Chapter 7 #2
But luck was with him. As the horse came to the edge of the woods, the boy chose the cart path to the right. Which meant that he still had a chance to catch them.
Whirling around, the earl raced into the stable.
Cursing roundly as he barked his shins in the darkness, he found the other saddle and bridle and hurried to the stall of his other horse.
The two of them had no chance of catching the thief and Nero, but they didn’t have to.
Uttering another string of oaths, Davenport finished tightening the girth and mounted, then set his own mount off at a good clip.
Unless the lad had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would stick to the beaten path.
And if he did so, he was going to run into a little surprise.
Davenport spurred his mount through an adjoining field.
They jumped a tumbled stone wall and skirted the edges of a newly planted field of wheat.
In the middle of a large copse of beeches, the earl turned onto a trail so narrow that the branches slapped at his boots and breeches.
In another few minutes, they emerged at right angles onto a wider path, whose ruts and ridges gave evidence of frequent cart travel.
Smiling in grim satisfaction, the earl drew to a halt.
It appeared he was in time. Rising above the twitter of early-morning birdsong was the sound of pounding hooves approaching fast.
A dark shape rounded the corner. The earl could just make out the lad’s head bent low over Nero’s neck, still urging the big stallion to give his best effort.
And no doubt Nero was in clover. There was nothing the stallion liked better than to be allowed to race gallop at full tilt through the countryside.
Traitor, thought Davenport sourly as he readied his own mount to match strides with the stallion.
The thief had the advantage of better horseflesh, but Davenport had the element of surprise.
The earl liked his chances.
As his stallion approached, Davenport charged from the cover of the trees and reached for the reins as he drew abreast. Nero shied violently to the right, but knowing his stallion’s habits, Davenport was ready for it.
The lad was not. As the earl’s hand instinctively followed the movement of the horse’s head, the sudden change of stride pitched the young rider forward.
He lost his stirrups and slipped sideways from the saddle.
Both of his hands clung to the edges of the leather while his feet hung precariously close to the flailing hooves.
Davenport managed to grab the reins and fought to bring the spooked stallion under control. Suddenly, with a sharp grunt of pain, the lad lost his grip.
One hand fell away—in another moment, he would be trampled.
Served him right, thought Davenport. His own neck was at risk too, trying to manage two wildly galloping animals. But with a silent curse, he let go of Nero and reached down to grab the lad’s collar.
“Let go!” he shouted as he reined in on his own mount.
The lad needed no encouragement. His strength was gone, and his fingers slipped from the saddle. Winded from the hell-for-leather galloping, Davenport’s mount slowed to a trot, then stopped dead in its tracks, sides heaving and flanks lathered with sweat.
Holding the young thief by the scruff of his jacket, as if he were a weasel plucked from a dovecote, the earl was sorely tempted to wring the lad’s neck.
Instead, he satisfied himself by dropping the lad none too gently onto the rutted ground.
“You damn fool,” cursed the earl as he dismounted. “I should take my crop to you. Don’t you know you could be trans—”
It was then that he noticed that the lad’s hat had fallen off. There was a mass of honey-colored hair spilling over the pale face. His eyes traveled lower, to where a pair of slender—and very shapely—thighs were revealed by a pair of tight buckskin breeches.
With a start, he realized they were his breeches, from when he had been a boy.
He closed his eyes for an instant and swore yet again.
Caroline slowly began to move.
“You!” roared Davenport, his voice choked with anger. “You nearly got both of us killed! What in the name of Satan were you thinking, trying to ride a blooded stallion?”
She struggled to a sitting position, clutching at her arm.
The oversized jacket had slipped on her shoulder, making her look even smaller and more vulnerable.
Her face was pinched and streaked with mud, while her lips were pressed tightly together, trying to suppress the slight quiver at their corners.
And yet, when she looked up at him, her eyes held only a spirited determination.
“I ride as well as any man,” she managed to retort. “It was you who caused the problem by charging out of the bushes like a…a highwayman.”
His jaw dropped in astonishment. “A bloody highwayman,” he sputtered. “You impudent chit. You were stealing my horse!”
“I-I wasn’t exactly stealing him.” Caroline hesitated. “I was going to give him back.” She brushed away the loose curls that had fallen across her cheek. “You know, you should give that magnificent stallion his head more often. A top-of-the-tree horse needs a good run to keep him up to snuff.”
Davenport wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “What did you say?” he asked in an ominously low voice.
“I said, I hope you know how to handle him properly.”
He gritted his teeth. “You call that handling him properly, flying neck and leather out of control? It’s a wonder he didn’t throw you sooner.”
“I was not out of control! I’ll have you know I have been riding blooded stallions since I was six and can handle a mount as well as—or better than—most men.”
The earl couldn’t quite believe he was standing here brangling with her. Frustrated and angry, he lost control of his temper. “So you like something spirited between your legs?” he snapped.
Color flooded her face, and she crabbed away from him. The movement must have sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder for he saw her bite her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.
Feeling his anger ebbing, Davenport walked over to where she was sitting. “Are you all right?” he asked curtly.
Caroline nodded.
He reached down and lifted her to her feet. When her legs buckled slightly, his arm came around her waist. “Come. Sit down over here.”
He guided her to a fallen tree by the side of the cart path and settled her on its broad trunk. Neither of them spoke for a few moments. She took a few deep breaths as if to steady herself. Her face was still ghostly pale.
“Better?” he asked
She nodded again.
Davenport turned to stare into the distance. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I apologize,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “That was an unpardonable remark.”
He then shook his head in disbelief as his fingers moved absently to his cheekbone and began to massage the thin white scar running across it. “Ye gods, the chit steals my horse, and here I am apologizing.”
Caroline slanted him a sideways glance. “I’m sorry as well. I provoked you. Truly, I didn’t wish to steal your horse, but you wouldn’t help me. I had no choice. You don’t understand—I must get away from here.”
Her hands tightened in her lap. “Right now.”
Davenport let out an exasperated sigh. “We’ll discuss this in a more suitable place. Will you be all right for a moment while I fetch Nero?”
A strangled sound came from Caroline. He thought for a moment that she was finally succumbing to girlish hysterics, then realized she was trying not to laugh.
“Oh, please tell me that a man of your reputation didn’t really name his horse ‘Nero,’” she managed to say in answer to his quizzical look.
His mouth twitched at the corners. “One must have a sense of humor to survive in this world.”