Playing to Win (14 page)

Colin’s mouth opened, but his words evaporated in the summer heat.

“He says, ‘Thanks!’” Katie called out. Without looking back, Andrew lifted an elegant hand in acknowledgment.

Colin pulled a handful of gold tissue paper from the bag. Unfolding it, he saw the unmistakable blue silk of his own favorite briefs. “Fuck’s sake.” He shoved the package back into the bag.

“He’s right,” Robert said. “Those are nice.”

“Since when do you shop at Versace?” Katie asked.

“Since never. The bag is his.” Colin twisted the soft white cords of the twin handles. “I packed in a hurry. I must have left them on the floor.” His underwear had probably been kicked under the bench he’d hate-fucked Andrew upon.

It never was a hate fuck
, a voice inside him said.
He deserved better than to be left like that.

Colin sighed. This was true. He should say something right now.

But when he looked up, he saw the Tesla driving away, its electric motor pure silent.

A
NDREW
HAD
BEEN
summoned home.

It was just as well, as he needed a distraction. In the three days since he’d seen Colin at training session—looking infuriatingly delicious in that football kit—Andrew had been able to think of little else. The lad hadn’t phoned or texted, not even
Thank you for a lovely weekend
or
Sorry I was a complete wanker
, much less
Can I see you again?

Driving through the stone gates of his family’s estate, Andrew lowered the Tesla’s window in hopes the fresh country air would clear his head. Feeling instantly calmer, he slowed down upon the white-gravel, tree-lined lane that meandered among the green rolling hills.

Only the grassy areas near the lane were maintained and manicured. Most of Dunleven Castle’s twenty thousand acres were kept as a wild haven for deer, grouse, and other creatures people would pay dearly to come and shoot for sport—were they permitted, which they weren’t. Lord and Lady Kirkross were notorious animal lovers, a trait only Andrew seemed to have inherited.

He slowed further as he approached the dirt road leading to the loch, but after checking the time, he reluctantly continued down the main lane. Andrew made a mental note to rise early tomorrow to have some quiet time at his boathouse before heading back to Glasgow. He never felt more
himself
than when he was sitting on the porch of that tiny house, or swimming in the cold, breath-stealing waters of the loch.

Arriving at the stables, Andrew was greeted with a wave and a smile by none other than Timothy, who six years ago had been Andrew’s first…well, his first satisfier of curiosity. Now twenty-three and head groom, he was more tempting than ever.

Usually.

Timothy opened the Tesla’s door. “Lord Andrew, welcome. I was hoping you’d pay us a visit during your stay.”

Andrew greeted Timothy with a warm handshake. “It’s good to see you. Is Gretchen inside or is she out terrorizing the Thoroughbreds?”

“I brought her in just for you, and let her stay nice and dusty in case you wanted to groom her.”

“You know me well.” Andrew winced inwardly at the flirtatious lilt in his voice. Old habits died hard.

“Yes, sir.” Timothy shut the car door softly. “I know you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Andrew gazed down into those laughing green-blue eyes and wondered why they had no effect on him this evening. Usually the prospect of bending over a hay bale to receive Timothy’s worshiping mouth, then his punishing cock, would make every inch of Andrew’s skin pulse with life.

“Yes, well…” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve only a short while before I’m expected at the house.”

Timothy straightened up and gave a brisk nod, averting his eyes. “Of course, sir.”

As they entered the stable, Timothy stopped them at his office, where he reached behind the door and pulled out a coat hanger holding a large flannel shirt. “I suggest you trade me your blazer for this. Lady Kirkross will have both our heads if you come to dinner covered in horsehair.”

“Good thinking. Even Mum’s love of animals has its limits.”

Timothy relieved Andrew of his summer-tweed blazer, then held up the flannel shirt so he could put it on over his linen dress shirt. Andrew noticed how the fingers of his erstwhile lover failed to linger on his shoulders or trace the nape of his neck. They were all business now.

Andrew wished he and Timothy could share something other than service or sex. Friendship, perhaps? Surely they could talk horses for a few hours over a pint at the local pub. But things had been awkward since he’d foolishly let Timothy spend the night with him in Glasgow a few months ago—at Andrew’s own flat, no less. Perhaps the old boundaries were necessary.

