?”

She twisted her mouth as she considered. “Power. I feel barely leashed power.”

“Good.” The older man’s gaze traveled over the horse in sharp critique. “We need to teach Asad to harness his energies and trust that you or whichever rider mounts him will give him the opportunity to really run.” Mr. Mubarak gripped the halter, pulled Asad’s head down, and pressed his forehead against the horse’s. “He was born to race. You know it when you’re on his back, flying down the track. I know it watching him fly as if he were Pegasus himself. But he’s not immortal, and he will falter if he expends himself and his energies too soon.”

Flora swallowed back a smile.

“Take her back and give her a good rub down, Carson.” The marquess pulled an apple from his pocket and snuck it to the filly, rubbing her muzzle. “You were brilliant, my girl.”

Grey Belles practically pranced back to the stables, and Flora chuckled under her breath at the sight.

Clapping his hands, Lord Amstead turned to Mr. Mubarak and her. “Now, what are we going to do about his breaks?”

After settling on an exercise to help Asad begin the race as a dash of speed instead of a skip and a pop of energy, Flora took him through the motions. They streaked down the track a handful of times, with the young horse responding positively each turn. But soon he began to yank on his bridle, and even reared up as Mr. Mubarak brought him to the starting line again. The signs didn’t bode well. As the older man worked to calm the colt, she darted her gaze at the marquess and said, “I think he’s reached the end of his rope.”

Lord Amstead continued to watch the stallion’s antics. “He has at least two more breaks in him, I’d wager.”

“I’d wager he was done two attempts ago,” she blurted without thinking.

Her tongue was going to get her sacked.

The marquess pinned her with a fierce glare. “And what would you wager, lad, if you’re wrong?”

Forcing herself to consider, and not just blurt out the first thing that came to mind, Flora dared to meet Lord Amstead’s gaze. A flame of awareness licked over her skin as she held his dark eyes. “I’ll muck out the entire main barn if Asad doesn’t object, with force, to another round with the flag.”

Lifting her chin in the face of the marquess’s consideration, she felt a moment of glee when he nodded. “Very well.” He turned his attention back to the colt, but his words came to her nonetheless “You’d better hope you’re right.”

She brought the colt to the makeshift line as she had every time before. She made sure to pat his neck and offer him whispered words of encouragement. When he threw his head around in agitation, instead of pulling on the reins as he had been doing, she was certain of her prediction. Watching the two gentlemen from the corner of her eye, she willed herself not to tense or react to the drop of the flag. She didn’t want to influence the horse in any way.

When the flag dropped, Asad pulled on the bridle as if he intended to gallop down the track, but abruptly he reared on his hind legs, his front legs pawing the air and his aggravated whinnies sounding like irritated bursts from a trumpet. Flora calmly held onto the lead, giving the stallion slack to throw his tantrum but not enough to unseat her and dart away. When he dropped his front hooves to the ground, she placed a hand on his neck and hummed lowly. She didn’t move her hand to stroke him or vocalize any words. She simply pressed on his neck and made low sounds only he would hear. Within a few minutes, he had calmed enough that he dropped his head.

“It appears you have lost this wager, Amstead.”

Glancing up, she met Mr. Mubarak’s laughing gaze.

“It appears I have.” The marquess pulled his eyes from Asad and studied Flora. “I’m sure you’re relieved you won’t be shoveling horseshit for the rest of the day.”

She swallowed down a nervous laugh. “Indeed I am, my lord.”

“So we know what he wagered, but we don’t know what you wagered.” Mr. Mubarak continued to look at Asad, although Flora knew he was really watching the marquess askance. “What was your forfeit?”

Lord Amstead crossed his arms behind his back and rocked on his feet. Flora tried not to stare at the way the muscles in his shoulders flexed at the motion. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with Asad’s training, take a half day and enjoy it.”

A half day off was a luxury Flora had quickly learned to value and covet during her time in service. She’d never realized how time away from a job could save a person’s sanity. When she made it back to her childhood home, Loch Kilmorow, she intended to implement more half days for the staff.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, dipping her head.

He turned to Mr. Mubarak, all but dismissing her. “Tell me what you have planned for Asad for the rest of the week. I want to try to make as many sessions as I can.”

“And pull yourself away from your guests?” The training manager took the reins from Flora’s hand, scratching Asad behind his ear as she dismounted. “Young William and I are perfectly capable of handling this fellow’s lessons while you smile and make merry with your friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” the marquess growled, shielding his eyes as he glanced in the direction of the manor house.

Of course they were. The marquess was a well-liked and sought-after guest whenever he deigned to visit town, but he rarely entertained at the Gardens. This fact had been a comfort to Flora, for she did not want to risk recognition. Then, Amstead had gone and invited any number of her acquaintances for a large house party, and every morning she arose with a sour stomach, certain it would be the day she was discovered.

As it was, Amstead’s presence in the stables provoked all sorts of foreign and exhilarating sensations in her, leaving her off-kilter. The anxiety of guests wandering into the paddocks and recognizing her only compounded the stress. Flora wished the marquess would simply focus on his guests and leave the training to Mr. Mubarak and her.

Mr. Mubarak seemed to agree. “You hired me to train Asad. Let me.”

“When I hired you, I stressed I intended to be a part of the process.” Amstead’s jaw was as hard as granite.

Mr. Mubarak opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted when a groom ran up. The man stumbled to a stop in front of them, clutching at his sides as he labored for breath. “It’s Kadar. He’s injured himself again.”

“Damn,” the marquess spat, dashing toward the north barn, Mr. Mubarak close behind.

Flora stared after them, her heart in her throat. She finally looped Asad’s reins around her hand and slowly led him back to the stables. But her attention remained glued to the backs of the men sprinting away as she hoped that whatever they found in the north barn wasn’t as dire as it sounded.