come sidling up in the shadows.'
'What's his height, his build?'
'Medium to tall, heavy build.' Dillon's frown lifted. 'One thing recognizable is his voice-it's oddly rough, like his throat is scratched, and he has a London accent.'
Demon nodded, considering. Then he refocused. 'Flick's idea is the only reasonable way forward-we'll have to keep watch about the tracks and stables to see who approaches the race jockeys. I'll handle that.'
'I'll help.'
The statement came from behind him; Demon glanced around, then rose spontaneously to his feet. Luckily, Flick was coldly glaring at Dillon, which allowed him to get his expression back under control before she glanced at him.
When she did, he met her gaze impassively, but he remained standing.
He'd guessed right-her head didn't top his shoulder. Bright, guinea-gold curls formed an aureole about her face; without muffler or cap, he could see the whole clearly, and it took his breath away. Her figure, neat and trim in blue velvet, met with his instant approval. Sleek and svelte, but with firm curves in all the right places. He could now take an oath that she must have worn tight bands to appear as she had before; the swells of her breasts filled the habit's tightly fitting bodice in a distinctly feminine way.
She swept forward with an easy, confident grace, then bent to place her neatly folded stable lad's outfit on the chest, in the process giving him a reminder of why he'd first seen through her disguise.
He blinked and drew in a much needed breath.
She looked like an angel, dressed in blue velvet.
A still very angry angel. She ignored Dillon and faced Demon. 'I'll keep your stables under surveillance-you can watch the other stables and other places I can't go.'
'There's no need-
'The more eyes we have watching, the more likely we'll be to see him. And I'll hear things that you, as the owner, won't.' She met his gaze steadily. 'If they recruited Ickley, there's a good chance they'd like to hobble one of your runners-you'll have quite a few favorites in the races this season.'
The Flynn, among others. Demon held her gaze, and saw her chin firm, saw it tilt, saw defiance and sheer stubborn will flash in her eyes.
'That's right,' Dillon concurred. 'There's a lot of Newmarket to cover, and Flick's already been accepted as one of your lads.'
Demon stared, pointedly, at him; Dillon shrugged. 'She's in no danger-it's me they're after.'
If Demon had been closer, he would have kicked Dillon; eyes narrowing, he was tempted to do it anyway. Only the fact that he hadn't yet determined how Flick saw Dillon-if she reserved the right to kick him to herself, and would fly to Dillon's defense if he administered any of the punishment Dillon so richly deserved-kept him still.
Dillon glanced at Flick. 'You could even try riding for some of the other stables.'
Flick looked down her nose at him. 'I'll stick to Demon's stable-he can look over the others.'
Her tone was cold and distant; Dillon shrugged petulantly. 'You don't have to help if you don't want to.'
He looked down at the table and so missed the fury that poured from Flick's eyes. 'Just so we're perfectly clear,' she stated, 'I am only helping you because of the General-because of what having you taken up, without any evidence of a syndicate to redeem you in any way, will do to him.
Head high, she swung on her heel and stalked out.
Demon paused, looking at Dillon, now staring sulkily at the table. 'Stay here. If you value your life, stay out of sight.'
Dillon's eyes widened; with a curt nod, Demon followed Flick into the deep twilight.
He found her saddling Jessamy, her movements swift and jerky. He didn't offer to help; he suspected she could saddle up blind-indeed, he wasn't at all sure she wasn't doing that now.
Hurt and anger poured off her; disillusionment shimmered about her. Propping his shoulders against a convenient tree, Demon glanced across the clearing to where Ivan was still standing in exactly the same pose as an hour ago-staring at his new lady love.
Brows quirking, Demon turned back to Flick. Her head was just visible over Jessamy's back. He considered the halo of gold, the delicate features beneath.
She was furious with Dillon, hurt that he hadn't told her the truth, and shocked by the details of that truth. But, once her fury wore thin, what then? She and Dillon were of similar age; they'd grown up together. Precisely what that meant he didn't know, but he had to wonder how accurate her last assertion was. Was she risking her reputation
He studied her, but couldn't decide. Whatever the answer, he would shield her as best he could.
He looked up at the stars, just starting to appear, and heard a sniff, instantly suppressed. She was taking a long time with her saddle girths.
'He's young.' Why he felt compelled to excuse Dillon he couldn't have said.
'He's two years older than me.'
How old did that make her? Demon wished he knew.
'What do you think happened to Ickley?'
Demon silently considered; he didn't imagine her ensuing silence meant she didn't expect an answer. 'Either he's gone to ground, in which case the last thing we'd want to do is flush him out, or… we'll never know.'
She made a small sound, like a hum, in her throat-a muted sound of distress.
Demon straightened away from the tree; in the gathering gloom, he couldn't see her face clearly. At that moment, she stepped back from Jessamy's side, dusting her hands. He strolled around the mare. 'You can continue at my stable for the time being-until we catch sight of this contact.' If any avenue had offered, he'd have eased her out of his stable, out of Newmarket itself until all danger was past. But… her stubbornness was a tangible thing.
She turned to face him. 'If you try to get rid of me, I'll just get a job in another stable. There's more than one in Newmarket.'
None as safe as his. 'Carruthers will keep you on until I say otherwise.' Which he would the instant they located Dillon's contact. 'But you'll be restricted to riding track, morning and afternoon.'
'That's the only time that matters, anyway. That's the only time outsiders aren't looked at askance about the Heath.'
She was absolutely right.
He'd been going to give her a boost to her saddle; instead, features hardening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist and lifted her.
Lust flashed through him like liquid heat-a hot urgency that left him ravenous. He had to force himself to set her neatly in her saddle, to let go, to hold her stirrup while she slipped one small boot into it.
And not drag her back down, into his arms.
He wanted her in his bed.
The realization struck like a kick from one of his Thoroughbreds, leaving him winded and aching. Inwardly shaking. He looked up-and found her looking down at him.
She frowned and shook her reins. 'Come on.' Wheeling Jessamy, she trotted out of the clearing.
Demon swore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, yanked at Ivan's reins, and then remembered the double knots. He had to stop to undo them, then he vaulted to the saddle.
And followed.
Chapter 3
Demon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable to view the morning gallops-and to keep an eye on Flick and her bottom. He felt distinctly aggrieved by the necessity of rising so early, but… the thought of her, the angel in blue velvet, thundering about disguised as a lad, with all the potential calamities that might ensue, had made dozing off again impossible.