“I saw Etienne’s car pass by a few hours ago,” Timothy said. “Should be a lovely dinner.”

“Indeed.” Their part-time French chef was keen to unveil some new recipes at next month’s ball, so he was coming tonight to test them on the Sunderland family. “Be sure to come to the kitchen around nine. I’ll see to it you get a portion of the staff’s share.” He bit his lip, expecting a snide retort about eating Andrew’s leftovers. Like Colin would have done.

“That’s very generous, sir,” Timothy said without a trace of sarcasm.

A high-pitched whinny came from the far end of the stable, followed by the slap of steel against wood.

“I’d better attend to Her Majesty before she kicks the barn down around our ears.” Andrew hurried through the stable, buttoning the flannel shirt as he walked. “Who’s my wee princess?” he called out. Gretchen answered with another kick, this time to the wall beside him. “I thought so.” He stopped at the stall door, leaning on the bottom half. “Well, aren’t you a vision in silver and dust?”

Gretchen tossed her head and snorted, nostrils flaring. Then the Shetland pony turned a full circle, displaying her tiny furry self like a model on a catwalk. Her white coat was dotted with clods of dirt. It looked as though she’d had a grand time giving herself a mud bath.

Andrew picked up his battered black footstool, then unlatched the stall door and slid inside the clean-smelling, straw-covered space. Gretchen zipped to the opposite corner, showing him her backside. It was always this way.

He sat upon the stool and took the grooming kit Timothy had left hanging on the stall door. “I’ve no time for your coyness, love. Come, let me save you from your poor choice in shampoos.”

Her only response was a swish of silver tail.

Andrew settled back against the stall wall. Gretchen wasn’t being cheeky—or at least not
merely
cheeky. Despite fourteen years of loving care here, her soul still bore scars from the two years prior. She’d never allowed another child besides Andrew near her, and few stable workers completed their first week of employment without a bitten hand or a stomped toe. (In fact, it had been Timothy’s relatively warm rapport with Gretchen that had drawn Andrew to him in the first place—well, that and his curly brown hair and thighs of steel.)

Gretchen simply didn’t know how to trust. But she knew how to love, of that Andrew was certain. These two warring factors drove her schizoid behavior. Eventually, if he waited quietly, her aloofness would give way to her desire to be touched.

And her desire for this carrot.

He held it out, turning his face aside, not challenging her with eye contact. “You silly kitten, you know you want it.”

Her ears twitched at the sound of his voice. Then she rubbed her face against an outstretched knee, as if to say,
I’m not looking at you, I’ve simply got an itch.

When she’d stopped the farce of scratching herself, he spoke her name, as softly as he could. She stilled, her neck curved to the side, ears pointed forward. Waiting for her cue like a diva standing offstage.

“Come here.”

The pony spun about, hindquarters bumping the wall as she turned. Then she trotted over to him, casually, as if she’d only just noticed him sitting there. In three steps her head was in his lap, muzzle nudging his chest.

“I’ve missed you too,” he murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. He stroked beneath her heavy, square jaw, then ran his hand up behind her left ear, where she most fancied a good scratch. She gave a soft snort, her breath fluttering against his borrowed flannel shirt.

“Here, take this so I’ve both hands free to dote on you.” He pushed the carrot against her mouth, where it promptly vanished. Gretchen nodded as she crunched, and Andrew had to lean to the side to avoid a fatal knock to his skull.

Then he began, drawing a wide-toothed comb through her forelock and letting the hair flop over her face. She blinked her long dark lashes, then shook her head to clear the mane from her eyes.

“You know you’re the only girl I’ve ever loved. That’s why you’re so vain and cheeky with me. Now turn around.” He clicked his tongue and gave her neck a gentle push. Still crunching the carrot, she shifted to present him with her left flank. “Good girl.”

Andrew scrubbed her snowy coat with the curry comb, using counterclockwise circles to dredge up dust and hair and dead skin. Soon he was coated with all that, plus his own sweat. Currying was a rigorous task in any case, but Shetland ponies had the thickest coats of any horse.

