Sattler, Veronica (26 page)

Suddenly
Ashleigh stopped and pondered. Maybe the problem was that there was
too much
of a distraction. "Finn!" she called. "That pig has got to
go! She's enough to wake the dead. March her over here right now and see if you
can't get her to stay. I want you working alone." She gestured for the dog
to approach.

As
if he understood every word, Finn came to stand by his mistress with Lady
Dimples in tow.

Ashleigh
patted the piglet, urging her to lie down in the grass. "Lady Dimples,
stay!" she ordered, then signaled Finn to return to his post. She led the
filly back to the starting point and prepared to repeat the procedure.

Ashleigh
gave Irish Night the signal to advance and began to run with her. At the
appropriate moment, she raised her arm to communicate to Finn. She steeled
herself for disappointment as she began to read the familiar signs of balking
in the filly as Finn emerged from his hiding place when, all of a sudden, a
shrill squealing and a blur of pink to her left told her Lady Dimples was on
the move!

What
happened next occurred so fast, Ashleigh wasn't sure she was seeing right.
Darting toward the filly's heels from either side, like a perfectly coordinated
team, Finn and the pig urged the horse forward with a din of barking and
squealing that rivaled the sounds of Bedlam. The filly, looking like all the
demons of hell were after her, took the barrier with feet to spare!

It
was all over in seconds, and when she had time to slow down and realize what
had happened, Ashleigh gave a howl of delight, plopped herself on the soft
grass and burst into laughter. The filly, who had come to a stop at the other
end of the lunge line, eyed her curiously, but Finn bounced to her side and
began to lick her laughing face while Lady Dimples grunted contentedly at his
side.

"Oh,
heavens! Who would have thought it?" Ashleigh chortled. "A horse-training
pig!" And she launched into another peal of merriment.

Brett
sat quietly in his saddle and watched the strange little group. He had
witnessed the entire scene, and he couldn't help the wide grin that spread
across his features as he listened to the sounds of Ashleigh Sinclair's
delight. His eyes took in the charming sight she made, blue eyes merry, cheeks
flushed with laughter, raven hair tousled and spilling wildly over her
shoulders.... He couldn't help thinking she resembled some wood sprite as she
leaned back in the fragrant grasses and took such simple pleasure in her
unexpected success with the horse.

Suddenly
Brett was doubly grateful to Brighton and its princely attractions for allowing
him this visit home. Gone were his chafings at the restrictions imposed on him
during recent weeks, his concerns over Napoleon, his boredom with life. Right
now Kent, with its meadows and streams and the charm of midsummer, seemed to
bid him stay, and at the center of that attraction, though he didn't stop to ponder
it, lay an elfin beauty with midnight curls.

Just
then, Finn lifted his head and held it very still while he sniffed the air; his
eyes focused on the stand of trees across the meadow. With a sharp bark he
suddenly bounded in Brett's direction.

Knowing
he'd been discovered, Brett didn't wait for the wolfhound to reach him, but
urged Raven forward. "Hello, there, Finn," he said, recalling what
Ashleigh had called the dog. "So you're to become a master of horses,
rather than hounds. Not very true to your namesake, though."

Ashleigh
sat erect in the grass, her eyes wide with surprise at their intruder. Since no
one at Ravensford Hall had been aware of when its master was expected back,
Brett's appearance came as a shock; he'd been gone for many weeks, and she'd
grown accustomed to a daily routine in which thoughts of him rarely entered her
mind. Indeed, ever since the day he'd left, she'd been preoccupied with staying
clear of Lady Margaret and her houseguest, Elizabeth Hastings. Since this had
been accomplished through activities such as the horse training, she'd spent
most of her waking hours with the animals and stable help and occasionally with
Hettie Busby in the kitchens. Hettie and Old Henry had become fond of her and
Megan, and, owing to the hostility of the gentry in the house, the two young
women found what social life they had around the elderly couple and their
friends.

