Page 24 of The Rake to Reveal Her

After studying Dom for a moment, the farmer said, ‘Folks say you were a brave soldier and a man that keeps his word. So, you want the truth about the farms?’

‘I do,’ Dom replied, meeting the man’s steady gaze.

‘The truth is that Winniston’s always been more concerned with collecting rents than using any of the blunt to improve things—even make necessary repairs. Don’t think he holds back extra for himself. Just doesn’t seem to understand he’ll get more profit from the land if he ploughs some back into it, instead of wringing out of it every farthing he can get.’

‘You seem to have held on to enough to improve yours.’

‘Aye,’ Jeffers acknowledged. ‘My family has farmed these acres for generations, and I’m always looking for ways to do it better. I’ve a brother up near Holkham Hall, and he passes along to me the things they’ve tried up there.’

‘To very good effect, judging by what I’ve seen. First, let me assure you that Winniston will not be supervising Bildenstone’s farms much longer. I am interested in improving things, and want to do so as soon as possible. But as you noted, my experience is with the army, not the land. I’d appreciate any suggestions on techniques you’ve found useful in your fields.’

The wariness in the farmer’s expression turned to the enthusiasm of a master describing his craft. ‘Iron-tipped ploughs help, especially when the ground’s mostly clay. And having the right draught horse. At the last county fair, I talked with a farmer from around Needham Market way. He’d heard of breeding a Suffolk sorrel with a Norfolk trotter, to give the offspring more flesh and stamina. Gentle, tractable, strong, and love to work, those sorrels! If we could breed more stamina in them—now that would be a combination! I already have a trotter—can’t ride around all these acres on some weak-kneed thing that would give out under my weight in an hour. One of the farmers the other side of Hadwell has a sorrel out of Crisp’s stallion. But when it came right down to it, neither he nor I knew enough about breeding to give it a try.’

The idea immediately piqued Dom’s interest. ‘I might. Not by borrowing your stallion—you need him to ride your fields. But I must return to Newmarket soon to complete the sale of some stock, and will see about purchasing a good trotter stallion and several sorrel mares.’

‘A lot of your tenants would like a horse that could hold the plough longer over heavy ground,’ Jeffers said. ‘Especially further east, where the land’s low and marshy.’

‘Thank you very much, Mr Jeffers. I shall certainly look into it.’

‘Right happy to have you back in residence, sir,’ Jeffers said, before turning back to his plough.

I hope you will be, Dom thought, energised by the conversation. He’d never considered breeding anything other than steeplechase animals, but creating a crossbreed that could allow farmers to plough their fields faster and perhaps grow crops in land previously thought too heavy to cultivate would be an admirable goal.

Was this to be the worthy endeavour he was meant to pursue? A rising sense of anticipation dispelled the last vestiges of his anger and frustration.

‘Looks like it was a profitable conversation,’ Miss Branwell observed as he walked back to her.

‘It was. I may have found something useful to do after all.’

‘Excellent! That calls for a celebration. How about a good gallop? Let’s find an unploughed field just begging to be ridden.’

The disaster with Diablo had so shaken his confidence, Dom wasn’t sure he could manage more than a canter. Well, why not? he thought, buoyed by a newfound enthusiasm. If he could discover a new vocation, maybe he could find a way to keep his seat at a gallop.

‘I’ll see if my mount and I can oblige.’

As if sensing his hesitation, Miss Branwell said, ‘You need only pretend you’re mounted on your cavalry horse, sabre in hand, leading the charge.’

If he were going to land on his rump, better to find out now. He couldn’t envision another person whose witnessing of that failure would bother him less than the compassionate Miss Branwell.

Not only would she neither laugh nor carry tales, she’d probably make judicious notes about the cause of the fall and advise him how to correct his position.

