A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

A home-a secure, stable place in which to grow up. A steady hand, a steadier heart, and an unwavering confidence in her.

She'd come to Hillgate End a confused seven-year-old, suddenly very much alone. Her Aunt Scroggs, with whom her parents had left her in London, had not been willing to keep her when her temporary need had turned permanent. No one had wanted her until, out of nowhere, the General, a distant connection of her father's, had stepped in, smiled kindly upon her, and taken her into his home.

In the country, where she loved to be, close to horses-her favorite animal.

Coming to Hillgate End had changed her life forever, and all for the better. Even though she hadn't been a pauper, as a child, who knows where she might have ended without the General's kindness, without his care? Thanks to the General, she'd ended here, with a happy life and every opportunity. She owed him a great deal.

Drawing a deep breath, she stepped out of the lean-to. Dillon was waiting, holding the cob, saddled and bridled, close by the log she used for mounting. Flick eyed him steadily as she crossed the yard, but she refused to let him catch her eye. Despite her affection for the General, Dillon, at the moment, she simply endured.

She mounted, gathered the reins, and jogged off without a word.

At least Demon had got the truth out of Dillon. Even though she'd felt foolish for not having seen the inconsistencies in Dillon's story, she could only be glad of Demon's intervention. Since he'd agreed to help, despite his ridiculous insistence on watching her, she'd sensed a lightening of the weight that until his arrival had rested solely on her shoulders. He was there, sharing the load, doing, like her, whatever he could to spare the General. Regardless of anything else, it was a distinct relief.

Reaching the road, she set the cob trotting. At the stable, a lad had The Flynn saddled and waiting; she checked the girths, then with the lad's help, jumped up to perch high on the bay's back. He was used to her now, to the croon of her voice; with the merest urging, he trotted to the door.

Carruthers was waiting."Take a long walk, then a gentle trot, at least six, then walk him again and bring him in."

Flick nodded and clicked the reins. Afternoon work was always easy; not every trainer even bothered.

She paraded with the rest of the string, listening to the natter of the lads and riders about her, simultaneously scanning the nearby verges of the Heath where the watchers-the hangers-on and the touts, spying out the form for bookmakers or private clients-congregated.

As usual, she was the last to walk her mount in, so she could watch to see if any outsider tried to speak to a rider. None did; no one approached any rider in Demon's string, nor the strings from nearby stables.

Disappointed, starting to question whether she would ever see or hea

r anything useful, she slid from the saddle and let the stable lad lead The Flynn away. After a moment, she followed.

She helped the lad unsaddle, then left him cleaning the manger while she fetched the feed, then the water. The lad moved on to the next horse he looked after. Flick sighed, and The Flynn turned his huge head and nudged her.

Smiling crookedly, she patted his nose. On impulse, she climbed the box wall and perched atop it, leaning her shoulder against the stable's outer wall. She scanned the boxes, listening to the murmurs and conversations-mostly between lads and their equine charges.

The Flynn nudged her legs; she crooned at him, grinning when he hurrumphed and nodded.

"Oh, fer Gawd's sake-take a hike! I doan wanna hear what you've got ter say, so just piss off, why doan yer?"

Flick straightened so abruptly that she nearly fell off the wall. The words sounded so clear-then she realized she was hearing them through the stable wall. The speaker-she recognized the dulcet tones of one of the top race jockeys-was outside.

"Now, now. If'n you'll just hear me out-"

"I tol' you-I doan wanna hear nuthin' from you! Now push off, afore I set ol' Carruthers on yer!"

"Your loss."

The second speaker had a scratchy voice; it faded away.

Flick scrambled off the wall and tore through the stable, dodging lads with buckets and feed all the way up the alley. They swore at her. She didn't stop. She reached the doors; hugging their edge, she peeped out.

A heavy figure in an old frieze coat was lumbering away along the edge of the Heath, a cloth cap pulled low over his face, his hands sunk in his pockets. She could see little more than Dillon had.

The man was heading for the town.

For one moment, Flick stood in the yard, juggling possibilities. Then she swung around and hurried back into the stable.

Demon ambled into his stable at the end of the working day. Soft snorts and gentle whinnies punctuated breathy sighs as stable lads closed their charges in their boxes. The reek of horse was absolute; Demon barely noticed. He did notice the old cob quietly dozing in one corner, a few handfuls of hay and a bucket close by. Glancing left and right, Demon strolled down the alley.

He stopped by The Flynn's box; the big bay was settled and contentedly munching. Strolling on, he came upon Carruthers, inspecting a filly's hoof.

"Where's Flick?"