He held up a hand for her silence. ‘No. Don’t say anything.’
Somehow Ross got himself out of the Chinese Salon before he started to shake. The pain in his wounded leg was a nauseating ache. He must have knocked it when…when he had lost his mind, picked up his housekeeper and began ravishing her on the sofa in an unlocked room in broad daylight.
He had to get out of the house before he either went back in there, dragged her upstairs and finished what he had begun or—
‘My lord!’
‘Heneage, are you unwell?’ Ross put out a hand to steady the butler who had walked round the corner without seeing him and was now white to the lips. How old was the man? Was his heart affected?
‘I am quite well, my lord. Forgive me—it is just that I did not hear you and you looked, for a moment, so like his late lordship when he was displeased that I was quite taken aback.’
Ross stood there in his own hall, all the surging frustration and anger and misery of his childhood building up in him like a fermenting wine bottle that was ready to blow. He had schooled himself never to show those feelings, never to give his father the satisfaction of seeing how effective his disapproval, his punishments, his scowling anger were at withering his son’s heart. He had fought back with insolence and disobedience and that, in part, was why Giles’s accident happened.
‘I am sorry I gave you a shock, Heneage. You are not seeing ghosts.’ But I am. ‘I am going out. My apologies to Mrs Harris, but I will not be in for dinner.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ The butler was recovering his colour. ‘Shall I send round to the stables for your horse, my lord?’
‘No, I’ll saddle up myself.’ Ross paused with one foot on the bottom stair on his way to pull on a pair of breeches and topboots. The thought of waiting patiently for even ten minutes was intolerable. He had to get out of the house, away from Meg. Away, if that were possible, from himself.
His father had never stinted himself on his stables. Ross strode across the cobbled yard, waving aside the groom who was sweeping out the central gutter. He had been riding out daily on one of his father’s cover hacks, a well-bred but sturdy animal that stood placidly while Ross grappled with the intricacies of crop rotation, but would take the hedge banks in its stride if necessary. And it was a sensible animal to ride for someone who had a healing wound in his leg. Despite what Meg thought, he was capable of some common sense as far as that was concerned, he reflected sourly, reaching for the bridle that hung by the door.
A black head appeared over the door of the next box, ears pricked, eye rolling warily. His father’s last acquisition, Culrose, the head groom, had told him.
‘Fabulous blood line and it cost him a pretty penny, my lord. But it’s the very devil to ride. Threw your father
, first time out, and he never rode him again. I exercise it on the end of a leading rein—I don’t fancy having my neck broke, and that’s a fact.’
At the time Ross had simply made a mental note to sell the animal. Now he put back the bridle and went to look at it. As he let himself into the box he saw it was no gelding, but an intact stallion. ‘Stop that.’ He grabbed its forelock as it snaked out its neck to bite him and hung on as it countered by trying to rear. ‘Do you want to get out of here and gallop, or not?’
The horse showed the whites of its eyes, but stood still, obviously realising that he was not to be intimidated. With one hand still fast in its forelock, Ross shouted, ‘Get me the tack!’ and found, when he looked over his shoulder, a collection of grooms and stable lads all watching the half-door with wary anticipation. He hoped they would have the guts to come in and haul him out if the creature kicked him down.
‘My lord.’ One lad heaved the saddle up on to the door and hung the bridle over the pommel.
Ross managed, one handed, to get the bit in its mouth, then the bridle over its head. The horse stood with remarkable, and suspicious, meekness when he released its mane and began to fasten buckles.
‘What’s its name?’
‘Trevarras Dragon, my lord.’
Appropriate. Ross could imagine it breathing fire. As he hefted the saddle on to its back he felt the muscles twitch under the glossy coat. Did it have the intelligence to work out it could do him a lot more damage once he got up on its back? Probably.
‘Open the door and stand clear.’ As Dragon charged for the opening Ross swung up into the saddle, ducked under the frame and jammed his feet into the swinging stirrups before the horse realised what had happened. It erupted into the open, the men and boys scattering, then stopped dead, legs braced, ears back. Ross could almost hear it thinking how it was going to kill him. He shortened the reins, closed his legs and dug his heels in as the stallion went sideways across the yard, bucking, then dragged its head round to the gateway and slackened the reins.
As he hoped, the chance to run won over the desire to unseat and trample its rider. Dragon gathered his haunches under him and took off, all seventeen hands of black-coated muscle thundering down the carriage drive like one of Congreve’s rockets. And just about as predictable, Ross thought, concentrating on staying on until the stallion tired itself.
His leg hurt like the devil, his arms were aching and his mood had lifted miraculously. It was not just Dragon who had wanted violent physical exercise. Ross laughed as his hat flew off, squinted against the sun and galloped on.
It took all of twenty minutes before Dragon allowed himself to be pulled up to a canter, by which time they had jumped too many banks and hedges to count and devoured the length of the gorse-covered commonland.
‘Give up?’ Ross enquired. One ear swivelled back, then, to his surprise, the big horse responded to the rein, dropped down to a trot and finally a walk. ‘You see? If you are reasonable, I let you run,’ he continued as they came to the edge of the common and turned into the lane.
Dragon snorted, but it was the peal of feminine laughter that startled Ross. A tall woman in a plain gown with an apron, her blonde hair piled up on her head and a basket at her feet, was leaning back on the gate opposite. She must have been resting and admiring the view, Ross guessed, and had turned at the sound of hooves.
And then a cloud moved across the sun and took the dazzle out of his eyes and thirteen years dropped away. ‘Lily!’ He swung down out of the saddle and went to her, catching her around the waist and kissing her, right on her wide, generous mouth. ‘My God, but it is good to see you! Billy told me you were down on the Lizard.’
‘I only went to help my cousin with a birthing.’ She put out her hands to hold him away so she could look at him and Ross saw the lines of laughter and sadness around her eyes, the silver hairs in the gold, and realised she must be in her mid-thirties now. ‘Look at you now, all grown up.’
They stood grinning at each other and Ross felt the darkness lift further. Lily was another of the good memories from his youth. Three years older, she had been the sister he had never had. When he had discovered that his father had forced himself on her, leaving her with his child, a killing rage had washed through him. Even as he smiled at her now the lash of that remembered anger, hot and acid, touched him.