Fear congealed in her veins. He touched the hat’s crown with one long finger, drawing her gaze in fascinated horror to the nick in the hat’s crown.

Shock shivered through her. Harkness’s shot hadn’t gone all that wide…

Her world was suddenly edged in black.

She heard Dillon swear, felt him press the black closer, sensed him near.

The distant thud of hooves reached them. She blinked; they both looked.

The morning sun had burned off the mists; Harkness was clearly visible as he crested a rise a hundred yards away.

He saw them and pulled up, wheeling his mount in the same movement. With a glare Pris felt even across the distance, he rode back the way he’d come, immediately disappearing from sight.

Eyes narrowed, Dillon turned to her. “Who was he?”

Steely menace colored his tone.

She looked down. “I don’t know.”

The word he uttered was very far from polite.

After a fraught moment, he said, the words clipped and tight, “He shot at you. Why?”

The question had her looking up, realizing. “I…ah, don’t know.”

Harkness had mistaken her for Rus. He’d been waiting-following precisely the same logic she had.

From the look on Dillon’s face he knew she knew the answers to both his questions. Turning her head, she stared after Harkness.

Had he realized his mistake? Her hair hadn’t fallen until she’d stopped; Harkness wouldn’t have seen it, and from a distance, on horse back, dressed as she was, it wouldn’t be easy to distinguish her from Rus.

And Harkness wouldn’t be expecting her to be there, for there to be someone about he could mistake for her striking brother.

Yet if he’d thought she was Rus…Pris looked at Dillon. She knew Harkness’s reputation; the man was bad and bold. Why had he so readily turned tail rather than come after Rus?

Dillon had been facing away from Harkness. Her gaze slid to Dillon’s horse. The black was an exceptional specimen, tall, with long, elegant lines, and totally, completely black. “Do you often ride him?”

Dillon’s eyes remained on her face. “Yes.”

“So he’s known about the town?”

He didn’t answer, but after a moment said, “Are you saying that man recognized me because of Solomon?”

That was the only explanation for Harkness’s abrupt retreat. She shrugged, leaned over, and grasped her hat, twitching to retrieve it.

Fingers instinctively tightening, Dillon held it for a moment, then let her tug it free. Through eyes still narrow, he watched her tuck up her hair, then cram the hat over it. The result was wobbly, but apparently satisfied, she gathered her reins, then looked at him, and inclined her head.

“Good day, Mr. Caxton.”

He snorted. “Dillon. And I’ll escort you home.”

Her chin rose; she glanced sharply at him as he brought Solomon alongside the drooping mare. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Nevertheless.” He couldn’t stop himself from grimly adding, “You’ve had enough adventures for one day.”

She looked ahead and made no reply.

He’d much rather she’d ripped up at him. He was tempted to say something to prick her Irish temper; the knowledge he wanted an excuse to rail at her-to release the gnawing, clamorous need to react, to act and seize and wield a right some part of him had already decided was his-held him back.

He’d never felt such a reaction before, had never been even vaguely susceptible to its like. Why she-who aroused so many emotions in him, and all so easily-should likewise trigger such a powerful, almost violent response simply by being reckless, by being in danger, by doing things-reckless things-that put her in danger…

The roiling tide rose, welling at his thoughts. He cut them off, slammed a door on his urges-primitive, he knew, and unlikely, in this instance, to be met with anything but haughty and contemptuous dismissal.

Jaw clenched, he glanced at her, riding easily by his side.

After a moment, he looked ahead. Trust-hers-that’s what he was after. Time enough once he’d learned her secrets to introduce her to this other side of him that she and only she evoked.

Provoked.

Riding silently beside him, Pris was very aware of his leashed temper; it rubbed against hers like a hand ruffling fur the wrong way. There was heat there, too, lurking behind the anger, using it as a screen. It tempted her to engage, to let her temper flare and clash with his, but she was simply too weary, too exhausted, to risk such a foolhardy, reckless, and wild act just now.

No matter how tempted.

It was like riding beside a tiger, but…

Harkness had shot at her thinking she was Rus, and he’d been aiming to kill. The realization slid through her, solidifying and growing colder, more icy and sharp with every passing mile.

The mare plodded on. Dillon held his black to a walk; the horse was beautifully schooled. Despite wanting to run, he obliged, and like a gentleman paced neatly alongside the weary mare. Almost protectively.

