But she was the queen. She would climb down when she wished to. She answered to no one.
They stared at each other. She was so breathless she was almost unable to speak. Her outfit, she realized, was sopping wet with sweat. His tunic was studded with thorns and fragments of the bush he had fallen into, his neck splashed with mud.
‘Dog rose,’ he said. ‘Cushioned me and stung me. Pink flowers, prickles. Dog rose and hawthorn. Broke my fall, hey.’
What was his accent – what was the ‘hey’ he had added? Was that South African, Australian? She could only guess. The primal howling of the hounds, which could carry for miles, had faded completely now. There was only a still breeze. For noreason she could put her finger on, Stevie felt fearful. She did not want to dismount. Chestnut might buck as soon as he felt one foot lift from the stirrup. She might then be carried at a racehorse lick, hanging by one leg, unable to bail.
‘Step down, little girl.’
That was it. She gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not a little girl.’
‘Scottish?’
‘Glasgow and some other places.’
‘We welcomed you as a disabled rider and you’ve taken off like bloody Lester Piggott.’
His voice was aristocratic, but with a tremble that she thought might be the result of shock from the fall. She stared down at him.
‘I’ve never seen anyone go off like that, almost as if you never rode a horse before.’
She would never admit it. ‘I like a fast ride.’
‘You stayed on. Ninety-nine per cent of first-timers fall when they lose the horse like that, and I’m the hunt leader, so I had to follow, understand? I’m liable.’
‘I’m not a first-timer,’ she lied, not wanting to blow her cover.
‘Okay. Well. Right. We were told – I was told – you were experienced. Obviously someone got their wires crossed. Let’s just say you’ve not been on too many hunts before, hey?’ He would not accuse her of lying. His face softened. He touched his forehead. ‘Oh God, am I bleeding? I thought it was sweat.’
She looked at him. By chance, she was in conversation with the owner of the flat Lev Malnyk had stayed in and she must take her chance while it was there, before he was summoned away or someone else joined them in this isolated field.
‘Do you want to climb up, and we ride back?’ she said. ‘Or shall I get down and we take a minute?’
His face was blank. His eyes were not focusing. The wound in his forehead dripped fresh blood onto the line of an eyebrow, and now the red liquid had found a channel down his cheek.He placed his legs further apart. ‘Crikey, I feel light-headed. Dismount, can you?’
She had to try. She stole a foot from the stirrup, but held the reins tight. Quickly she stood, straightening her left leg, swung her right leg over, and jumped from the saddle. But her left foot was still in the stirrup, almost at the level of her head. RCC saw it happen and raced around the horse, taking the reins and pushing the toe of Stevie’s leather boot so the foot was released. ‘Take the reins. I need to stop mine bolting.’
A moment later they were at the edge of the field. He had lengthened the halters on both animals and tied them to a fencepost. ‘Don’t like to do this, they hate it, but I need half a tick in the shade. Felt faint there. Went into that bush like a cruise missile.’
Stevie reckoned she had no more than five minutes before someone came looking for them, and then her chance of finding out about his connection with the biker was gone. She was so close, but she must not blow it by being obvious.
‘What was your name again?’
‘Richard Cammell-Curzon.’ He had lit a cigarette. ‘And you’re Stevie, yes?’
‘Stevie Mason.’
‘Short for Stephanie?’
‘No, not short for anything. Like the poet, I keep being told.’
‘Stevie Jones?’ he asked.
‘Stevie Smith.’
‘Got you,’ he joked. ‘Of course I knew that.’
She looked sideways at his face. The thin blond beard had traces of red, not blood but ginger. So beneath the helmet he was a redhead? His scratched skin was fair. He felt his face. His fingers were almost feminine. He kept pursing his lips, as if trying to suck a fly from his front teeth.
