She nodded to show she’d heard. Her lips curved, her eyes alight, she raced up the slope beside him.
He signaled to the other two to hold back. Facing forward again, he kept pace with Pris, tamping down the urge to recklessly race.
She was reckless enough, racing enough for them both.
She pulled up before the cottage, laughing, letting the mare circle. She waited until he halted and dismounted, then trotted the mare up and let him lift her down.
Setting her on her feet, he took her hand. “Come on.”
He led her to the cottage door, and pounded on it. They waited, both breathing quickly, sharing a long glance as a minute ticked by.
“I can’t hear anything,” she mouthed.
He knocked again, louder, longer. “I say! Is anyone there? Could a lady beg a drink of water?”
Silence. Then from around the corner came a muffled whicker.
Stepping back, he studied the cottage. It had only a single story, no attic, its one small window so grimy it was impossible to see inside. “I think we’re safe.” He beckoned to the other two, who’d hung back as if merely pausing on their way somewhere else.
Pris tried to slip her fingers free of his hold; he tightened his grip, scanning the surroundings as the other two rode up. Satisfied there was no one to see them, he met Pris’s narrowing eyes. “All right-let’s see.”
They strode around the corner. The entrance to the stable faced the rear, well screened and protected by the trees. It was in better condition than the cottage, better even than its outward appearance suggested.
Ducking beneath the heavy beam over the doorway, Dillon glanced around, taking in the bridles and reins neatly hung on one wall, the two stalls, both strong and of surprisingly good size, with half doors across their mouths. The floor was stone, clean and swept; the sweet smell of straw hung in the warm, still air.
The second stall was occupied. Pris headed for it. His fingers still locked about hers, he followed. A black filly with four even white socks and a white blaze on her chest watched them from within the stall, curious but wary, making no move to come to the half door and get acquainted.
Brisk footsteps heralded Rus, with Barnaby close behind. Rus slowed to take in the surroundings, then he met Dillon’s eyes. “At least they take proper care of them.”
Dillon waved to the occupied stall, drawing Pris back. “Which is she?”
Rus stepped to the half door; the instant the filly set eyes on him, she gave a delighted whinny and came eagerly forward. She butted Rus in the chest. Laughing, he scratched between her ears, then stroked her long black nose. “This is Belle.”
The horse snuffled and butted again.
Rus reached into his pocket and drew out a ripe red pippin. He offered it; Belle literally curled her lip, snorted in disgust, and knocked his hand aside. Rus chuckled, repocketed the pippin, and drew out a lump of sugar. Appeased, Belle lipped it from his palm, blowing softly.
Then she butted him again, pressing against the front of the stall.
“No, girl,” Rus crooned, Irish accent soft and lilting. “You have to stay here, at least for a while.”
“We’d better go.” After witnessing the evidence of the apple, Barnaby had retreated beyond the stable door, keeping watch down the valley. “The sun’s going down.” He glanced at Dillon. “How much longer will the training sessions last?”
Reluctantly, Rus drew away from Belle; Dillon and Pris followed him from the stable. Behind them, Belle whickered forlornly.
Dillon looked west, then out across the slope to where the shadows were lengthening. “We’ve just time enough for Rus to reach Hillgate End before Harkness and Crom start scouting.”
“Even if they send the string back to the Rigby place and head straight to your woods?” Pris glanced worriedly at Rus as they walked quickly back to their horses.
“Even so.” Rus grinned at her. “With the meet so close, Harkness won’t be cutting corners and rushing through training.”
Pris stopped arguing, but from the way she glanced at Rus, she wasn’t convinced. In the circumstances, Dillon left Rus to lift her to her saddle.
Within minutes they were across the stream and flying over the fields to the Carisbrook house.
When they clattered into the stable yard, Patrick was waiting. He caught Pris’s mare. “Did you find her-the black filly?”
Rus nodded. “Blistering Belle.” He glanced at Dillon. “What now?”
“Now we think.” Dillon settled Solomon, prancing as Patrick lifted Pris down. “We can’t afford a misstep.” He caught Pris’s eye, then glanced at Patrick. “It’s short notice, but do you think Lady Fowles will agree to an impromptu dinner at Hillgate End this evening? I know my father would be delighted, and it’ll give us a chance to review what we know, consider the possibilities, and decide on our goal. Then we can make plans.”
Pris nodded. “I’m sure Aunt Eugenia will be delighted to join your father for dinner.”
Dillon raised his hand in a salute. “We’ll see you then.”
The other two called farewells, then the three wheeled. Pris watched them spring their mounts and charge away, racing. With a sniff, she turned to the house. “I’d better go and tell Eugenia that we’ve arranged her evening for her.”
14
Pris hadn’t expected Eugenia to object to their commandeering of her evening, yet she was puzzled by how pleased her aunt was at the “invitation.”
Descending the stairs at six o’clock, ready to set out, she discovered Eugenia preening-definitely preening-before the mirror in the hall.
“Oh-there you are, dear. Tell me”-Eugenia tweaked the delicate lace collar she’d fastened about her discreet neckline-“do you think this makes me look too old?”
Pris blinked, but when Eugenia glanced her way inquiringly, she went to view her aunt in the mirror-actually looked at the soft-featured face, at the gently waving blond hair only lightly streaked with gray. At the nicely rounded figure, matronly but Rubenesquely so, at the intelligence that shone in the clear blue eyes. She shook her head. “I don’t think you look old at all.”
Purely feminine plea sure lit Eugenia’s smile. “Thank you, dear.” Turning, she surveyed Pris, then raised her brows. “That shade of lilac becomes you. I take it you’re abandoning the severe bluestocking look?”
Straightening her amethyst skirts, Pris shrugged. “It’s only Rus, Dillon, and Barnaby-it’s not as if there’ll be anyone there I need to fool.”
Eugenia looked much struck. “Very true.”
The twinkle in her eyes stated that she wasn’t fooled, either-that she understood perfectly that there would be one male present Pris was quite happy to expose to the full force of her charms.
Adelaide came clattering down the stairs, content now she knew where Rus was, that he was safe, and thrilled to be seeing him that evening. “I’m ready.” Halting at the foot of the stairs, she looked at Pris and Eugenia, eagerness lighting her face. “Can we go?”
Pris glanced at Eugenia; Eugenia glanced at Pris. Then they both laughed.
“Come along.” Eugenia waved them to the door. “Patrick is waiting.”
The drive to Hillgate End was accomplished in an atmosphere of pleasant anticipation. The General met them at the manor door and bowed them in. Dillon, Rus, and Barnaby were waiting in the drawing room.
Walking in behind Eugenia, Pris was glad she’d seen Dillon in evening dress before; she managed not to stare, but it was only after she’d greeted him, then turned, and Rus grinned at her, that she even remembered her twin was there. She blinked, dragooned her wits into order, and moved to greet Barnaby.
What followed was the epitome of a warm, relaxed, very comfortable evening spent among good friends. The dinner was excellent, the wines light; the talk was effervescent, engaging, a simple delight. By mutual accord no one spoke of the matter that had brought them together, of the decisions that hung suspended, waiting to be made. Instead, they spoke of London, and Ireland, of scandal and news, of horses, too, but of breeding them, not racing them.