The horses were cooling, the sun slowly sinking. His mount shifted, coat flickering. Demon drew breath. "Let's get back, then I'll go and see Dillon."
Flick nodded, urging The Flynn into a walk. "I'll come, too. Well, I have to. That's where I change clothes and switch horses."
"Horses?"
She threw him a wary glance. "I couldn't turn up for work riding Jessamy-that they'd certainly notice."
Jessamy, Demon recalled, was a dainty mare with exceptional bloodlines; the General had bought her last year. Apparently for Flick. He glanced at her. "So?…"
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."