Page 20 of The Hired Hero
He swore under his breath as the towel he was using to dry his face scraped over the thin line of scar tissue on his cheekbone. His fingers came up to rub along the puckered flesh.
Why did it always ache like the devil when he was tired and agitated?
He suddenly felt in need of some fresh air. A gallop on Nero would do him good despite the early hour, he decided. Surely, a solution would have come to him by the time he returned.
It was barely light as the earl made his way to the stable. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost missed the flicker of movement in the interior shadows. He stopped short, his grip instinctively tightening around his crop.
Something was amiss.
Then it struck him. The stable doors shouldn’t have been ajar like that. He knew that Higgins wouldn’t be up and about his duties yet—nothing short of Gabriel sounding the final awakening would induce the old man out of his bed until it was absolutely necessary.
Davenport approached quietly, every muscle tensed. At that moment, a lad emerged from the murky depths of the building, leading a fully saddled Nero.
The earl’s jaw dropped in disbelief.
Why, the scamp was stealing his horse!
“You there! Stand where you are!” he bellowed as he broke into a run.
The lad looked up with a start. He appeared frozen for an instant but then moved with astonishing quickness. Thrusting a boot into the stirrup, he vaulted into the saddle and jammed his heels into the stallion’s flanks. Nero tossed his head and shied to one side, but the boy handled the reins with skill. His heels came down again, urging the big stallion forward.
Davenport’s lunge missed the bridle by inches. “Damnation!” he roared as he skittered to a stop and watched them gallop off across the field.
But luck was with him. As the horse came to the edge of the woods, the boy chose the cart path to the right. Which meant that he still had a chance to catch them.
Whirling around, the earl raced into the stable. Cursing roundly as he barked his shins in the darkness, he found the other saddle and bridle and hurried to the stall of his other horse. The two of them had no chance of catching the thief and Nero, but they didn’t have to. Uttering another string of oaths, Davenport finished tightening the girth and mounted, then set his own mount off at a good clip. Unless the lad had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would stick to the beaten path.
And if he did so, he was going to run into a little surprise.
Davenport spurred his mount through an adjoining field. They jumped a tumbled stone wall and skirted the edges of a newly planted field of wheat. In the middle of a large copse of beeches, the earl turned onto a trail so narrow that the branches slapped at his boots and breeches. In another few minutes, they emerged at right angles onto a wider path, whose ruts and ridges gave evidence of frequent cart travel.
Smiling in grim satisfaction, the earl drew to a halt.
It appeared he was in time. Rising above the twitter of early-morning birdsong was the sound of pounding hooves approaching fast.
A dark shape rounded the corner. The earl could just make out the lad’s head bent low over Nero’s neck, still urging the big stallion to give his best effort. And no doubt Nero was in clover. There was nothing the stallion liked better than to be allowed to race gallop at full tilt through the countryside.
Traitor, thought Davenport sourly as he readied his own mount to match strides with the stallion.
The thief had the advantage of better horseflesh, but Davenport had the element of surprise.
The earl liked his chances.
As his stallion approached, Davenport charged from the cover of the trees and reached for the reins as he drew abreast. Nero shied violently to the right, but knowing his stallion’s habits, Davenport was ready for it.
The lad was not. As the earl’s hand instinctively followed the movement of the horse’s head, the sudden change of stride pitched the young rider forward. He lost his stirrups and slipped sideways from the saddle. Both of his hands clung to the edges of the leather while his feet hung precariously close to the flailing hooves.
Davenport managed to grab the reins and fought to bring the spooked stallion under control. Suddenly, with a sharp grunt of pain, the lad lost his grip.
One hand fell away—in another moment, he would be trampled.
Served him right, thought Davenport. His own neck was at risk too, trying to manage two wildly galloping animals. But with a silent curse, he let go of Nero and reached down to grab the lad’s collar.
“Let go!” he shouted as he reined in on his own mount.
The lad needed no encouragement. His strength was gone, and his fingers slipped from the saddle. Winded from the hell-for-leather galloping, Davenport’s mount slowed to a trot, then stopped dead in its tracks, sides heaving and flanks lathered with sweat.
Holding the young thief by the scruff of his jacket, as if he were a weasel plucked from a dovecote, the earl was sorely tempted to wring the lad’s neck.
