Recklessly Yours

Warm in the afterglow of their lovemaking, Colin lay against the pillows, one arm bent beneath his head. Holly lay quietly on top of him, though he could tell by her occasional movements that she wasn’t asleep. His other arm draping her, he stroked her hair and absently twined a curl around his finger. “Did it frighten you, what we just did?”

Her cheek moved softly against him as she nodded. “Generally speaking, yes,” she said, and then added somewhat indignantly, “I grew up with servants, too, you know.”

“It means that little girls press their ears to doors and hear conversations they shouldn’t, as much as little boys do. Our scullion and laundress loved to trade stories. If Uncle Edward had ever found out, he’d have sacked them instantly.”

“Ah.” The notion of a much younger, saucer-eyed Holly pressing her ear to a door made him tighten his arm around her. “Tell me, what else do little girls do?”

Her voice trailed off and her hands took over, accompanied by her lips, conveying exactly what it was about him that most fascinated her. Gently but boldly, she explored his shoulders, arms, and chest, touching, kissing, occasionally tasting until his muscles quivered, his skin burned, and his loins ached to take her—truly take her in the one way he had not.

In the back of his mind caution and logic spoke their piece. He didn’t listen. Not tonight, not here, where he found himself blessedly free from his family, his father, society, and even missing colts. Tonight none of those burdens dangled from around his neck; he wouldn’t allow it. He’d be what he wanted, do as he wanted. For tonight, he very much wished to continue testing the boundaries of pleasure with this extraordinary woman.

His groin tightening maddeningly, he rolled until she lay beneath him, and set about eliciting fresh moans and the occasional squeal, and replying in kind with groans and oaths murmured beneath his panting breath. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, they both fell into an exhausted, satiated sleep.

As he knew it would, the rising sun brought back all the harsh truths the night had concealed. As the first rays speared through the curtains he’d left gaping, he scrubbed a hand across his eyes, eased away from Holly, and struggled into his clothes. He chose another bedchamber at random and rumpled the covers to make the bed appear slept in. Last night he had temporarily donned clothes and gone belowstairs to collect the meal Mrs. Fulsome had prepared for them. He felt fairly certain neither the woman nor her husband had found any reason to climb all the way up to the second floor.

He went belowstairs again now and ordered breakfast brought up to Holly. Then he helped Mr. Fulsome hitch the hired horses to the carriage, with Cordelier and Maribelle tied behind. When the task was done, Colin lingered in the stable yard.

How on earth would he return to Briarview without the colt? How would he reassure a populace raised on superstition that the loss of the colt—a theft within a theft—would not destroy their lives? How would he convince them he would find the animal when he had no idea how or where to begin searching?

And how—God help him, how—would he set Holly free, as he must, without hurting her in the worst possible way? No, not the worst, for he had maintained at least that much control. They had indeed crossed a line last night, a splendid, glorious line, but he hadn’t ruined her. Not in the truest sense. Holly Sutherland could go on to meet and marry a suitable gentleman, one who didn’t have a horror of a father or a family mired in unhappiness; one who hadn’t had to resort to horse thievery in a vain attempt to hold his world together.

Hands thrust in his coat pockets, he rearranged the lines of his face, clearing away the grimness before turning to head back into the house. A good thing, too, for as he glanced up he saw her peeking down at him from her bedchamber window. She raised one graceful hand, and when he thought she would wave, she instead smiled and touched her fingertips to her lips.

However wrong of him, last night had provided a badly needed respite, a rare taste of normalcy, and a brief but precious sampling of what other men took for granted. Ah, in truth it had been so much more than that. But he didn’t dare dwell on what a night spent holding Holly Sutherland in his arms had meant to him.

He smiled up at her, then continued into the house. Why make these next, last hours together as bleak as they could possibly be? She’d done nothing wrong; it wasn’t her fault he couldn’t offer her what a gentlewoman had every right to expect . . . what she deserved. But once they reached Devonshire, he’d be leaving her almost immediately. After gathering a search party of trusted men, he intended riding out to find the colt.

Holly met him at the top of the stairs, fully dressed. “I insist we ride today,” she said in lieu of a proper greeting. “Have Mr. Fulsome arrange to have the carriage returned. We’ll make better time on Cordelier and Maribelle.”

