She drew breath and looked ahead. "So I borrow the old cob you let run on your back paddock. I don't ride him above a canter, if that. I'm very careful of him."

She looked up. He trapped her gaze. "Anything else you've borrowed?"

Big blue eyes blinked wide. "I don't think so."

"All right. We'll ride these two back, then you climb on the cob and head off. I'll leave in my curricle. I'll drive home, then ride out and join you. I'll meet you by the split oak on the road to Lidgate."

She nodded. "Very well. But we'll need to hurry now. Come on." She leaned forward, effortlessly shifting The Flynn from walk, to trot, to canter.

And left him staring after her. With a curse, he dug in his heels and set out in her wake.

He reached the split oak before her.

By the time she appeared, trotting the old cob, long past his prime, down the middle of the road, Demon had decided that, whatever transpired with Dillon, he would ensure that one point was made clear.

He was in charge from now on. She'd asked for his help; she would get it, but on his terms.

From now on, he'd lead and she could follow.

As she neared, her gaze slid from him to his mount, a raking grey hunter who went by the revealing name of Ivan the Terrible. He was a proud and princely beast with a foul, dangerous, potentially lethal temper. As the cob drew closer, Ivan rolled one eye and stamped.

The cob was too old to pay the slightest attention. Flick's brows, however, rose; her gaze passed knowledgeably over Ivan's more positive points as she reined in. "I know I haven't seen him before."

Demon made no reply. He waited-and waited-until she finished examining his horse and lifted her gaze to his face. Then he smiled. "I bought him late last year." Flick's eyes, suddenly riveted on his face, widened slightly. She mouthed an "Oh," and looked away.

Side by side, they rode on, the cob doggedly plodding, Ivan placing his hooves with restless disdain. "What did you tell Carruthers?" Flick asked with a sidelong glance. When they'd returned to the stable, Flick had been in the lead. Carruthers had been standing, hands on hips, in the stable door. From behind Flick, Demon had signalled him away; Carruthers had stared, but, as Flick had trotted The Flynn up, he'd stood aside and let her pass without question. By that time, Carruthers and the nightwatchman, a retired jockey, had been the only ones left in the stable.

Handing his mount to the nightwatchman to unsaddle, Demon had set about mollifying Carruthers.

"I told him I knew you as a brat from near Lidgate, and you'd feared that, recognizing you, I'd terminate your employment immediately." The twilight was deepening; they jogged along as fast as the cob could manage. "However, having seen you ride, and being convinced of your fervent wish to work my horses, I said I'd agreed to let you stay on."

Flick frowned. "He came in and all but shooed me off-said he'd settle The Flynn and I should get on home without delay."

"I mentioned that I knew your sick mother and how she'd worry-I instructed Carruthers that you shouldn't pull duties that will keep you late, and that you should leave in plenty of time to reach home before dark."

Although he was examining the scenery and not looking at her, Demon still felt Flick's suspicious glance. It confirmed his opinion that she didn't need to know about the other instructions he'd issued to his trainer. Carruthers, thankfully not an imaginative or garrulous son, had stared at him, then shrugged and acquiesced.

They left the road and turned into a sunken track between two fields. The cob, sensing home and dinner, broke into a trot; Ivan, forced to remain alongside, accepted the edict with typical bad grace, tossing his head and jerking his reins every few yards.

"He's obviously in need of exercise," Flick remarked.

"I'll give him a run later."

"I'm surprised you let him get into such a bad temper."

Demon stifled an acid retort. "He's been here, I've been in London, and no one can ride him but me."

"Oh."

Lifting her gaze, Flick looked ahead to where the track wended into a small wood; she fell to studying the trees.

From under his lashes, Demon studied her. She'd examined his horse so thoroughly she probably knew his every line, yet she'd barely glanced at him. Ivan was indeed a handsome beast, as were all his cattle, but he wasn't used to taking second place to his mount. Which might seem arrogant, but he knew women-girls and ladies, females of any description-well.

It wasn't simply that she hadn't looked. His senses, well honed through his years on the prowl, could detect not the slightest flicker of consciousness-the minutest suggestion of awareness-in the female riding beside him.

Which, in his experience, was odd. Distinctly odd.

