"Leave that." Demon shouldered the startled lad aside. With one tug and a well-placed knee, he recinched the girth. He vaulted into the saddle and backed the horse, fumbling with the stirrup straps.
"Here-I can send one of the lads after him." Carruthers stepped back as Demon trotted the horse past.
"No-leave it to me. I'll straighten the lad out."
Demon doubted Carruthers caught the emphasis; he wasn't about to stop and explain. Muttering, he set out in hot pursuit.
The instant his mount cleared the stable door, he dug in his heels; the horse lengthened his stride from trot to canter to gallop. By then, Demon had located his prey. In the far distance, disappearing into the shadows thrown by a stand of trees. Another minute and he'd have lost her.
Jaw setting, he struggled with the stirrups as he pounded along. Curses and oaths colored the wind of his passage. Finally, the stirrups were lengthened enough; he settled properly into the saddle, and the chase began in earnest.
The bobbing figure on the back of The Flynn shot a glance behind, then looked forward. A second later, The Flynn swerved and lengthened his stride.
Demon tacked, trying to close the gap by cutting diagonally across-only to find himself careening toward a stretch of rough. Forced to slow and turn aside, he glanced up-and discovered that Flick had abruptly swung the other way and was making off in a different direction. Instead of shortening, the distance between them had grown.
Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, Demon forgot about swearing and concentrated on riding. Within two minutes, he'd altered his initial plan-to ride Flick down and demand an explanation-to simply keeping the damned female in sight.
She rode like a demon-even better than he. It didn't seem possible, but…
He was a superlative rider, quite possibly the most accomplished of his day. He could ride anything with four legs, mane and tail anywhere, over any terrain. But Flick was leading him a merry dance. And it wasn't simply the fact that his horse was already tired or that he rode much heavier than she. The Flynn was tired, too, and was being ridden harder; Flick was fleeing; he was only following. But she seemed to merge with her mount in that way only other expert riders could understand.
He understood it and couldn't help admiring it grudgingly, even while acknowledging he had not a hope in hell of catching her.
Her. There was no doubt of that now. Lads did not have delicate shoulders and collarbones, swanlike necks, and hands that, even encased in leather gloves, looked small and fine-boned. As for her face, the little he'd glimpsed above the woollen muffler wound about her nose and chin had been more Madonnalike than manlike.
A female called Flick. In the distant recesses of his brain, a memory stirred, too insubstantial to catch and hold. He tried to coax it further into the light, and failed. He was sure he'd never called any female Flick.
She was still a good two furlongs ahead of him, maintaining the distance with ease. They were riding directly west, out onto the less frequented stretches of the Heath. They'd sped past a number of strings out exercising; heads had come up to watch them in surprise. He saw her glance around again; an instant later, she swerved. Grimly determined, Demon squinted into the setting sun and followed in her tracks.
He might not be able to ride her down, but he'd be damned if he'd lose her.
His resolution had, by now, communicated itself quite effectively to Flick. Making a few choice observations about London-bound rakes who came up to their stud farms with not a moment's notice and then proceeded to get in the way, to throw her off her stride, to plunge her into a ridiculous fluster, she irritatedly, and not a little frantically, reviewed her options.
There weren't many. While she could easily ride for another hour, The Flynn couldn't. And the horse Demon was on would fare even worse. And, despite the knot of sheer panic in her stomach, there wasn't any po
int fleeing, anyway.
She would, one way or another, either now or only marginally later, have to face Demon. She didn't know if he'd recognized her, but in that frozen instant in the stable when his blue gaze had raked her, she'd got the impression he'd seen through her disguise.
In fact, the impression she'd got was that he'd seen right through her clothes-a distinctly unnerving sensation.
Yet even if he hadn't realized she was female, her impulsive reaction had made a confrontation unavoidable. She'd run-and she couldn't possibly explain that, not without giving him, and his memories, far too many hints as to her identity.
Catching her breath on a hiccup, Flick glanced back; he was still there, doggedly following. Turning forward, she noted their location. She'd led him west, then south, skirting the stables and paddocks edging the racecourse, then heading farther onto the open Heath. She glanced at the sun. They had at least an hour before twilight. With all the others back at the stables settling horses for the night, this part of the Heath was now deserted. If she found a spot where they were reasonably screened, it would be as good a place as any for the meeting that, it now seemed, had to be.
Honesty was her only option. In truth, she would prefer it-lies and evasion had never been her style.
A hundred yards ahead, a hedge beckoned. Her memory provided a picture of what lay beyond. The Flynn was tiring; she leaned forward and stroked the glossy neck, whispering words of praise, encouragement and outright flattery into his ear. Then she set him for the hedge.
The Flynn soared over it, landing easily. Flick absorbed the jolt and wheeled left, into the long shadows thrown by a copse. In the space between the hedge and the copse, screened on three sides, she reined in and waited.
And waited.
After five minutes, she started to wonder if Demon had looked away at the crucial moment and not seen where she'd gone. When another minute passed and she sensed no ground-shaking thuds, she frowned and straightened in her saddle. She was about to gather her reins and move out to search for her pursuer when she saw him.
He hadn't jumped the hedge. Despite his wish to catch her, wisdom-care for his horse-had prevailed; he'd gone along the hedge until he'd found a gap. Now he cantered up through the late afternoon, broad shoulders square, long limbs relaxed, head up, the sun striking gold from his burnished curls, his face a grim mask as he scanned the fields ahead, trying to catch sight of her.
Flick froze. It was tempting-so tempting-to sit still. To look her fill, and let him pass by, to worship from afar as she had for years, letting her senses feast while she remained safely hidden. If she made no sound, it was unlikely he would see her. She wouldn't have to face him… unfortunately, there were too many hurdles along that road. Stiffening her spine, taking a firm grip on her unruly senses, she lifted her chin. "Demon!"