He fought the urge to take her into his arms. Instead, he stood over her and mustered a stern, no-nonsense look. “You were hurt when you fell yesterday. We’ll travel by carriage.”

After a quick glance down the staircase, she tipped her chin and flashed him an irrepressible grin. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my injuries didn’t prevent me from achieving some highly acrobatic feats last night.”

“Then leave me here while you search for the colt. You can’t afford to lose so much time. Already he could be miles away.”

He had considered that very strategy, but he’d deemed this house with its two elderly custodians as not nearly safe enough. The colt’s disappearance shed doubts that those shots yesterday had resulted from a badly aimed hunting rifle. But whether highwayman or poacher, if the villain showed up here, the Fulsomes could provide little protection. At least Briarview boasted a house full of servants, including a footman or two versed in the firing of weapons.

She was right, though. They could travel much faster on horseback. He held her cheeks between his palms. “Are you certain you’re not hurting?”

“Watch me.” She eased out of his hold and performed a nimble pirouette. “If anything, I’ll stiffen up if I’m confined to a bumpy carriage seat all day. In fact, Simon’s research in muscular regeneration suggests that motion, rather than rest—”

“I give up.” With a laugh, Colin held up a hand. “I can’t possibly out-argue you, not if you’re going to quote Simon de Burgh at me. We’ll untie the horses from the carriage and be off. But you’re to say something at the first uncomfortable twinge. Promise me.”

“Why does that do so little to reassure me?” He scowled as he gave in to temptation and kissed her. In many ways he was grateful for her insistence on traveling by horseback, for now there would be no close proximity on an enclosed carriage seat to tempt him further.

As she predicted, they made good time and entered the village of Briarview by midmorning. On a ridge two miles to the north, Briarview Manor, the Ashworths’ ancestral home, glared down like an exacting patriarch at the small collection of farms, cottages, and tiny, rickety shops as if to admonish such underlings to know their place and heed their betters.

Colin felt no joy at this homecoming. On the contrary, his misgivings mounted as, on both sides of the road, the effects of the “Exmoor curse” became more and more apparent.

The fields that had flooded weeks ago had not been replanted, and the surrounding moors threatened to encroach on the cultivated land. The barn roof that had fallen in had not been replaced. Worse, he saw sure signs that all but the most basic labors had ceased. Farming and herding beyond what the inhabitants required for their own survival, as well as local business and trade, seemed to have come to a screeching halt because these people, most of whom could trace their families to this wild, craggy land for centuries back, believed their efforts were cursed.

An unnerving quiet permeated the air. No clangs of the hammer rang out from the smithy. No pungent tanning fumes clashed with savory aromas from the Dancing Mare Tavern. The only scents Colin could make out were those of rotting crops and general decay, oddly mingled with fresh wisps of the heather clinging to the surrounding hills.

He had opened his mouth to reply when he noticed the faces peering at them from either side of the road, gaunt silhouettes gathered in the windows of cottages and shops. As they passed the greengrocer, the shop door opened. The proprietor, a bull-faced man named Harper, stood in the doorway and gazed out without any trace of the deference Colin had been used to receiving from these villagers. Another door opened, and then several. In every case, men, women, and children spilled onto front stoops and stared, their fears and worries evident in the shadows beneath their eyes.

“The Exmoor?” Holly twisted round in her saddle to view the stout farmer wearing rough woolens and threadbare corduroy. “What is he talking about?”

A chorus of disgruntled voices joined in the jeering; a forest of fists waved in the air. When something—perhaps a packed ball of dirt, perhaps a small rock—sailed across the road and thudded to the ground close enough to make Maribelle stumble, Colin tapped his heels to Cordelier’s sides.

Both horses broke into a canter, a pace Colin didn’t break until they reached the gates of the manor. There they were forced to stop and wait for the gates to be opened, and Colin tossed many a cautious glance over his shoulder to see if they’d been followed. An indignant frown creased Holly’s brow, and she looked as though she were practically choking on the questions she longed to ask. Colin guessed that only the gatekeeper’s presence checked her tongue.

“Milord.” Oliver Long, a burly man somewhere in his fifties whose father and grandfather had also occupied positions on the estate, dragged his cap off his head. But he didn’t smile or offer the enthusiastic greeting Colin had come to expect from him over the years. He didn’t ask after Colin’s health, or inquire after the rest of the family. He didn’t relate the latest news, as he’d always done after one of Colin’s absences. Except for an initial glance, Oliver kept his eyes averted, his thoughts shielded by the sooty sweep of his lashes.

