His Lordship's Filly Read Free Page B

asleep in his stall.” He shook his head. “The big devil like to kill me afore I could get her to wake up. Then she just looks at me, sober as a magistrate, and says, ‘Papa, let me handle this.’ And then she did.”
    “Where’s the stallion now?” Andrew asked idly, his gaze on the girl and horse racing round the track in one smooth flowing motion.
    “Sold him,” Durabian said, “to yer friend Lord Peter, in fact.”
    For a moment Andrew forgot the girl and the horse. “You don’t mean—”
    “Aye,” Durabian said. “I mean Diablo.”
    Andrew shook his head in bewilderment. “But that stallion’s the best-mannered animal around.”
    “Course he is,” Durabian said complacently. “Bridget had the fixing of him.”
    Andrew resumed watching the girl. “Perhaps I should give her Sable to train.”
    “As ye wish, milord. I don’t know what it is, but Bridget’s got the gift. She trusts horses and they trust her.”
    She came off the track then, swung down, and began walking the filly, speaking to her soothingly. At last, judging her cooled down sufficiently, she led her back to Andrew.
    “She’s a real beauty, milord. And well-trained, too.” A hint of mischief crossed the lovely face. “She’s a little on the flighty side, but she’s got a good heart. And she tells me you’re a good master.”
    Andrew straightened. This was too much. “She what?” Bridget laughed—pure tinkling notes of pleasure. “Really, milord, you ought to shut your mouth. With it hanging open like that you look rather foolish. The horse doesn’t talk to me, not really. But all I have to do is look at her. Her mouth. Her coat. And her eyes. Her eyes are happy.”
    For once in his life Andrew was left speechless. He knew how to converse with elegant ladies and not so elegant ladies, though with the latter he didn’t do much talking. But he had no idea how to speak with a girl who dressed like a man and yet looked more desirable than any woman he’d ever met. And whose only topic of conversation appeared to be the life and times of horses.
     

Chapter Three
     
    Several weeks later Bridget paused in working a colt and frowned, uneasiness stirring the fine hairs on the back of her neck.It was a lovely morning, clear and bright, but something wasn’t right in the stables.It wasn’t with the horses, though. She could sense when something went wrong with one of them. This was something else, some uncomfortable presence close by.
    The colt pricked up his ears, staring toward the lane. And then she saw why. Wichersham was riding up. His horse looked tired, poor creature, and though she couldn’t see its eyes from this distance, she knew they would hold the beaten look she’d seen there before. Wichersham, for all his fine clothes and fancy manners, was a rotter. A bad master, a bad lord—a bad man.
    Why had he come out to the stables today? Months ago Papa had taken one look at his mount’s drooping ears and dragging tail and refused to sell him any animal in the stables. And that was before this business over Peter’s vowels. Papa was fond of Peter. So was she. And neither of them thought it right for Wichersham to try to send Peter to debtor’s prison.
    She liked Peter’s friend Haverly, too, though somehow not in the same way. He was fun like Peter, and she found she could joke with him and talk horses, but there was always that little something different that made it hard for her to entirely relax in his presence. And always in the back of her mind was the thought of that first day, the day that he’d touched her.
    He hadn’t touched her again. She was glad of that, of course, that was what she wanted—not to be touched again. Yet she felt a little shiver of curious disappointment. Had she imagined that strange feeling of excitement or would she feel it again if he—
    “No!” Papa’s voice carried clear across the paddock. She looked up and saw him glance hastily around. She couldn’t hear any more, but