Lord of Ice (11 page)

“I thought colonels were supposed to be old.”

“I
am
old,” he said with a smile. “I feel old, anyway.”

“You’re not old. I mean elderly.”

“Actually, you’re right—it can take a man’s whole career to make colonel. I was fortunate enough to enjoy a certain amount of preferment due to my family name, but I dared not take on too large a command until I had a good deal of experience. There’s nothing worse than a green officer.”

“Uncle Jason told me in his letters that you were the captain of the elite grenadier company of the Hundred Thirty-sixth.”

He nodded. “I spent most of my years in Spain at that post, but after my brother left the army in '12, I was advanced rapidly to major, then lieutenant colonel, as my superiors died in the field. Officers, you see, have a dismally high mortality rate.”

“Why is that?”

“Shoot the officers first. The rank and file are lost without leadership.”

She shuddered slightly in his arms. “Weren’t you ever frightened of being a target?”

“Somebody has to lead. Of course I was scared.” He shrugged. “Fear makes a better soldier. You get used to it and do what needs to be done. That’s all.”

“I don’t think I could get used to it. I’d run away.”

“Then I would have to shoot you for desertion,” he replied in morbid humor.

Her twin braids slid over her shoulders like dark, silken ropes as she turned to him, peeking uncertainly at him past the brim of her bonnet. “You wouldn’t really shoot your own men for deserting?”

He just looked at her.

“Oh, Damien,” she said with a wince.

“Those are the rules.”

She shook her head. “You’re a hard man.”

He could not tell if it was a compliment or an insult. Then she changed the subject.

“How is your arm?”

“Not too bad.”

“I feel terrible about that.”

“Don’t.”

“You could have been killed—”

“You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

She was silent for a moment, perhaps mulling on his words.

“Damien? Sorry—I mean Lord Winterley.”

Hearing his name on her tongue caused a curious little flutter of pleasure low in his belly. “I don’t mind if you call me Damien,” he murmured, “but only when we’re alone. Publicly, it’s best if we’re more formal.”

“I understand. What exactly do you think those horrid men wanted last night?”

His expression darkened. He held her more securely in the saddle. “Whatever they could get, I’m afraid.”

“But they didn’t take my money. I had just gotten paid from the theater.”

“They didn’t have time.” He paused grimly. “Unfortunately, my dear, I don’t think it was your money they were after.” He was very glad that he had killed them.

“Perhaps, but it’s hard to imagine that mere vagrants from Mud City should be so well organized. They even had horses.”

“The horses were probably stolen. Miranda, did you recognize any of those men?”

She shuddered. “No. But, Damien—” She turned and stared at him, wide-eyed and somber. “What if they were white slavers?” she asked in a confidential tone. “You know—that catch girls and sell them to brothels?”

Taken aback by her earnest stare, he chuckled. “Oh, Miranda, you’ve been in too many melodramas.”

“What do you mean?” she retorted. “Miss Brocklehurst says if we’re bad, she’ll make us stay out all night and the white slavers will get us!”

“And you believed her?”

“Yes.”

Laughing softly, he gave her a light, comforting squeeze around her waist. What a strange blend of bravado, mistrust, and naivete she was. “Never fear, Miranda. If more white slavers come, I’ll fight them off for you again, I promise.” With that, he clucked to his horse and smiled at her happy exclamation as Zeus surged into a swift, gliding canter down the next stretch of road.

It was just past four o’clock but already dark with the early twilight of winter when they reached the coaching inn at Coventry. Miranda was nestled drowsily against him as the busy inn came into sight through the bare branches of the black trees. Warm lights gleamed in the windows. Smoke curled in wisps from the chimneys, and the smell of good things to eat carried to them on the night air, mingled with the horsey smell from the livery stable. Zeus whickered hungrily.

Miranda lifted her head from Damien’s shoulder. “Ye Olde Red Cow.” The name of the inn was painted in bold, block letters across the top of the building’s entrance. “It looks busy. I hope they have room for us.”

“They will,” he murmured.

He halted his horse in the graveled yard and swung down from the saddle. Slipping the reins over Zeus’s head, he returned for Miranda. A wave of desire moved through him as she braced her hands on his shoulders and slid down his body until her feet touched the ground. He released her and quickly turned away as a groom hurried over to attend them.

“ 'Evening, sir. Stallion there?”

“Yes. Have you got a box stall open? He’ll need quarters a bit away from the other horses, if possible.”

The groom nodded efficiently. “Bring him this way, sir.”

Damien glanced at Miranda. “Do you want to wait inside? This won’t take long.”

