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.
But it would seem he had been supplanted in Dorothea’s affections by Brodie, which was not acceptable. He would succeed in making Lord Carberry loath the arrogant marquess of Thurlow almost as much as he did himself. Thomas touched the livid wounds on his cheek where Serena’s fingernails had raked the flesh raw. He was not done with her, either. But he would reserve his punishment for that hellcat until he had dealt with Brodie, and then he would show her how futile it was to struggle against him. He would call on Lord Carberry at the earliest opportunity, but for the present his vanity prevented him from doing so.
Pounding hoofbeats sounded alongside Serena and she turned to see Kit separated from her by several yards, his cloak spread out behind him like the wings of a giant hawk. Monarch’s hooves sent up splatters of water in his wake, and his tail whisked like a pennon in the wind. With a triumphant yell Kit pulled ahead on the big stallion, outpacing Serena’s mare and reaching the woods first. With a broad smile he whirled round to wait for her, his horse’s ebony coat slippery and shining with rain and sweat. Serena reached the trees a few yards behind him, her face flushed and breathing hard, her heart pounding.
‘Congratulations,’ she gasped. ‘The race is yours.’
‘And you are a gracious loser, Mistress Carberry,’ Kit laughed, his voice full of admiration, thinking how delightful she looked with damp curls clinging to her face, her cheeks as pink as pink could be and her green eyes sparkling like early-morning dew drops on summer grass. ‘I must congratulate you, also. You are an excellent horsewoman.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘However, I am glad I get to keep your handkerchief,’ he said, producing it from a pocket inside his doublet. After placing it to his lips and sniffing its delicate perfume, he returned it to his pocket.
‘We’ll give the horses a chance to breathe and take a steady ride back. With any luck the rain might hold off until we reach the stables.’ He glanced across at Serena as her horse fell into step beside his own. ‘Did you really believe your mare could win against the power of Monarch?’
‘Why not? You and Monarch may be superior in both stamina and strength, but I am familiar with the terrain, which is an important advantage. You can’t deny that it’s a testing course for any horse and rider—it could prove disastrous to someone unfamiliar to it.’
‘My experiences have taught me how to read every kind of terrain.’
‘Of course. I forget you are a soldier.’
‘Was,’ Kit corrected. ‘I did serve for a time in the Low Countries, which was where Blackwell and I became acquainted—but we were never friends.’
‘What’s he like?’ Serena ventured to ask tentatively. ‘Our homes are close, but I cannot say that I know him well—not even after what occurred between us yesterday. It would not have happened had he not been drunk.’
Kit lifted a dark, winged brow, knowing that drunk or sober made no difference to Blackwell’s behaviour. He was often to be found frequenting brothels where there were women aplenty to gratify his sexual appetite. But Kit could not tell this young maid the full extent of Blackwell’s bestiality, of his brutal methods when dealing with others.
Blackwell’s reputation was sealed by the aftermath of a massacre of nine Catholic women—five of them nuns—at a convent a short distance over the border from the United Provinces in Flanders. By all accounts Blackwell had stood and watched his soldiers violate the women before butchering them, and afterwards had drunk a toast to their deaths.
But