The fact that her lack of awareness was focusing his to a remarkable degree hadn't escaped him. It didn't surprise him; he was a born hunter. When the prey didn't take cover, he-at least that part of him that operated on instinct first, logic second-saw it as a challenge.

Which was, in this case, ridiculous.

There was no reason a girl like Flick, raised quietly in the country, should be aware, in any sexual sense, of a gentleman like him-especially one she'd known all her life.

Demon frowned, tightening the reins as Ivan tried to surge. Disgusted, the big grey snorted; Demon managed not to do the same.

He still had no idea precisely how old she was. He glanced her way, covertly confirming details he'd instinctively noted. She'd always been petite, although he hadn't seen her in recent years. In her present incarnation, he'd only seen her atop a horse, but he doubted her head would clear his shoulder. Her figure remained a mystery, except for her definitely feminine bottom-a classic inverted heart, sleekly rounded. The rest of her was amply disguised by her stable lad's garb. Whether she wore bands about her breasts, as did many devoted female riders, he couldn't tell, but her overall proportions were nice. Slim, slender-she might well be delectable.

On the way back to the stables, she'd tugged her muffler up over her nose and chin so the swath hid most of her face. As for her hair, she'd stuffed it under her cap so thoroughly that, beyond the fact it was as brightly golden as he recalled, he couldn't tell how she wore it. A few short strands had slipped free at her nape, sheening against her collar like spun gold.

Looking forward, he inwardly frowned. It wasn't simply that there were lots of things he didn't yet know about her that bothered him. The very fact he wanted to know bothered him. This was Flick, the General's ward.

General Sir Gordon Caxton had been his mentor in all matters pertaining to horses since he'd been six. That was when, while visiting with his late great-aunt Charlotte, he'd first met the General. Thereafter, whenever he'd been in the locality, he'd spent as much time as possible with the General, learning everything he could about breeding Thoroughbreds. It was due to the General, to his knowledge freely shared and his unstinting encouragement, that he, Demon, was now one of the preeminent breeders of quality horseflesh in the British Isles.

He owed the General a great deal.

A fact he could never forget. He comforted himself with that thought as he trotted beside Flick into the trees beyond which stood the old cottage.

Once a tenant farmer's home, it was now one step away from a ruin. From the rutted lane meandering up to its warped and sagging door, the structure looked uninhabitable. Only on closer inspection could one discern that the roof of the main room was still mostly intact, the four walls enclosing it still standing.

With an imperious gesture, Flick led the way around the cottage. Briefly raising his eyes to the skies, Demon followed, entering a grassy clearing enclosed by trees. A sharp whinny greeted them. Eagerly, Flick urged the cob on. Looking across the clearing, Demon saw Jessamy, a pretty golden-coated mare with pale mane and tail and the most exquisite conformation he'd ever seen. She was tethered on a long rein.

Ivan saw Jessamy, too, and concurred with Demon's assessment. Still held on tight rein, Ivan reared and trumpeted. Only excellent reflexes saved Demon from an embarrassing unseating. Smothering an oath, he wrestled Ivan down, then forced him to the other side of the clearing, ignoring the combined, slightly insulted stares of Flick, Jessamy and the cob.

Dismounting, Demon double-tied Ivan's reins to a large tree. "Behave yourself," he ordered, then turned away, leaving the stallion, head up, staring with complete and absolute absorption across the clearing.

Having turned the cob loose, Flick dumped her saddle on a convenient log and gave Jessamy, who clearly adored her, a fond pat. Then, with another imperious, beckoning wave, she led the way around the far side of the cottage.

Muttering beneath his breath, Demon strode after her.

He rounded the cottage-Flick was nowhere in sight. A lean-to had been tacked onto the cottage on that side. The lean-to hadn't survived as well as the cottage-its outer wall was crumbling and half its roof had disappeared. Flick had ducked through an opening, a door that had never been planned. Hearing her voice in the main room beyond, Demon ducked beneath the canted beams; easing his shoulders through the narrow space, he stepped silently through the debris and entered the cottage proper.

And saw Flick standing beside Dillon Caxton, who was sitting at one end of an old table, blankets wrapped about his shoulders. She was bent over him; as Demon entered, she straightened, frowning, her hand on Dillon's brow. "You don't have any sign of a fever."