Now,
as she beheld him sitting astride his big black stallion, just a few yards away
from her, she was assailed by a host of unpleasant, confusing feelings. Here
was the man responsible for the most harrowing experience of her life, but also
the one responsible for her welfare and, she could only hope, an upward swing
in her fortunes. He was arrogant, a callous rogue; he was also devastatingly
handsome, rich, titled and powerful. And he held her future in his hands. Worst
of all, appearing so suddenly on the scene, as now, he had the power to make
her heart race and moisture gather on the palms of her hands. She was afraid of
Brett Westmont; of that there was no doubt. It mattered little that he'd faded
from her daily thoughts, when here, all at once, at his sudden appearance, he
had the power to reduce her to a trembling weakling. Also, there was no Megan
nearby to lend her courage. It was one thing to deal with him under the
watchful eye of others, including her strong and supportive friend; it was
another to face him in the middle of an open meadow, a good distance from the
nearest place where cries for help might be heard and heeded.

Wishing
at all costs to hide the effect he had on her, Ashleigh sought to deflect his
scrutinizing gaze by commenting on what he'd said to Finn. "I wasn't aware
you knew Irish history, Your Grace."

Brett
laughed, white teeth flashing in a bronze face. "Not as well as the
history I read at Cambridge, but I've a friend with an Irish heritage who
drinks deeply of the heady stuff and never lets an evening's companionship go
by without regaling me with a tale or two. Cormac's Finn is one of his
favorites."

Ashleigh
nodded. "I should like to meet your friend sometime, then, though
'Ashleigh's Finn' is
my
favorite!" She reached out and gave a pat
to the dog who had returned to her side as soon as Brett began speaking. The
gesture was meant to appear casual, but at the back of Ashleigh's mind was the
sudden notion that she was not truly alone with Brett, after all. Finn was here
and, if need be, would protect her with his life. The knowledge was immensely
comforting, and she began to relax.

"Perhaps
you will," Brett told her as he began to dismount. "And soon. He's
promised to follow me down from London shortly." He took Raven's reins and
looped them over his head so they trailed on the ground; it was a signal to
stay, and the big horse obeyed. Then Brett walked the few remaining paces that
separated him from Ashleigh and offered his hand to help her up.

Hesitating
but a second, Ashleigh placed her small hand in his, then felt his strength as
he pulled her upright.

Turquoise
eyes met hers as he asked, "How are you, little one? Have things gone
smoothly for you since I left?"

He
continued to hold on to her hand as he spoke, and Ashleigh felt her heart
thudding in her chest. "Well enough, Your Grace," she murmured
softly.

"No
tedious country days? No nasty run-ins with the Lady Margaret?"

At
the mention of Brett's great-aunt, Ashleigh's eyes grew dark, but she quickly
averted her gaze. It would hardly do to complain to her employer about his
nearest relative, she reasoned; what if he thought her peevish and decided to
sack her? She shook her head.

Brett
caught the look in her eyes before she turned away, thought momentarily to
pursue it, then decided he could better do so later, perhaps after he'd
encountered Margaret and saw how the wind was blowing there.

Releasing
her hand, he gestured toward Irish Night. "So you've been working with my
prized import. I ought to take Old Henry to task for that. I told him to see to
your safety in assigning you a mount."

Ashleigh's
eyes widened with apprehension. "Oh, he did, Your Grace! I'm only allowed
a few hours a day with Irish, and I'm not allowed to mount her! Major's the one
I ride. Oh, please, Your Grace, don't be blaming Old Henry. He merely—"

Brett's
laughter cut in. "Major! My God! He's twenty-two years old! No wonder you
needed time with this spirited little devil! Old Henry must have taken my
admonitions seriously, indeed!" He smiled, looking down at her anxious
face. "No, little one, I'm not about to blame anyone."

"Ohh,"
Ashleigh murmured, relieved. "Thank Heaven, Your Grace, I—"

Brett
raised his hand to cup her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. "It's
Brett, remember?"

The
thudding in Ashleigh's chest grew so, she was afraid he could hear it.
"I—" Her lashes fluttered under the directness of his gaze.
"Brett," she said at last.

