“It’s alright, Sampson, you can stop now. It’s alright, boy.” She leaned as close to the horse’s head as she dared, her words falling from numb lips, the wind still roaring in her ears, snatching her whisper and sending it whirling into the abyss, only . . .
Had Sampson’s ears twitched at the sound of her voice?
“That’s it, boy, listen to me. You’re alright, there’s nothing to fear.” She babbled on and on, not even knowing what she said, but by some miracle her voice was calm, steady, and—another miracle—Sampson was listening to her!
“Calm, boy, calm.”
Everything around her faded to silence then—the roar of the wind, the thunder of hooves, the shouts coming from behind her, even the shuddering of her own heart in her chest.
It was only her and Sampson and the low, breathless words falling from her lips.
CHAPTER8
“Bloodyhell, Hodge! What the devil are you firing at?” Jasper spun toward his manservant and pushed the end of the still-smoking shotgun away from him. “You might have blown my head off! For God’s sake, man, do I look like a grouse to you?”
“I didn’t—forgive me, Your Grace!” Hodge turned wild eyes on him. “I didn’t have my finger anywhere near the trigger! The damn thing exploded!”
Jasper raised an eyebrow, and poor Hodge, already pale with shock, went another degree paler as the curse escaped his lips. One didn’t curse at one’s master, particularly when one’s master was the Duke of Montford. “Er, I mean, the weapon discharged unexpectedly, Your Grace!”
“It’s a bloody Manton, Hodge. They don’t just explode without warning.”
Or not often, at any rate.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Hodge gave him a miserable nod. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace.”
Jasper sighed. Hodge had only just entered his employ a month earlier, and he hadn’t yet gotten over his terror of dukes. The man was bound to be a nervous wreck this next week, as no fewer than three dukes were attending Basingstoke’s shooting party, along with a few marquesses, a handful of earls, and a stray viscount or two.
And one Baron Stoneleigh, damn the man.
“Never mind it, Hodge.” Jasper was tempted to peer down into the barrel—not the wisest course of action, as a thing that had exploded once might certainly do so again—but instead he took the gun from Hodge and laid it on the ground with the barrel pointed toward the trees.
“I—I do beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Hodge was still babbling and wringing his hands. “I swear I never got near the trigger—”
“Yes, alright, Hodge. Calm down, will you?” He’d wondered if Hodge might be too high-strung to act as a proper attendant for the shooting party, and now he had his answer. “There’s no need for hysterics. I don’t believe you’ve shot anyone. No harm’s been done—”
“Help! Runaway horse! Runaway horse!”
Jasper jerked around as the panicked shout rang out across the meadow, drowning out the echo of the gunshot. “What the devil? What bloody horse?” It was still early, and they hadn’t seen another soul all morning.
“There, Your Grace!” Hodge pointed a shaking finger toward the crest of the hill ahead of them, the remaining blood in his face draining like water through a sieve.
Jasper whirled around just in time to catch a flutter of movement and a familiar, craggy face in profile. One of Basingstoke’s grooms, Collins, or Cartwright—he’d seen the man around the stables—had just sent his mount careening down the side of the hill, the horse’s white tail streaming out behind him.
“Damnation. Secure the gun, Hodge, then ride back to Basingstoke House and find the duke. Tell him there’s been an accident. Quickly, man!” Jasper sprang up into the saddle, sank his boot heels into Phoenix’s flanks, and they were off with a lurch, leaving Hodge behind to fumble with the rifle.
This wasn’t good. Hodge’s rogue shot might not have hit anyone, but if the horse that had bolted had thrown himself over the edge of that hill and into the void, only the most skillful horseman would be able to control him.
Anything less, and someone was certain to end up hurt.
Or worse, dead.
He paused for half a second at the verge of the crest, and there was Collins, or whatever the groom’s name was, struggling down the hill, but making a slow enough go at it, his terrified horse balking at every step of the steep decline and threatening to send them both crashing to the ground.
And yes, damn it, far ahead of him, streaking down the hillside as if the hounds of hell were riding his heels, was an enormous black mount, churning up the ground as he tore along in a blind panic, huge, muddy clumps of shredded earth flying off the backs of his hooves.
And atop him . . . good Lord, was that a woman? By God, it was!
Alady, perched on that giant of an animal’s back? A lady in a navy-blue riding habit, the hems of her skirts flying in the wind, her matching hat lying crumpled in the dirt some lengths behind her, a wild cloud of hair sailing out behind her like a whirlwind.