She shook her head. “I’ll come with you.” She followed near Zeus’s flank as Damien led the animal inside through the wide barn doors.

The stable bustled with at least two dozen grooms mucking the stalls and caring for the countless livery horses. Many of the more docile creatures were simply tethered on a long line of rope, but there were box stalls to be had for a fee. Miranda wrinkled her nose at the smell as she loosened the ribbons of her bonnet around her throat and slipped it off of her head, letting it hang down her back. The wiry groom showed him to a stall at the end of the aisle, with an empty one beside it to give the kingly stallion plenty of privacy.

Damien dismissed the groom with a nod and took over the task of seeing to his horse’s comforts personally. He unfastened the saddlebags and handed her satchel out to her, making a small pile of their baggage in the dimly lit aisle.

“Do all earls see to their own horses?” his ward asked quizzically. Grasping the bars that ran from the top of the stall’s planks up to the ceiling, she swung back idly, watching him.

He glanced at her as he lifted the saddle off Zeus’s back and carried it out of the stall. “He doesn’t like strangers.”

“He seems friendly enough to me.”

“He likes you. He told me so,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. The truth was he liked tending to his horse himself. He found it relaxing. He took a currycomb out of one of the saddlebags and brushed Zeus’s back vigorously where the saddle had sat. Slowly, he became aware of Miranda watching his hands moving with firm, sure gentleness over the animal’s coat.

He glanced warily at her over his shoulder and felt the heat in her stare. He lowered his gaze, shaken by the force of the forbidden attraction between them. As he leaned against his horse for a moment, he wished he could apologize again for having propositioned her the night before and for kissing her like some rough brigand out there behind the theater, but it seemed unwise to bring the matter up. It was best forgotten. Besides, he was not sure that he was entirely sorry.

“Why do you keep a stallion if he’s such a handful?”

Zeus swung his head around and nuzzled at Damien’s coat pocket for a treat. “Get out of here,” he muttered fondly, shoving away the animal’s noble head. The stallion snorted in disdain. “He is going to sire great colts one day, that’s why.”

“For racing?”

“Or polo.”

“He’s got a very pretty face,” she said.

“Did you hear that, old boy? The lady thinks you’re quite the beau.” Damien grasped the horse’s delicate muzzle. Against his pearly coat, darker, blue-gray shadows surrounded the stallion’s great, brown eyes. “He is a beauty, isn’t he? That’s his Arabian bloodlines showing through. He’s half Hanoverian, which gives him his height and his speed, but on his dam’s side, he’s descended from the desert horses of the sheiks. Built for endurance.” He patted the animal’s neck. “Now all he needs is a wife. Or a harem, like the sheiks do,” he added with a boyish smile.

She laughed softly. “Why didn’t you go into the cavalry if you’re so horse-mad?”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t go into the cavalry. It’s bad enough seeing men get blown to bits. Horses don’t even know what the fight’s about.” His smile faded.

Miranda sat down on a hay bale to wait, and rested her cheek on her hand while he quickly finished seeing to his horse. When Zeus was munching his grain at last in noisy, equine pleasure, Damien picked up their baggage and jerked a nod at Miranda to follow. Hurrying to keep up with his longer strides, she trailed him outside, across the yard, up the few steps, and through the door beneath the sign of Ye Olde Red Cow. Inside, a pleasant commotion filled the air. To the left of the cheerful, yellow-painted lobby was a dim, cozy pub; to the right, a quieter, more genteel dining room.

“Sir, madam! How do you do? Over here, please,” a courteous little man greeted them from behind the counter.

Damien walked over to him, blinking against the illumination of the modest chandelier, while a porter shut the door behind them, barring the gust of wintry cold air that followed them in. Miranda peeled off her gloves and followed him over to the desk.

The concierge handed Damien the guest register. “You may sign for both yourself and your wife, sir.”

“The young lady is my ward,” he said gruffly, rebuking the man with a glower; then he bent his head, dipped the quill in the inkpot, and dashed out his neat, slanted signature. “Two rooms, please, and I’ll need a seat for her on the London stagecoach tomorrow morning.”

“Er, yes, of course, sir. Pardon my error.” The concierge did not look convinced as to the nature of the relationship between Damien and his young companion. Pursing his lips, he took the register back. “Two rooms and one ticket to London, then, Mr. er—good heavens!” The concierge looked up from Damien’s name on the register. “Colonel Lord Winterley! Sir, what an honor to have you as our guest!”

“Thanks,” he muttered, tugging self-consciously at his cravat.

Several bystanders had heard the man’s exclamation and were craning their necks to have a look at him.