They moved past him, past the stone gatehouse and upward along the open expanse of drive. Before them, the home’s austere facade looked out over fields and moors, and down at the village behind them, its stone and thatch structures reduced by the distance to a collection of insignificant dots.

Holly brought Maribelle to a halt. A few yards ahead of her, Colin also stopped and wheeled Cordelier around. “What?” he asked, but by the look on her face, he already knew what she would say.

He was not surprised, then, when her chin came up and her delicate eyebrows arched. “I’m not budging another inch until you explain what the blazes is going on here.”

“No more putting it off.” Holly injected into her tone an obstinacy she hoped would intimidate the truth from him. But she nearly laughed at the thought of anyone ever intimidating Colin Ashworth. The very way he sat his horse, tall and proud, his strong profile etched against the stark noonday sky, declared him a nobleman very much in command of his world and his fate.

Oh, but not completely so, she remembered. What happened in the village had momentarily shaken his authority; she had seen the crumbling of his confidence, however briefly, in the dimming of his blue eyes, usually so bright and sharp. In that moment she had sensed that the loss of the colt had stripped him of whatever plan he had devised, and that presently he steered his course one small step at a time.

She moved Maribelle up alongside Cordelier and reached to place her hand on Colin’s wrist. “You need help, and I am here.”

Heightened color suffused his face. His fingers tensed, but his hand didn’t move to clasp hers. “Do you know what an Exmoor pony is?”

“I’ve read about them.” She glanced up at the granite facade of the house, catching the flick of a curtain up on the first floor. She couldn’t see in, but she felt certain a gaze met hers. Then the curtain fell back in place. A servant? Puzzled, she returned her attention to Colin’s question. “An ancient breed, England’s purest native pony. Surely the colt isn’t—”

“The colt is. Partly, at least. We have a herd of Exmoors on our land here, and for years I’ve been crossing ponies with Thoroughbreds.”

“The Exmoor is one of the hardiest breeds on earth, resistant to many of the diseases that strike other horses. The Thoroughbred, despite its speed and power, is far more fragile in comparison. Have you any idea how many are injured in the races and must be put down each year?” When she shook her head, he didn’t elaborate. “So I’d thought . . .” He broke off, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You thought to create a super breed. But the Jockey Club would never allow it. All racehorses must be descendants of those three original Arabians. I forget their names.”

“Darley, Godolphin, and Byerley Turk. And the colt is a direct descendant of Byerley Turk. Thoroughbreds themselves were created by crossbreeding those stallions with native Galloway mares. My experiments were meant to show the value of introducing new, hardier stock into the existing breed, but in infinitesimal amounts. The colt, you see, was the result of several generations of crossbreeding, with the Exmoor element having been added early on and not again. For all intents and purposes, he is a Thoroughbred, with a residual strain of Exmoor in his blood, but not at all evident in his physical traits.”

Holly paid close attention to every word, trying to understand. “This is all very scientific. But I’ve a notion that those villagers couldn’t give a fig about your experimentations.”

“They don’t. The problem is that nothing can be kept secret here, not when it comes to the Exmoors or anything else that takes place on these moors. The local populace knew full well what I was doing, and I had their approval, up to a point.”

“At the exact moment my father removed the colt from Briarview. They don’t know why he did it, and they don’t know where the colt was taken. They only know it is gone.”

She twisted in her saddle to peer down the hillside to the village, from here as picturesque as any rustic Devonshire hamlet. But what she had witnessed close up had left her more than unsettled. An inexplicable foreboding had taken root in her very bones. “I understand the villagers might be protective of the ponies, but, Colin, they threw things at us. They shook their fists. That is no way to treat their future duke and patron. It’s downright unpardonable.”

“Their bile is fueled by more than mere protectiveness.” He might have gone on to explain, but at that moment the front door of the house burst open.

Holly shaded her eyes with her hand. Through the open door, liveried footmen and black-and-white-clad maids poured out and down the steps, hastily arranging themselves in a line facing the drive with men on one side, women to the other. In their wake a woman in an elegant, high-necked gown of black silk descended from the top step, her gray hair pulled back from a lined face and tucked beneath a lacy matron’s cap.

