A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

She made a small sound, like a hum, in her throat-a muted sound of distress.

Demon straightened away from the tree; in the gathering gloom, he couldn't see her face clearly. At that moment, she stepped back from Jessamy's side, dusting her hands. He strolled around the mare. "You can continue at my stable for the time being-until we catch sight of this contact." If any avenue had offered, he'd have eased her out of his stable, out of Newmarket itself until all danger was past. But… her stubbornness was a tangible thing.

She turned to face him. "If you try to get rid of me, I'll just get a job in another stable. There's more than one in Newmarket."

None as safe as his. "Carruthers will keep you on until I say otherwise." Which he would the instant they located Dillon's contact. "But you'll be restricted to riding track, morning and afternoon."

"That's the only time that matters, anyway. That's the only time outsiders aren't looked at askance about the Heath."

She was absolutely right.

He'd been going to give her a boost to her saddle; instead, features hardening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist and lifted her.

Lust flashed through him like liquid heat-a hot urgency that left him ravenous. He had to force himself to set her neatly in her saddle, to let go, to hold her stirrup while she slipped one small boot into it.

And not drag her back down, into his arms.

He wanted her in his bed.

The realization struck like a kick from one of his Thoroughbreds, leaving him winded and aching. Inwardly shaking. He looked up-and found her looking down at him.

She frowned and shook her reins. "Come on." Wheeling Jessamy, she trotted out of the clearing.

Demon swore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, yanked at Ivan's reins, and then remembered the double knots. He had to stop to undo them, then he vaulted to the saddle.

And followed.

Chapter 3

Demon rose before dawn the next morning and rode to his stable to view the morning gallops-and to keep an eye on Flick and her bottom. He felt distinctly aggrieved by the necessity of rising so early, but… the thought of her, the angel in blue velvet, thundering about disguised as a lad, with all the potential calamities that might ensue, had made dozing off again impossible.

So he stood in the thin mist by Carruthers's side and watched his horses thunder by. The ground shook, the air trembled; the reverberations were as familiar as his heartbeat. The scene was a part of him, and he a part of it-and Flick was in it, too. She flew past, extending The Flynn, exhorting him to greater effort, leaving the other horses behind. Demon's breath caught as she flashed past the post; he felt her thrill-a flaring sense of triumph. It shivered through him, held him effortlessly, then he drew breath and forced himself to look away, to where his other work riders were urging their mounts along.

The fine mist glazed the shoulders of his greatcoat; it darkened his fair hair. Flick made those observations as, slowing The Flynn, she glanced back to where Demon stood. He was looking away, a fact she'd known, or she wouldn't have risked the glance. He'd been watching her almost without pause since he'd arrived, just after she'd taken to the Heath.

Luckily, cursing beneath her breath only reinforced her disguise. But she had to suppress all other signs of agitation so she didn't communicate her sudden nervousness to The Flynn. She'd always felt breathless whenever Demon was about; she'd anticipated some degree of awkwardness, the remnants of her childhood infatuation with him. But not this-this nerve-stretching awareness, the skittery sensation in her stomach. She'd buried deep the suspicion it had something to do-a great deal to do-with the breath-stealing shock she'd felt when he had lifted her to her saddle the previous evening. The last thing she wanted was for The Flynn to make an exhibition of himself under Demon's expert eye. He might see it as a God-given sign to change his mind and relieve her of her duties.

But riding track with him watching proved a far greater trial than performing for Carruthers alone, despite the fact the old curmudgeon was the most exacting trainer on the Heath. There was a certain sharp assessment in Demon's blue gaze that was absent from Carruthers's eyes; as her nervousness grew, she had to wonder if Demon was doing it deliberately-deliberately discomposing her-so she'd make some silly error and give him a reason to send her packing.

Thankfully, all her years of riding had taught her to hide her feelings well; she and The Flynn put on a good show. Wheeling the big bay, she headed back to the stable.

Demon nodded his approval when she walked The Flynn in and halted him in the mounting area. Kicking free of the stirrups, she slid down the horse away from Demon and Carruthers. An apprentice hurried up; he grabbed the reins before she could blink, before she could think, and led The Flynn off to his box, leaving her facing Carruthers, with Demon beside him.

"Good work." Demon's blue eyes held hers; he nodded curtly. "We'll see you this afternoon. Don't be late."

Flick's tongue burned; she had, until now, unsaddled and brushed down The Flynn herself. But her disguise demanded meekness; she ducked her head. "I'll be here." With that gruff declaration, she swung around and, remembering at the last not to walk stiffly, sauntered up the alley to where the cob stood dozing by the door. She scrambled up to her saddle and left without a backward glance-before temptation could get the upper hand.

Behind her, she heard Demon ask Carruthers some question-but she could still feel his gaze on her back.

After seeing Flick safely away, Demon repaired to the coffeehouse in Newmarket High Street favored by the members of the Jockey Club.

He was hailed the instant he crossed the threshold. Returning greetings right and left, he strolled to the counter, ordered a large breakfast, then joined a group comprised mostly of other owners at one of the long tables.

"We're exchanging predictions for the coming season." Patrick McGonnachie, manager of the duke of Beaufort's stable, turned to Demon as he sat. "Currently, of course, we've five times the number of winners as we have races."

"Sounds like a fresh crop," Demon drawled. "That'll keep the General busy."

McGonnachie blinked, then caught his meaning-if horses that hadn't won before made it to the winner's circle, the General would need to investigate their pedigree. McGonnachie shifted. "Ah, yes. Busy indeed."