Helen Dickson - Conspiracy Of Hearts

‘Shall I accompany you, Mistress Carberry?’ John inquired.

Much as she hated the idea of riding out alone with the marquess, Serena could see John was much too busy to leave the stables. ‘That won’t be necessary, John. I’m sure I shall be perfectly safe with Lord Brodie,’ she said, cracking the crop against her skirts and moving to the stall where her mare Polly was waiting.

On seeing her mistress, Polly responded by arching her neck and whickering gently. One of the lads led her out into the yard followed by another leading a huge stallion. It was Monarch, Sir Henry’s horse, black and as smooth as silk, with a long flowing mane and tail. Kit ran his hands over its quivering flanks.

‘He’s a splendid horse,’ he breathed admiringly.

‘Yes—my father’s. Andrew also rides him when…’ Serena faltered, biting her lip to stem the flow or words. She was usually so careful not to speak of her brother to strangers.

Kit looked at her with a keen eye. ‘Your brother! You can speak of him to me, Mistress Carberry. He is a priest, I believe.’

‘Yes,’ she replied crisply, looking away. ‘He’s in Italy at present.’

‘I know. Out of harm’s way.’

Stung by his remark even though it had been spoken lightly, and ever sensitive about her brother’s profession, Serena swung her head to look at him, on the defensive. Sparks of indignation flashed in her eyes, sorely incensed by what she thought Lord Brodie might be implying. ‘My brother is no coward, Lord Brodie.’

‘I did not imply that he was, and I hold nothing against him. I am merely saying that he would be wise to stay where he is. It’s no secret that Catholic priests are being hunted the length and breadth of the country and are dealt with most severely when caught.’

A deep pain entered Serena’s eyes, her expression suddenly one of anguish. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t know the fate that awaits my brother if he were to return to England? Which is why I hope and pray he remains in Rome. At least there I know he is safe.’

Towering over her, Kit’s lean, hard face bore no hint of humour or mockery. ‘I apologise if my words offended or distressed you. It was not intentional, I do assure you. Now—shall we go?’

Kit locked his hands together to accept Serena’s small booted foot, and was not surprised at the agility she displayed when he raised her up to the side-saddle, where she sat arranging her skirts while he strode towards his own mount.

Serena threw him a look as he hoisted himself into the saddle, seeing Monarch bunch his muscles and flare his nostrils. She smiled, wondering if she was about to see the arrogant marquess of Thurlow stripped of his dignity and tossed into a puddle on his backside.

‘Take care, my lord. Monarch is not usually pleased at having strangers ride him. He is swift and also temperamental. You have to show him who is master right from the start. He’s thrown many a stranger who sits on his back.’

Serena might as well have saved her breath. Kit controlled Monarch superbly as the horse reared up and pawed the air, his hooves hitting the cobbles so hard when he brought them down that it would normally have unseated the most experienced rider. But Kit remained firmly in the saddle, his lips drawn across his gleaming white teeth in a devilish grin. He flashed a triumphant look at Serena.

‘A horse after my own heart. We’ll get along splendidly,’ he laughed. The lean, hard muscles of his thighs gripped the horse, and he kept him on a tight rein to control his high-stepping prancing as they clattered out of the yard.

The landscape was stark and colourless against the grey sky, the wind buffeting them, exciting the horses. Shrouded in long cloaks they rode in silence, the fine drizzle washing their faces and dampening their hair exposed beneath their hats. Serena couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at her companion. The sight of him on the black horse with its highflying tail drew her admiration. Horse and rider flowed along together. After a while she halted, waiting for Kit to do likewise.

‘My compliments, Mistress Carberry. You ride well.’

‘Praise indeed coming from you, my lord,’ she answered, not without a hint of sarcasm. ‘Have you ridden with Dorothea on your visits to Carberry Hall?’

‘I have not yet had that pleasure. Does she ride well?’

Dorothea hated riding and did not sit a horse at all well, but Serena would not abuse her by saying so. ‘She rides well enough but, as you will have observed, Dorothea and I are not alike. Apart from being cousins and extremely fond of each other, we have little in common. She is quiet whereas I talk a lot. She is sweet tempered and mild mannered, whereas I am often quite the opposite. Dorothea also has a high opinion of almost everyone she comes into contact with, whereas I—well,’ Serena said, throwing her companion an intriguing smile, ‘my judgement is often critical and harsh. So you see, Lord Brodie, faults I have in plenty.’

Secretly, Kit couldn’t complain about that. Serena was too warm and vitally alive for him ever to reprimand her for faults such as these.

Buoyed up by the ride and feeling a little mischievous, Serena had no qualms about laying down a challenge. Under normal circumstances Polly was no match for Monarch, but these were not ordinary circumstances. Lord Brodie was not familiar with the stallion and nor was he familiar with the tricky terrain, so she was confident she would win.

‘We’ll ride towards the woods over there,’ she said, pointing towards the trees in the distance. ‘But before we do I’ll make you a small wager, my lord.’

Kit’s eyes danced at the idea. ‘A wager? When I recall your actions of yesterday, it seems to me that you are hellbent on self-destruction.’

Serena’s eyes flashed with a feral gleam. ‘Must you remind me of that?’

A leisurely smile moved across Kit’s lean brown face as his perusal swept her. ‘I apologise, but you seem to have a genius for getting yourself into impossible situations. I might even be so bold as to say that not only do you go looking for danger, but you actually seem to thrive on it. What kind of wager have you in mind?’

‘If I reach the woods before you, if I win, you return my handkerchief—the one you took from me yesterday, if you recall. If you win, you can keep it.’

Kit laughed heartily. ‘I’ve accepted some wagers in my time, but a lady’s kerchief? Never. I must point out that I never wager on certainties.’

‘That’s an arrogant assumption. Are you saying I will lose?’

Kit bowed his head in mock deferential respect. ‘My dear Mistress Carberry, I wouldn’t dare. It would be more than my life is worth. All I am saying is that I intend to win. Would you like a start?’

‘What? And put you at an unfair disadvantage?’ Serena laughed, warming to the chase, her cheeks dimpling quite deliciously. ‘Come, my fine lord, you’re wasting time.’ Like lightning she headed in the direction of the woods, her swift and agile mare galloping off ahead of the marquess.

The heath was undulating with many open ditches and brackish, swampy bogs, making the going dangerous and the riding hard, but Serena and her horse knew every inch of the terrain. In exhilaration she exerted all her skill as she snaked her way around bogs and avoided ominous patches of slate-coloured water, clearing open ditches boldly and unheeded, urging Polly in a final burst of energy towards the woods.

Within the dripping confines of the trees stood the sinister figure of Thomas Blackwell. There was a cold gleam in his eyes as he watched Lord Brodie prancing along beside Serena Carberry, observing the apparent closeness between them.

It had come to his notice that Brodie had recently become betrothed to Dorothea Carberry, a young lady he himself had a fancy for. Dorothea had all the necessary requirements Thomas considered important in a wife. She might bore him weary, but she wouldn’t complain at being left tucked away in the country while he sought his pleasures in London. More important, Dorothea was of the same Protestant faith as himself. Lord Carberry was also extremely wealthy and would drop a fortune at his feet as soon as they were wed, which would not go amiss.