Taken by Storm by Danelle Harmon Page B

that he was still lame.
    But the horse had erred.
    It had been the right that had supposedly been injured.
    Colin grinned.
    “Think he’ll be all right, Dr. Lord?”
    Colin turned his back on the horse, and passed the mare as she perked up her ears and swung her rump toward the stallion in saucy invitation.
    “Aye, my lady. I’m sure of it.”
    # # #
    The ceiling was thickly beamed and ancient, the walls painted in shades of oxblood and hung with prints of foxhunts and racehorses. Laughter came from a group of locals near the hearth, but the two travelers preferred instead to take seats beside the window where Ariadne could keep an eye on her horse. There, they lunched on steak and mushroom pie, thick, crusty bread, cheese, and a flagon of rich, foamy ale. Or rather, Ariadne did. Halfway through the meal, she noticed her companion’s appetite had not led him to touch the beef.
    She stared at him in puzzlement. “Is the pie not to your liking, Doctor?”
    He offered a rather sheepish smile. “I do not eat meat.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s animal flesh. I . . . I just can’t. Not anymore.”
    She frowned a bit, studying him. Then she put down her fork and knife, propped her chin atop the heel of one hand, and stared long and hard at him. “You are a very unusual man, Dr. Lord.”
    He shrugged, broke off a piece of cheese, and ate it, grinning at her all the while.
    Her gaze went to his unfinished glass of ale. “I see you don’t drink much, either. What sort of an Englishman are you, anyhow?”
    “A sober one.”
    “Indeed.”
    “My tolerance for alcohol is remarkably low,” he added.
    “Really? Mine’s not. Hand me your glass, Dr. Lord. Better yet, be a gentleman and order me another.”
    She swept up his glass, shot him a challenging glance, and raised the drink high. “To . . . friendship.”
    “Aye.” He picked up his cheese and smiled. “To friendship.”
    She laughed, and downed the ale in three unladylike gulps. Their gazes met, and she blushed prettily. “You know, Dr. Lord . . . I’m really enjoying your company. I take back my earlier words, about wishing I hadn’t hired you to be my veterinarian. I’m very glad that I did, even if you can’t figure out why Shareb is lame. Now, if you don’t want it, may I have your beef?”
    He looked at her, one brow raised, and she grinned in embarrassment.
    “Well, if I’m to dress like a man, I might as well eat like one.”
    # # #
    Three miles ahead of them, Tristan, Lord Weybourne, sat in a similar public house, nursing a cider and staring gloomily into the clear, amber depths of his glass. He, too, had positioned himself near a window, where he could watch the traffic passing on the Norfolk Road and be on the lookout for the bay stallion.
    The bay stallion.
    All that stood between him and total ruin. And all that carried Ariadne to a nightmare she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
    His mind wandered back over the years, to the time when Father had brought him to see his first race. He had never forgotten the thrill of seeing those mighty steeds galloping toward the finish line, thundering past with such force that he could feel the vibrations rocking his chest while the crowd went wild with excitement around him. Maybe the fever had started then—Papa certainly must’ve seen it, for he’d turned, looked steadily into his eyes, and warned him about the allure of the racetrack. But he hadn’t listened, of course. After all, he, Tristan, had picked the winner of three out of four of those races. He had a talent. What did Father know, anyhow?
    And as he grew older, spending his mornings observing the Norfolk Thoroughbreds galloping around his father’s pastures, and his weekend afternoons stealing off to the races at Newmarket, it came to him that such a talent should not go to waste.
    Age and maturity had not cooled the fever. He had found friends to share his interest, older, equally high-bred friends who didn’t mind that he was the youngest