She grunted as he transitioned from her back to her hindquarters, and he remembered to curry in smaller circles to avoid scraping her scars. As he progressed, his left hand found the dark slashes in the white landscape of her rump, marking each one to protect it from the comb.

As always, he had to swallow the rage he still felt toward her former owner. The little shit, who by now was probably a council leader or a commodities trader, had whipped her mercilessly for her slowness in pulling a cart. Once she was given over to the Scottish SPCA, her beauty and spirit had attracted many adopters, but her mercurial nature proved too much for them. Five families in a row had adopted her, then returned her to the SPCA. She was too stubborn for riding and carting, too unpredictable for therapy work. But Andrew, only six at the time, had loved her from Moment One.

So he’d set aside his desire for a flashy cart pony and settled for a pet. He’d spent hours with her every day that summer, simply keeping her company. He’d read to her, first sitting outside the stall, then, when the trainer thought it safe, inside the stall on this very footstool. He’d begun with
Black Beauty
, but thought the abuse sections might upset her, so he’d chucked it and moved on to Marguerite Henry’s
Misty of Chincoteague
, then Walter Farley’s Black Stallion series. Stories of special horses who’d overcome outrageous odds because one human loved them
for
their flaws, not in spite of them.

After a month of Gretchen ignoring him, Andrew had gone crying to his mum. She’d told him that what the pony needed first and foremost was stability. To know that no matter what, she would have a home here forever. No matter what, they wouldn’t send her away. They wouldn’t reject her.

His fingers stilled on the longest scar of all, a thin black line at the point of Gretchen’s hip.
Oh.
How could he be so stupid?

“Pardon me for a moment, dear.” Andrew dropped the curry comb into the grooming bucket.

This phone call to his friend John wasn’t a complete impulse. He’d considered this move all week, driving himself mad with indecision. But the choice was clear now, after seeing Gretchen’s scars and remembering what she’d needed.

“If it isn’t Lord Andrew,” John answered in his robust voice. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Greetings. How’s the new love nest?” He didn’t really care, but it was good manners to let someone prattle on a bit before asking a favor of them. As John regaled him with updates on his and Fergus’s cohabitation, Andrew brushed Gretchen’s snowy coat until it glimmered.

“That’s fantastic,” he said finally. “Look, I need a bit of information from you, or rather from your darling boyfriend.”

When he explained, John laughed. “I’d pay a thousand quid to see that.”

“You and Fergus can see it for free, if I have my way.”

John gasped. “
If
you have your way? When is that ever in question?”

“Never.”

Until Colin, that is. But in this matter, Andrew would have his way, whatever disasters it might spawn.

= = =

“Andrew, darling!” Lady Kirkross swept into the foyer the moment he came through the castle’s front door. “You look dashing as always.” Andrew’s mother hugged him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, you smell like horses.”

“Do I?” Andrew tugged his blazer closed. He’d thought the sweet scent of dust and pony sweat had lingered only in his nostrils and his memory. “I’ve just come from seeing Gretchen.”

“And Timothy, no doubt,” came a deep, disapproving voice.

Andrew turned to greet his older brother, George, Earl of Ballingry, who was ambling from the Hall of the House with a drink in his hand.

“Timothy was there,” Andrew told him, “but we spoke only briefly.” They shook hands, George’s meaty grip too tight as always, as if there were anything left to prove. “Are the children here? I brought gifts for them.”

“I’m afraid not.” George glanced at Mum. “Tonight’s dinner conversation would only upset them.”

“You mean
bore
them,” she chided. “Don’t worry your brother with such dramatic statements.”

Too late.
“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked her. “Is Dad well?”

“He’s splendid. We’re all splendid. It’s a beautiful summer evening, and we’re going to enjoy it as a horrifically happy family.” With a swish of her flaxen summer suit-dress, she swept down the hall’s red carpet in a manner of one who expected to be followed. Which they did.

“What have I done now?” Andrew whispered to George as they walked.

“Besides gallivanting off to Edinburgh last weekend instead of keeping your social commitments?” His brother gave a weighty sigh that matched his ever-expanding waistline. “You’ve done nothing.” His emphasis on the final word was an indictment in itself.