Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(15)

Gathering her strength, Kathleen leaped from the ground with as much force as her legs could produce. Devon caught the momentum and lifted her with shocking ease. She didn’t even have to find the stirrup; she landed neatly on the saddle with her right leg folded. Gasping, she fought for her balance, but Devon had already adjusted, his left arm enclosing her in a secure hold. “I have you. Settle… easy.”

She stiffened at the feel of being clasped firmly, his muscles working around her, his breath at her ear.

“This will teach you to bring baskets to ailing neighbors,” he said. “I hope you realize that all the selfish people are safe and dry at home.”

“Why did you come after me?” she managed to ask, trying to calm the little shocks that kept reverberating through her.

“Lady Helen was worried.” Once assured of her seat, Devon reached up with his left hand, tugged at her veil and headpiece, and tossed them to the ground. “Sorry,” he said before she could protest. “But that dye smells like the floor of an East End tavern. Here, slide your leg to the other side of the saddle.”

“I can’t, it’s caught in my skirts.” The horse’s weight shifted beneath them. Unable to find purchase on the smooth, flat saddle, Kathleen fumbled and accidentally gripped Devon’s thigh, the surface hard as stone. Gasping, she drew her hand back. It seemed that no matter how much air she took in, it wasn’t enough.

Temporarily transferring the reins to his left hand, Devon removed his felt hat and pushed it over Kathleen’s head. He proceeded to pull at the twisted, bunched layers of her skirts until she was able to unbend her knee enough to slide her leg over the horse’s withers.

In childhood she had ridden double with the Berwicks’ daughters when they had gone on pony rides. But there was no possible comparison with this, the feeling of a powerfully built man right behind her, his legs bracketing hers. Aside from the horse’s mane, there was nothing to hold on to; no reins to grasp, no stirrups for her feet.

Devon urged the horse into a canter, a gait that was impeccably fluid and smooth in an Arabian or Thoroughbred. But it was different for a wide-chested dray, whose legs were spaced farther from its center of gravity, the three-beat rhythm shorter and rounder. Kathleen perceived immediately that Devon was an accomplished rider, moving easily with the horse and communicating with explicit signals. She worked to find the rolling motion of the canter, but it wasn’t at all the same as riding alone, and she was mortified to find herself bouncing in the saddle like a novice.

Devon’s arm latched more tightly around her. “Easy. I won’t let you fall.”

“But there’s nothing for me to —”

“Just relax into it.”

Feeling how capably he maintained the center of their combined weight, she tried to soften her clenched muscles. The slope of her back came to rest exactly against his chest, and then as if by magic, she found the bend and balance of the horse’s motion. As she melted into the cadence, there was a curious satisfaction in the sensation of their bodies moving in perfect tandem.

Devon’s hand splayed across her midriff with supportive pressure. Even through the mass of her skirts, she could feel the robust muscles of his thighs, flexing rhythmically. An unbearable sweet ache began inside her, intensifying until it seemed as if something might fracture.

As they began up the hill, Devon slowed the dray to a walk and leaned to distribute more weight over the horse’s front legs. Obliged to lean forward as well, Kathleen grasped the dray’s rough black mane. She heard Devon’s voice, muffled by a peal of thunder. Turning her head to hear him better, she felt the electrifying texture of shaven bristle as his jaw brushed her cheek. It sent a ticklish feeling into her throat, as if she’d just bitten into a honeycomb.

“We’re almost there,” Devon repeated, his breath searing against her wet skin.

They ascended the hill and cantered toward the stable block, a two-story building constructed of plum-colored brick, with arched entrances and molded stone surrounds. A dozen saddle horses were housed on one side of the structure, and ten harness horses and a mule on the other side. The stable also housed a saddle room, harness room, tack room, a forage loft, a coach house, and grooms’ chambers.

Compared to the manor house at Eversby Priory, the stables were in far superior condition. Without a doubt that was because of the influence of the stable master, Mr. Bloom, a stout Yorkshire gentleman with white muttonchop whiskers and twinkling blue eyes. What Bloom lacked in height, he made up for in brawn, his hands so meaty and strong that he could crush walnuts with his fingers. No stable had ever been run with more exacting standards: The floors were always scrupulously clean, every piece of tack and leather highly polished. The horses in Bloom’s care lived better than most people. Kathleen had met the stable master approximately a fortnight before Theo’s accident, and she had liked him immediately. Bloom had known about the Carbery Park Stud Farm, and the exceptional Arabian strain that Kathleen’s father had developed, and he had been delighted to include Asad in the Ravenel stables.

In the aftermath of Theo’s accident, Mr. Bloom had supported Kathleen’s decision to keep Asad from being put down, in spite of the demands made by Theo’s friends and peers. Bloom had understood that Theo’s recklessness had contributed to the tragedy. “A horseman should never approach his mount with anger,” Bloom had told Kathleen privately, weeping in the aftermath of Theo’s death. He had known Theo since he’d been a young boy, and had taught him how to ride. “Especially an Arabian. I told Lord Trenear, ‘If tha goes into a pitch battle with Asad, tha’ll excite him to wildness.’ I could see his lordship was having one of his spates. I told him there was a dozen other mounts that were better for him to ride that day. He wouldn’t listen, but I blame mi’sell all the same.”