Between two horses, which doth bear him best ...
—SHAKESPEARE
Frances stared. Two trainers, Henry and Tully, held the mare, Miss Margaret, firmly by her halter. The mare was whinnying and snorting, her flanks quivering, her beautiful bay coat covered with sweat. Gentleman Dan could barely be restrained. His eyes rolled in his head at the sight of the mare, and the four men who held him strained for control.
Hawk watched Frances’ face as the stallion was guided behind the mare. He heard Belvis give a sharp command. This was the tricky part. It was always possible for the mare to be injured, and everything was done to prevent it. The stallion’s hooves were wrapped in thick white wool. Gentleman Dan was snorting, tossing his beautiful head, so excited by the sight and smell of the mare that Frances believed he would break loose at any moment. She held her breath. Suddenly the stallion was allowed to rear over the back of the mare, and she gulped.
“You are remarking the horse’s endowments,” Hawk said, regarding her wide-eyed stare.
“He is going to hurt her,” Frances whispered.
“Perhaps, but we will do our best to see that he doesn’t.”
The stallion was bucking at the mare, straining forward to bite her on her neck. The mare was trying to pull free of her holders, her hindquarters trembling.
“Now, look closely, my dear” Hawk said. He saw that she had closed her eyes, and roughly shook her arm. “You will look well, Frances.”
She opened her eyes to see the stallion thrust wildly into the mare. There was unearthly shrieking from both animals. It was a sight she could never have imagined. The stallion was huge, but the mare pushed back against him, craning her head back, snorting frantically. Frances couldn’t have closed her eyes against the sight even if she had thought about it. The horses seemed beside themselves; the stallion was allowed to thrust and withdraw as he wished to. He was enormous and Frances wanted to feel revulsion, she truly did. But the mare suddenly kicked her hind legs upward and the stallion, with a furious cry, drove into her. The mare screamed, and Frances knew, deep down, that it was a cry of pleasure. She felt her palms grow sweaty, her breath grow jerky.
The men were encouraging Gentleman Dan, but there was no leering, no stupid jests. It was only she herself, Frances thought vaguely, who was responding to this incredible scene. She felt a deep stirring, but didn’t understand it. She felt a tension building in her belly ... no, below her belly, between her legs.
She wasn’t aware that Hawk was watching her closely, his eyes glittering at the sight of the pounding pulse in her throat.
She wasn’t aware that Hawk’s hand had clasped her and that her fingers were working spasmodically against his. She drew a deep, shuddering breath when Gentleman Dan gave a wild cry and quivered, then stiffened over the mare’s back.
Suddenly she felt Hawk take her hand and lead her away. She felt dazed, utterly out of herself, which was foolish, of course, but she couldn’t seem to calm the rampaging feelings deep inside her. She kept pace with him, not looking at him. He finally gained the tack room, and closed the door.
“Frances,” he said very softly.
She raised glazed eyes to his face. He slowly turned her around so her back was pressing against his chest. Suddenly his hand was on her belly, kneading her, caressing her very gently, feeling her through the boys trousers. She wanted to object, but her body wouldn’t allow it.
His hand, just as quickly, stroked down her, and cupped against her. She gave a jerking start, and cried out. She felt his other hand press against her breasts, holding her still against him. She gave a whimpering cry, not understanding, as the palm of his hand pressed against her. She felt wet and hot and furiously urgent.
She vaguely heard his harsh breathing in her ear, felt his fingers now searching over her breasts, finding her taut nipples, stroking them.
Then his fingers were wild on her in a rhythm that made her whimper and press forward. “That’s good,” he said, his voice raw and low against her cheek. “Yes, move against my fingers.”
She saw the mare thrusting back against the stallion, and as she pressed her hips against him, his fingers followed. She felt blood pounding in her head, felt herself opening and tensing at the same time. His fingers quickened and she cried out, wanting more, wanting so much ...
“My lord! Belvis needs
to speak to you. My lord?”
The knock on the tack-room door, the groom’s voice, brought Frances plummeting back to earth. She felt Hawk’s fingers leave her, felt him draw a deep breath, heard him curse vividly.
His hands were on her upper arms now, gently squeezing her, as if trying to calm both of them.
“Just a moment,” he called out.
“Frances,” he said very softly. He turned her about, saw the dazed shock in her eyes, and pulled her close. His large hands stroked down her back, kneading the tense muscles. “It’s all right,” he said against her left ear. “I’m sorry about the damned interruption. You were so very close.”
Close to what?
He gently set her away from him. “Will you be all right?”
She felt a sudden violent surge of embarrassment. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, to see the look in his eyes. She managed to nod, her head bowed.
Hawk cursed again.