Despite its wrinkles, the woman’s face held an ageless beauty that to Holly spoke of resilience, even of defiance, as if she’d laughed at the passing years and dared them to rob her of her finest qualities. In that face, that expression, Holly recognized Sabrina’s bold spirit and Colin’s stubborn determination.

The woman started down toward them, balancing on each step with the help of an ebony cane. Her features tightened with the effort, but her smile remained fixed. Halfway down, a man—a butler Holly guessed by his formal suit and rigid bearing—scurried down after her and offered his arm.

“You didn’t tell me anyone would be here.” A sudden misgiving lodged in Holly’s stomach. “What will she think of us, arriving together this way? I knew you should have left me at the hunting lodge.”

To her confusion, he let out the first true, wholly unburdened note of laughter she’d heard from him since . . . perhaps ever. “It’s perfectly all right. Grandmama is the one member of my family to whom I do not shudder to introduce you.”

“Come.” His eyes twinkled like a mischievous boy’s, throwing Holly into further bewilderment. Surely this couldn’t be the same man with whom she had ridden all the way from Masterfield Park, the Colin Ashworth of the solemn looks and bleak pronouncements. “The old girl is sure to surprise you,” he said irreverently. Then he sobered. “When I was a boy, sometimes I’d pretend she was my mother. She was the only person able to tell my father to go to the devil and get away with it.”

“Colin Ashworth,” the dowager duchess cried out with a force that belied her physical limitations. She thumped her cane on the ground in front of her foot. “You come here to me this instant.”

Holly chewed her bottom lip as the horses trotted the remaining distance up the drive. Cordelier had barely come to rest before Colin leaped from the saddle and rushed into his grandmother’s outstretched arms. Just before he did, the woman thrust her cane into the butler’s waiting hands.

She held her grandson for far longer than most dowager duchesses would have deemed dignified. She even patted his back and rocked him like a child as her delighted laughter rang out. This woman did indeed surprise Holly with an outpouring of affection she would not have believed possible from any of these Ashworths.

The last thing Holly expected was the grin that split the duchess’s aged countenance. “Well, I’ve every confidence that eventually you’ll bring him home.”

A few words from Colin produced curtsies and bows from the servants. Then footmen and maids scampered back up the stairs and into the house. Colin took the duchess’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm.

“Oh, indeed, dear. I’ve been wondering about the exceedingly pretty lady sitting atop the mare. Is that Maribelle, by the way?”

Leaning heavily on his arm, the duchess moved stiffly at his side. When they came to Maribelle he released her and reached up to help Holly down. Once her feet were firmly on the ground, Colin removed his hands from her waist and reclaimed his grandmother’s hand. “Grandmama, this is Miss Holly Sutherland. You remember my good friend Simon de Burgh. Miss Sutherland is Simon’s sister-in-law.”

Holly curtsied and managed a polite answer that she herself couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears. How on earth would Colin explain their having traveled all this way together? Would he lie and claim she was staying somewhere in the area with her sisters, perhaps in a neighboring village? Surely he wouldn’t—

“Miss Sutherland has been kind enough to offer her help in recovering the colt,” he said. “And we had him, Grandmama, for a brief time. I’m afraid he’s been taken by highway thieves.”

“My goodness, but that is dreadful.” Despite the duchess’s pronouncement, she didn’t look nearly as distressed as one would suppose. On the contrary, she leaned slightly forward and surveyed Holly with what appeared to be an amused and speculative gleam. She might as well have been ogling Holly through a quizzing glass, her scrutiny burned so deeply. “You are very lovely, my dear.”

“Lofty?” Holly blinked. What could the duchess mean? Could she somehow know of the Sutherlands’ friendship with the queen? Uncertain how to respond, she looked to Colin for help.

The duchess’s silver eyebrows rose in sympathy. “Oh, I am most sorry to hear it.” Slipping an arm through Colin’s again, she linked her other with one of Holly’s. “I suppose one shouldn’t stand outside on the drive all day, should one? Ah, here is the groom to take your horses. Let us go inside and take tea, and you may regale me with your adventures. Between the three of us, we’ll devise a way to find the colt. By the by, Colin dear, have you explained to Miss Sutherland about the Exmoor curse?”