CHAPTER NINE #3
The Major pushed his hat firmly down on his head and gave his horse a nudge with his heels.
The great bay needed little encouragement and set sail, eagerly cantering towards the first hedge and clearing it easily, appearing to watch hounds all the while as he lined himself up for the next.
Sage sat just behind them, revelling in the immaculately schooled Ajax.
Coming into the first hedge, she simply waited for him to take off; he duly sat back on his hocks and effortlessly soared over it with half a foot to spare, landing on the turf unruffled and already looking to find hounds.
He was keen, needing only the lightest of squeezes to get him to switch up through the gears, but he did not pull her about and Sage hardly needed any contact on his soft, snaffle mouth.
Rafe was on their right, leaving Warhorse in charge as he chatted to a distinguished-looking gentleman in spectacles who rode a huge, Roman-nosed chestnut.
Hounds had checked on the far bank, which was covered in gorse; they were casting about trying to find the line again, their sterns waving frantically, their heads lifted in confusion.
The field, apart from a few avid followers who wanted to watch hounds work, were chatting nineteen to the dozen and swigging from hip flasks, huge clouds of steam rising off their sweating mounts.
Some unlucky riders had already parted company from their horses at the first hurdle and were now scrambling about while others tried to catch their wayward steeds.
Sage stilled as she took it all in. It was mesmerizing to see nature displayed in front of her in all its raw, untamed glory.
Rafe, too, had stopped talking and was poised, waiting to see what they were going to do.
A flash of russet and half a moment later, the feverish voice of the same dog hound, his back stiffened on finding what he had so frantically been searching for, sounded again.
He feathered into hot pursuit once more, leading the rippling pack east, towards a large wood.
The huntsman waited quietly on the top bank, willing his hounds on while they worked.
It had been a strong start and when they took off again, he followed them closely, not wanting to lose them, his horse impatiently pulling at the reins now that he knew they were going to have a bit of fun today.
They tore across ‘the playground’, leaping off old turf and soaring over a few decent-sized hedges, some large gates and a couple of stiff uprights.
Hounds were busy all morning and Sage was loving every minute.
Ajax was still gliding along effortlessly, as fit as a fiddle, light in her hands and powerful beneath her.
At about half past two, she realized that the field had thinned out noticeably, leaving no more than twenty riders.
The huntsman was giving his hounds a breather, letting them drink and wallow happily in a convenient stone water trough.
‘Where has everyone gone?’ Sage turned to Rafe. ‘When did they all go?’
‘I should think most of them bailed at second horses about an hour ago. We also probably lost a lot of them over that last big hanging gate at Orton Park.’ Rafe was impressed with Sage, who had not turned away from anything.
He looked at her mud-splattered face, her glittering eyes, the locks of dark hair escaping the confines of her brown hairnet and her pink mouth that was stretched into an entrancing Cheshire Cat grin.
He had never wanted to kiss anyone so much, and had to clench his hands to stop them reaching out for her.
‘You go quite well, for a girl,’ came a languorous drawl in Sage’s ear. Louis had ridden up beside her on his handsome bay thoroughbred, River Tamar, a former top-class chaser who pulled like a train but would jump anything.
‘Gosh, Louis. It’s such a talent to be able to give a compliment that’s simultaneously an insult. Really, it’s very clever,’ said Sage, laughing up at him.
I want this woman, Louis said to himself, and it will be even more fun to take her before Rafe gets his hands on her.
His plan thus far had not played out though; he had relied too heavily on his looks, which was usually enough.
Girls invariably fell over themselves to go out with him.
But Sage seemed totally uninterested in him and, he thought bitterly, was busy making cow eyes at his big brother.
Louis was fiercely competitive with Rafe.
He had long battled the resentment he felt towards his elder brother, who would inherit their father’s title and family estate, but it sometimes came out in ways he did not admire in himself.
The chip on Louis’s shoulder had held him back his entire life, hurting only himself, and while irritating Rafe to distraction, it had merely increased his desire to look after his younger sibling and level out the uneven balance of luck that life had allotted the Dunbarton brothers.
Rafe was always there to help when he was in trouble and would endlessly bail Louis out when no one else felt inclined to.
But Louis had noticed the hungry look in his brother’s tiger eyes when he looked at Sage, and he did not like it.