Kasey Michaels - Lords of Notoriety - The Ruthless Lord Rule / The Toplofty Lord Thorpe

No, he remained adamant in his determination to uncover whatever secret Mary and Sir Henry were so steadfastly protecting, but he had used his hours on horseback the previous night to rethink his tactics. He would pretend he had given up the investigation and concentrate on courting Mary, winning his way into her good graces. He would do this to protect national security, he had told himself then, just as he tried to tell himself again at that moment—that electrifying moment when he had looked across the expanse of green lawn and felt his heart do a strange little leap in his chest as he caught sight of her sitting beneath the shade of an old tree, looking the picture of beauty, youth and innocence.

All his weariness had disappeared in an instant, and he had felt his usually expressionless features soften involuntarily into a wide, unaffected smile as his feet had immediately began propelling him along the straightest path to her side. He couldn’t wait to tell Mary about his exploits of the previous evening—just like a small boy proudly showing off his first racing cup to his parents.

He had taken no more than a half dozen steps, and was just raising a hand to wave to his aunt, when he sensed rather than saw that something was wrong. Swinging to his right, he espied the driverless curricle careening down the lengthy incline, two heaving, foam-flecked horses galloping ahead of it in the shafts.

The peaceful scene was shattered within an instant. Where moments ago happy groups had either been strolling arm in arm over the closely clipped lawns or reclining at their ease at the base of shade-giving trees, there was now the sharp, sickening smell of panic—the sight of fashionably clad ladies and top-o’-the-trees gentlemen scurrying like colorful ants to and fro searching for cover, the sound of high-pitched screams and baritone curses.

But Tristan saw none of this, heard none of this. Immediately his senses were concentrated on the horses and the curricle that bounced behind it in imminent danger of overturning. His muscles tautened, preparing for action, and his heart began to beat more rapidly, sending his heated blood pulsing through his veins as he quickly calculated his options, weighed his alternatives.

Darting a quick glance behind him, he saw that the fleeing guests had somehow created an area of open ground that led straight to the small, ornamental pond that lay at almost a right angle to the course the horses were taking. His dark eyes narrowing, Tristan’s agile brain rapidly mapped a possible course of action to intercept the rampaging horses before they could get past him.

He ran swiftly, surely, to the spot he had chosen, sparing only a second to glance in Mary’s direction, silently praying that she and his aunt had had the good sense to position themselves behind a tree. They had—a white-faced Rachel holding on fiercely to Mary, who seemed to be struggling to be free, while Dexter stood staunchly in front of some blond creature who was just then sobbing into his coat sleeve.

Then the thunder of galloping hooves and the loud clatter of the rapidly disintegrating curricle commanded his full attention, and Tristan spread his legs slightly for balance, flexed his knees, and extended his arms in front of him, his hands open, his fingers tensed, waiting…waiting…

He could smell the hot breath of the horse nearest him, see clearly the white of one of its rolling eyes, feel the sharp flick of its mane against his hands.

Now! his brain screamed. Now!

MARY BROKE FREE of Rachel’s clinging hands and was just about to run toward Tristan when he reached out with both his strong, tanned hands—with those long, lean fingers she had told herself fitted his reputation for ruthlessness so perfectly—and grabbed two handfuls of mane, while at the same time leaping into the air, to end up landing himself neatly astride the horse’s back.

“He’s going to try for the leads!” Mary screamed to Rachel, who had hidden her head in her hands. “Oh, Tristan, be careful!”

Mary saw Tristan’s head lying flush against the horse’s neck as he reached across the space separating the two horses and made a grab for the other’s halter. Then the curricle was past her, still traveling at a furious pace, but now being directed by Ruthless Rule, who had somehow gained control of the leads.

The horses changed direction, heading toward the pond that sat about two hundred yards away on the left. Mary ran along behind, her skirts lifted immodestly as she willingly sacrificed propriety for speed. It wasn’t over yet, she knew, although she silently agreed with Rule that running the horses into the pond was the best chance he had of stopping them before any more damage was done.

Please let him be all right, the reckless fool! She begged any deities that may have been listening, then shook her head at the ridiculousness of her thoughts. Ruthless Rule—Reckless Fool—they even rhymed! Oh, whatever possessed the man, to have him taking such unthinking chances with his life? And what sort of brainless ninny am I to have even entertained the thought of going to his rescue before his masculine tendency to act the hero got him trampled into the dust? Anyone would think I’d cared one way or the other about the man!

Not that these unpleasant thoughts slowed Mary’s pace—she continued to race full tilt toward the pond, where she had seen a large splash just scant seconds earlier. By the time she reached the banks of the water the runaway horses were standing with their heads down in the shafts, their flanks still shuddering as they seemed to be trying to understand just what had happened to them.

Where was Rule? The curricle, which had once been a glorious equipage painted in scarlet with gold trim, lay on its side, half submerged in the pond, and Mary’s fearful heart skipped a beat as she pictured Tristan pinned beneath the surface by one of the curricle’s wheels.

She was just about to plunge her own body into the water when the surface of the pond was broken by Tristan’s dark head and broad shoulders, as he rose to his feet to stand more than waist deep in the water, his attention fixed on releasing the exhausted horses from the shafts.

“Did you see that?” Dexter Rutherford fairly shouted in Mary’s ear as he came up beside her, his awestruck gaze stuck fast to the sight of his hero. “What a first-rate sight that was! Puts those devil-dares at Astley’s Circus to the blush, that’s what it does. Isn’t Tris a prime one, Miss Lawrence? Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!”

By now Mary and Dexter were only a small part of a much larger audience. From all sides came the multitude of guests and scores of servants, all chattering, applauding, and generally acting as if Tristan Rule had single-handedly saved their lives—which he may very well have done. Several young bucks were sufficiently enthused as to plunge Hessians-first into the water, bent on helping the man of the hour lead the team of horses back to shore.

Mary watched Rule closely as his long strides cut waves through the water, bringing him closer to her with every step. His black hair was pasted to his head, showing off his handsome, chiseled features almost as advantageously as his clinging wet coat and pantaloons did his fine physique. Indeed, among the cheers and shouts of congratulations Mary heard more than one feminine gasp and giggle of appreciation.

For reasons Mary did not choose to investigate, this unconscious flaunting of his physical person served to touch off a spark of anger deep inside her that temporarily banished her earlier concern for his safety.

As Tristan mounted the bank to stand not three feet away from her, she tilted her determined chin toward the afternoon sun and remarked sarcastically, “Ah, if it isn’t the knight errant. Good thing you left your suit of armor at home, sir, else you’d be rusted into a statue before you could enjoy all the hosannas of your many admirers.”