He
smiled, releasing her chin, but his fingers stretched and lightly brushed the
mole that rested high on her cheekbone. "Women have been known to paste
patches on their faces to enhance their beauty. Yours is God-given," he
told her, "along with a beauty that needs no enhancing."

Ashleigh
blushed, then dimpled as she recollected the morning they'd left for the
dressmaker's. "I seem to recall, Your Gr—Brett... a time you were eager to
see it helped along with finer clothes." She watched him with her head
cocked slightly to one side to gauge his reaction, but knowing somehow he would
not anger with her retort. She sensed his lighter mood, different from those
she'd seen him in before, and it both pleased and intrigued her. What a
complicated man he was! And whereas before she'd found this realization
intimidating, now she was drawn by it and not at all frightened.

Brett
smiled. "There was, in my actions that morning, not even the slightest
sense of 'helping' your beauty along. If a man has an exquisite gem, a
sapphire, let us say—" he was looking directly into her blue, blue eyes as
he spoke "—and he takes it to a goldsmith to have it mounted into a ring,
perhaps, or worked into a pendant, is the value of the stone diminished or
enhanced by the setting? The answer is no, for the stone will always be the
stone it is, beautiful in its own right. The setting merely makes it possible
for others to admire it, something which would not happen if it were locked
away in a box or drawer somewhere, where it could not catch the light and
dazzle the onlooker with its loveliness." His eyes flickered wonderingly
over her upturned face. "No, Ashleigh, I was helping nothing along that
day, but merely playing humble goldsmith to your beauty's jewels."

She
stood, rapt, looking up at him. This was a different Brett Westmont indeed! It
wasn't that he hadn't remarked upon her appearance before—their first
encounter, she knew, though the specifics were hazy, had been full of his
comments on the attractions of her... flesh....

But
right now something quite different was at work. There was nothing passionate
or lustful in his words. Rather, it was as if he uttered them with the
emotional detachment of an artist—a painter, or a writer, perhaps.... At last
Ashleigh broke the lengthening silence. "You... are a poet, I think... and
perhaps a philosopher?"

Brett
laughed, shaking his head. "Hardly! Though I know a few—
real
poets,
that is—and, yes, they are philosophers, too. As a matter of fact, you'll be
meeting one or two of them soon. They're among some friends I've invited down
from London." He paused for a moment, as if considering something he'd
just said. "I doubt that Byron will be with them, however. He's too busy
brooding about some private devils, as usual, to want to socialize down here in
the country. A pity, too. I'd thought he and Percy Shelley would get on well
together."

Ashleigh's
delicate eyebrows lifted with her recognition of a name she'd often heard.
"Did you say Byron, Your Gr— Brett?
Lord
Byron?"

"The
same." Brett's grin went roguish. "I take it you've heard of
him."

Ashleigh's
cheeks pinkened. Who in England hadn't heard of the dashing, romantic poet
who'd taken the country by storm with the publication of his
Childe Harold
a
couple of years before and then gone on to cap it by having a notorious affair
with Lady Caroline Lamb?

But
the real reason behind Ashleigh's blush was Brett's remark that the poet was
brooding about "some private devils." It was the very phrase Megan
had used about Brett, and the irony of this struck her at once. To cover the
cause of her reaction, however, she seized on the public image of Lord Byron.
"His lordship enjoys a... remarkable reputation."

Brett
chuckled as he reached to pet Finn's shaggy coat. "Indeed, he does, though
I suspect it's not knowledge of the one he gained by his pen that tints your
cheeks!"

Realizing
her ploy had worked, Ashleigh's hue deepened. She was not accustomed to using
such tactics, and it made her uncomfortable, but it would never do to let him
suspect the nature of her private conversations with Megan wherein
he
was
the primary topic!

Brett's
chuckle deepened into a low rumble of laughter. "Poor Byron! He awoke one
morning to find himself famous for his literary genius, and that was well
enough; then, along came Caroline Lamb, and the famous became
infamous!"