Very like his master.

The understanding intensified the coldness spreading inside her. She couldn’t afford to lean on Dillon Caxton, not now, not yet, perhaps not ever. She didn’t know if she could trust him. The events of the morning had brought Rus’s plight even more forcefully home. Her twin was in very deep trouble.

The cold had seeped to her bones, to her marrow. She was shivering inside, but fought to hide it. She hunched her shoulders, her arms tight against her body.

From beside her came a muffled curse. Dillon shifted in his saddle; before she could summon the energy to glance his way, warmth fell around her shoulders, then engulfed her.

She stiffened, lifted her head even as her fingers greedily gripped and held the heat to her, the coat about her.

“For God’s sake, don’t argue!”

She shot him a severe glance.

He returned it with interest. “Disobliging female that you are.”

Her lips twitched. Looking ahead, she kept the coat close, savored its warmth, his body heat trapped in the silk lining. Without looking his way, she inclined her head. Stiffly said, “Thank you.”

The horses walked on. The icy chill inside her thawed.

By unspoken accord, they’d taken a route circling the town; no need for any ladies or gentlemen out early to see her. By the time they neared the Carisbrook house and reined in fifty yards from the stable, she felt warmed through, restored to her customary health, her usual decisive temper.

Shrugging out of the coat, she handed it back. “Thank you.”

He responded with a dark look. Taking the coat, he slung it about his shoulders and shrugged into it. She forced herself to look away from the enthralling sight of the muscles of his chest flexing beneath the fine lawn of his shirt.

He should come with a warning tattooed on his forehead.

He settled into his saddle and reached for his reins. She looked at him, calmly met his gaze. “I’ll bid you a good day, Mr…” Briefly, she smiled. “Dillon.”

He didn’t smile in return; large, lean, and relaxed in his saddle, he held her eyes with a steady gaze she found a touch unsettling. After a moment, he asked, his voice low, a hint of the sexual seeping through, “When are you going to tell me the truth?”

She didn’t look away from that dark stare, heavy with unspoken implications. After a pause she allowed to grow fraught, she lightly raised her brows. “When are you going to tell me what I want to know?”

A minute ticked past as they eyed each other, an acknowledgment they still stood on opposing sides of a fence.

“Priscilla, you are playing a very dangerous game.”

The words were low, precise, uttered with little inflection; they still set something inside her quivering.

Her temper stirred; haughty willfulness infused her as she lightly arched her brows, then, gathering her reins, she turned the mare and started her for the stables-glancing back at the last to say with sultry deliberation, “Until next time…Dillon.”

7

You’re absolutely sure?” Seated in an armchair in Demon’s study, Dillon stared at Barnaby; he didn’t know what to think.

Earlier that afternoon, Barnaby had returned from London, found him in his office, and insisted on dragging him out to the Cynster stud to share his discoveries simultaneously with Demon and Flick.

Perched on the window seat, Barnaby nodded. “No question at all-Vane and I had the same story from different sources. The spring races the rumors concerned were the New Plate at Goodwood, and the Cadbury Stakes at Doncaster, and in both cases, the losses were sustained on runners from the same stable-horses whose runs were completely inconsistent with their previous form. That stable is Collier’s, near Grantham.”

Seated behind his desk, Flick as usual perched on the arm of his chair, Demon looked at Dillon. “Collier’s dead.”

His gaze still on Barnaby, Dillon nodded. “Yes. I know.”

Barnaby’s face fell. “Dead?” He looked from Dillon to Demon.

“Definitely,” Demon said. “It created quite a stir. Collier was well-known. He’d been in the business for decades and had some fine horses. Apparently he was riding by a local quarry, something spooked his horse, and he was thrown down the quarry cliff. His neck was broken.” Demon looked at Dillon. “What happened to the stable? Who inherited?”

“His daughter. She had no interest in the stable or the horses-she sold them off. I saw the paperwork crossing my clerks’ desks.”

“Who bought them-any particular party?”

“Most went in singles or pairs to different stables.”

Demon frowned. “No mention of a partner?”

Dillon studied Demon’s face. “No. Why?”

“Collier got into difficulties at the end of the autumn season last year-he bet on some of his own runners and lost heavily. I’d wondered if he’d be racing again, but after the winter break he returned, not only with no cuts to his string, but with two very classy new runners.”