Smiling at that notion, he rode with her past the rest of Jeffers’s acreage, down a hill and around a bend, where they found an invitingly fallow meadow.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Ready.’ As I’ll ever be, he added silently. Dom set his mount off slowly, signalling the gelding through his paces. He found him responsive to his touch, not fighting him for control, as Diablo always had. He’d about convinced himself he was ready to try a full-out gallop when Miss Branwell, in the lead, looked back over her shoulder and shouted, ‘Race you to the stone wall!’

No Ransleigh had ever refused a challenge. As her mare took off in a burst of speed, Dom spurred his gelding to follow.

As the horse moved faster and faster, he found his body adjusting instinctively into the rise and fall of the horse’s stride. His hips and legs easy, the shift of his weight automatic, within minutes, he was able to transfer energy from worrying about balance to urging on his mount.

The gelding accelerated, stretched himself out to a ground-eating pace. Wind whipped at his hat, air rushed through his lungs, his heartbeat accelerated...and joy began to bubble up from deep within, the pure joy he always felt when he became one with his mount in a full-out gallop.

Miss Branwell looked back once, a brilliant grin on her face as she saw him closing behind her. Taking that as a tossed gauntlet, Dom pushed the horse harder. Just before they reached the stone fence at the far end of the pasture, he edged her mare out by a nose.

Miss Branwell pulled her horse up and sprang down from the saddle. Energised, exuberant, he slid down beside her.

‘Not very chivalrous to beat you at the end, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, but what a run! How I’ve missed the good gallops I used to have with Papa, out on the plains of Spain and Portugal. And you—you were magnificent! Not many could beat Firefly when she’s got a lead, but you managed it. I knew you could do it!’

With a joyous laugh, she threw her arms around him and tilted her head up.

Despite a whisper of conscience that warned it was dishonourable to take advantage of her impulsive act, a company of French cuirassiers at the gallop couldn’t have kept him from claiming the lips so temptingly close.

The kiss began slow and sweet, a soft brush of his mouth against hers. But then she made a small sound deep in her throat and parted her lips.

A surge of heat and desire swamping him, he swept his tongue to claim hers. To his elation, she met his and fenced with it, laving him with slow, lush strokes that fired passion to a searing heat.

With his one good arm, he pulled her against him and deepened the kiss while she wrapped her arms around his neck. He slid his hand down to cup her bottom, bringing her closer still, and she rubbed herself against his aching groin.

White-hot lust obliterated everything but his need for her. One tiny, still functioning part of his brain applied itself to considering whether there was any usable surface where he could lay her down, raise her skirts and lose himself in her.

The sound of a horse’s whinny finally penetrated the fog of lust. Shocked that he’d almost tried to ravish her at the edge of a field, where some farmer might at any moment have come by and discovered them, he released her and staggered a step away.

Her eyes dreamy and unfocused, she stared up at him, her moist, kiss-rosy lips so appealing it was all he could do not to step closer and kiss her again.

‘If you apologise for that, I’m going to punch you,’ she murmured.

Trust his Theo to say the unexpected, he thought, her unconventionality a joy. ‘If I did,’ he replied, smiling, ‘it would only be for form’s sake. I’ve wanted to kiss you practically from the moment I met you.’

‘As I’ve wanted to kiss you. Shocking, I know, and unmaidenly, but there you have it. So I am very, very glad I got to kiss you—and it was everything I’d dreamed it would be. But it must stop here. I wish...’ she sighed before continuing ‘...but wishing changes nothing. Episodes like this, if discovered, would ruin my reputation, and I cannot risk that, when any disgrace of mine would harm the future of my orphans. And you—well, you need to find that new direction for your life before you involve yourself with anyone.’

Dom knew what she intended. Everything within him wanted to resist the conclusion, but she was right—which didn’t mean he had to like it. ‘Time to part?’ he said.

‘Time to part,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you, Dominic Ransleigh, for making my return to England easier and more joyful than I could ever have hoped, so soon after losing Papa. Thank you for all you’ve done, and continue to do, for my orphans. I wish you the best as you work towards your future—and you will find what you’re meant to do, I’m sure of it. I would ask only one more thing.’

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