Black Diaries

54. Horseplay

He planned it. The bastard had to have planned it! How else could it be that he managed to take me in so utterly and completely? And he didn't even have to bribe or threaten me, or do anything impressive! No, all it took was my getting all gooey-eyed over a black-furred Quadruped!

And how gooey-eyed I went! It was a little embarrassing, if not really surprising. Silver Star was—with the possible exception of Pink Pimpernel and my childhood pony Rumpelstiltskin—the most adorable horse I had ever set eyes on. It wasn't his fault that he had such a nasty owner. If you thought about the situation, it was really my moral duty to stay and support him in the abysmal life of servitude to a tyrant he was destined for.

Plus, I was still curious to see if I would ever get to see said tyrant with his shirt open to the navel. It was a purely scientific interest. Would there be a strong, masculine chest, rippling with muscle—or just a ragged piece of blackened charcoal, where normal humans had their heart? At the moment, I was favoring the second hypothesis.

Now, don't get me wrong—my new job wasn't bad or demanding. Actually, it was wonderful! I got to spend all day outside with Silver Star and Tom Melville, had a whole, charming little cottage to myself and saw neither hide nor hair of him for weeks. Tom, I had to admit, looked a lot less intimidating in old tweed trousers and a sweater instead of his fancy suit. Besides being head groom, he was also in charge of the horses' training, and as long as they were happy, he was in a perpetually good mood. Thus, he turned out to be almost as good company as his horses. And the horses—they were the best. Even Lucky seemed to like them, and that was saying something for a cat who, back in New York, used to chase the neighbor's Pekinese around the block. So, all in all, I couldn't really complain.

Except...

Except that damn bastard of an aristocrat had forced me into this job! How dare he! I was an American! Didn't he know what happened when asshole Brits went around demanding Americans to do things we didn't want to do? Yorktown! That was what happened!

Not that I actually knew exactly what had happened at the Battle of Yorktown. Back in high school, when my teacher had explained about the War of Independence, I had been too busy with snoring to listen. But I knew that Washington had kicked some major British ass!

For the first time, I really understood why Washington was held up to American school children as such a great example. I, for my part, felt more than eager to follow in the great man's footsteps. But the only piece of British ass I ever got to see was the sturdy rump of Tom Melville, clad in dirty tweed, and that was not a target I wanted to try and break my foot on.

His ass, however... that would be an entirely different proposition. I might be persuaded to try all sorts of things with his ass, included but certainly not limited to a good kick.

You're thinking dangerous thoughts again, I reminded myself. Think angry! Think furious! Or better yet, don't think about him at all.

"I should be thinking about you," I murmured, stroking Silver Star's long neck, and holding out a carrot from the sack I was carrying. "You're worth ten of his sort, anyway."

He whinnied—probably in appreciation of the carrot, but I chose to see it as an agreement on the part of an intelligent horse.

"In fact," I added, thoughtfully, fishing another carrot out of the sack, "you're probably worth twenty of his sort. Or twenty-five."

"Whose sort?" a sharp, masculine voice asked from behind me.

I nearly dropped the sack of carrots. Slowly, I turned, and there he was: Lord Christopher Many-Long-Middle-Names Farleigh, leaning against a paddock fence with his arms folded, regarding me with his sharp, steel-blue eyes. He was wearing his red riding coat again, blazing like an open flame in the middle of a sea of lush green. Somehow, I didn't remember it being quite that majestically red.