the paper on the flat of his chair’s arm, he scrawled.
Craning her neck, Pris read
“Tell me all you can about these horses.” Dillon glanced at Rus. “I’ll set my clerks scanning the register tomorrow morning-let’s see what we turn up.”
Rus gave a general description, then a more technical listing of the horses’ points. Pris sat back, thinking rather than listening. When Dillon and Rus finished, she asked, “How are we going to find where they’re hiding Blistering Belle and her imposter?”
Both Dillon and Rus looked at her, then exchanged a glance.
Dillon sat back, met her eyes. “
She frowned. He went on, “The last thing we need is for Cromarty and Harkness to know we’re watching them. They know Rus has guessed enough to raise questions, but having seen me with
Dillon paused, considering, then looked again at her. “Exactly how best to handle this situation…I admit I don’t know, especially when you add in the possibility of a ‘silent partner’ lurking in the background. I want to expose him, too, not just bring Cromarty down. If his actions with Collier are any guide, at the first hint of trouble, this man will eradicate any link to himself and simply switch the substitutions to some other stable next season.”
He looked at Rus. “I don’t want to act precipitously and show the villain our hand before we’re ready to act, before we’ve identified him. And we’re not in any position to do anything yet-we need more information, then we’ll plan.”
Rus was nodding. Dillon switched his gaze to Pris. “So we’ll find out who owns the imposters, and we’ll have someone track Crom to learn where they’re hiding the switched horses. One of my grooms-”
“Patrick.” She sat forward. “He’s at the Carisbrook house, much closer to the Rigby farm, and he’ll understand and be careful.”
Dillon nodded. “Good idea.”
Rus was frowning. “Patrick’s here?” Then he grimaced. “I suppose he would be, if Eugenia is.” He shook his head. “I still can’t take it in that you all upped stakes and came after me.”
Pris regarded him with affectionate scorn. “I can’t believe you ever imagined we wouldn’t.”
“Yes, well.” Dillon glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. “It’s late-we need to get you back to Lady Fowles.” He glanced at Rus as he stood. “I’ll introduce you to Jacobs-he’ll show you your room. Other than our staff, all of whom have been with us forever, the only one here is my father, and he already knows the official side of this.”
“He was the Keeper of the Stud Book before Dillon.” Pris rose as Rus got to his feet.
Dillon led the way to the door, then paused and turned around. He studied her for a moment, then looked at Rus. “Lady Fowles, Miss Blake, and
She saw the fleeting gleam in his eyes, part amusement, part…was it male satisfaction? She wished she could read what was going on in his brain. “We’ll call tomorrow morning.” Stretching up, she kissed Rus’s rough cheek, then hugged him hard. “Patrick will come, too, and you can tell him about Crom, and in which direction he takes the horses to be hidden.”
Rus kissed her back, patted her shoulder. Then he looked at Dillon and held out his hand. “Thank you. It might be your duty to investigate this matter, yet I’m still in your debt.”
Dillon caught the flick of Rus’s eyes Pris’s way; lips curving, he grasped Rus’s hand. “Don’t worry-when we get to the end of this, the shoe might well be on the other foot.”
A nicely ambiguous statement; from the look in Rus’s eyes, he caught both meanings. With Rus handed into Jacobs’s care, Dillon ushered Pris away; he felt Rus’s gaze on his back as he steered Pris down the corridor, heading for the stables and the long ride across the moonlit fields to the Carisbrook house.
Even before they left the stable yard, Pris’s relief, until then deflected by their talk, was welling, threatening to spill over. Dillon saw her mounted, then turned away. Swinging up to Solomon’s back, he looked across-and saw her cavorting giddily, letting the mare prance and dance as her emotion communicated itself to her flighty mount. “Pris!”
She flashed him a glorious smile-a wild, reckless and dangerous smile. “Come on-let’s ride!”
A light tap to the mare’s flanks was all it took to send her racing; jaw setting, Dillon sent Solomon surging after her. He caught up before she’d left the manor drive; she laughed and matched him, stride for stride. The pounding of flying hooves on the packed gravel, an insistent tattoo, was a drumbeat they both responded to.
They shot out of the drive and the fields lay before them. Dark, deserted, all theirs. With a whoop, Pris whirled her quirt and raced on.
Dangerous, reckless, and wild.
Mentally gritting his teeth, Dillon herded her. He was too wise-understood too well the reckless passion that had her in its grip-to try to head her, to hold her back. To restrain her. Instead, using Solomon’s bulk and strength, and his own knowledge of every foot, every yard of the surrounding land, he guided the mare in her headlong dash, through the physical outpouring of Pris’s joy.
Finding her brother, knowing he was safe-touching him, seeing him-had released a dam of pent-up emotions, of stresses and strains, worries and cares. Pris wasn’t just free, she was soaring-carefree, lighthearted.
Light-headed; he was certain of that. She seemed breathless, her laughter spilling out, the silvery notes falling like fairy dust all around them. They thundered through the night; every faculty stretched, he picked their route, keeping to well-beaten tracks that in the darkness only showed in his mind.
Over fields, through paddocks, flying over low fences, they streaked through the night. Anyone seeing them would have sworn they were mad; he knew they were both sane, just out of control.
Or at least, she was; he was doing his best to remain levelheaded, not to let her infect him with her wild and reckless passion. Having to concentrate helped; knowing that any error of judgment on his part could see her thrown and injured helped more.
Then the Carisbrook house loomed ahead, a dark monolith rising up out of the shadowy landscape. The mare was tiring, but far from blown; she was as game as her rider. He was about to correct course for the yard behind the house when Pris called a challenge; dropping her reins, she caught the mare’s flying mane, crouched low, and put on a turn of speed that in less than a minute left Solomon two lengths behind.
And on a wrong heading. Dillon cursed, checked, and went after her. Pushing Solomon on, he closed the gap, but then they burst through the bushes lining the drive, crossed it in a lunge, and swept into the scattered trees beyond.
They had to tack this way and that around the trees, slowing them both, for which he was grateful. But then the mare reached a path and leapt forward again. And he knew where she was going-where she was leading him.
His sane self cursed; this was not a good idea.
Most of him, that side of him she never failed to speak to, was already with her.
With her, close on her heels as she pulled the mare to a halt beside the summer house, tumbled out of her saddle, looping the reins about the stair rail before, laughing giddily, she raced up the steps.
With her, mere steps behind her as she flew across the summerhouse straight for the central pole. With her as she reached it, wrapped both hands around it and, leaping high, exuberantly swung herself around. Dropping back to the floor, she faced him, her smile brighter, more glorious, than the sun.
“We found him!”
She flung herself at him.
Caught his face between her hands and fused her lips to his.
He caught her, staggered back, steadied, then pressed her back until her spine hit the pole.
