Ride the Wind

By Krista Janssen

She was a Scottish horse trainer's daughter. He was a powerful nobleman. Together they would defy their separate worlds. Astride her mare, Deborah MacDonald proved she handled horses better than any lad in her clan's Glencoe home. Accompanying her father to an estate near London, Deborah met aristocratic Cortez Bedford. Drawn to Cort's wild nature, his dark good looks, and intrigued by his magnificent stallion, Pegasus, she never imagined she could capture the heart of this dashing nobleman. Reckless Cort Bedford had staked his entire inheritance on a horse race. Now, he risked the wrath of Pegasus's new Scottish trainer by pursuing his spirited daughter, Deborah. The tempestuous girl had a passion that matched Cort's own, igniting a fire in him, possessing his heart and soul with each searing kiss. But ahead lay a perilous contest in which all could be lost... as ancient tradition and feuding clans threatened to shatter their glorious, untamed love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781633557857

Krista Janssen

Enjoying writing since age twelve, when she first penned a short story for publication, Krista Janssen received her college degree in Fine Arts and English from the Univer-sity of Oklahoma. She currently lives in Florida with her husband, Robert, and their precocious pup, Amber, who di-rects traffic in their household. When not writing, Krista en-joys gardening, golfing and romantic beach walks along nearby Atlantic shores.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’m going, Father, and that’s that!"

"I said no, Deborah Jeanne, and I’ll hear no more of it!"

Standing just inside the barn door, surrounded by shafts of sunlight and the sweet scent of fresh hay, father and daughter faced each other squarely. The auburn-haired girl’s stern expression reflected the angry scowl of the middle-aged man looking back at her. This same argument had been going on for days, ever since the arrival of the summons from Lord William Russell, Earl of Bedford.

But you need me, Deborah insisted, and I’ve never been to England. I’m going to wither away here in Glencoe... or die of boredom.

Ye’ve never complained of boredom before, child. Ye work from first light to dusk and spend every evening with that Campbell boy, worse luck for us all.

She lifted her chin. Well then, if you’re so set against a match with Fisk Campbell, take me with you to Bedfordshire. Perhaps I’ll meet an English gentleman to suit your fancy.

Hugh MacDonald scowled to cover his uncertainty. The girl had indeed struck a sensitive chord. Though the Campbells had made recent overtures of friendship toward the MacDonald clan, he distrusted and disliked them from the depths of his soul. He would be hard pressed to decide which was worse for a son-in-law, a Campbell or an Englishman. Why couldn’t Deborah have chosen sensibly like her older sister? Though Agnes had taken her time in deciding, she would marry Ed Duncan next spring and make her home at the Duncan farm only a few miles down the lane.

But Deborah had been stubborn as a stump since she was a tyke—and the older she got, the more she rebelled against his authority. Not that the girl was truly bad. Nay, she had merely inherited her mother’s famous Leslie spirit, the spirit of that illustrious Scottish clan that had produced more than its share of rebels and warriors for several centuries. It had taken plenty of spunk for his young bride to abandon her noble family and run away with an ordinary soldier who was Catholic as well. It still tugged at his heart to remember how she had looked when they made good their escape from the castle at Balquhain. He often saw that same stubborn streak in his darling Deborah, and Deb had become his strong right arm after his wife’s death. But still, her willful spirit and independence often clashed with his wishes—and then a scene like the present one erupted.

"All right, lass, but if I allow ye to accompany me to England, will ye promise to do exactly as I say—to dress properly and speak only when spoken to—and then choose your words with care? The English: are a haughty lot, and the Bedfords are as powerful as any family in the land. ‘Tis said King William occasionally drops in at the Bedfords’ country home to hunt with the earl.

Deborah relaxed and smiled prettily. Aye, Father, she chirped, I’ll do exactly as you say—and I’ll be a big help—you’ll see. I can handle the horses almost as well as you yourself. Why, I can—

"Calm yourself now. If I take ye with me, ye must be more of a lady than a lackey. If ye ride any of the Bedfords’ fine steeds, ye’ll wear a proper skirt and gloves, and keep a decent pace—none of your tearing off across heath and hill. And remember. I’ll be busy training the Spanish horse owned by that Bedford relative with the peculiar name... Cortez or some such. I’ve only got three months to ready the animal for the fall running at Newmarket.

I’m sure I can help... with the daily workouts, perhaps.

We’ll see. But the earl, though past eighty, keeps a sharp eye on every part of his estate—especially the stables—and his master of the horse holds a strong rein. I’ve encountered him before at the lowland tracks. Likely ye won’t be permitted to ride blooded stock at all. With luck, ye may be given duties with the house staff.

The house staff! Humph, she answered with a toss of her thick curls. If I were a boy, I wouldn't be spending my first visit to a real English breeding farm stirring soup or dusting bric-a-brac. I’ve passed as a lad before when it suited me. Maybe...

Deborah MacDonald, I’ll have none of that! Besides, those days are gone forever. Take a look in the mirror, daughter. Ye’ll not fool anyone again, I’ll wager.

She decided to retreat rather than risk losing the newly won permission to accompany her father. She gave him another sweet smile. Aye, Father... whatever you say. Now, when do we leave? I must begin helping Agnes prepare for our absence.

Indeed you must. We leave in a fortnight. The earl is sending a coach, and we’ll take along my gelding and your mare... though I daresay the beasties will be a sad sight next to the Bedfords’ fine stock.

Holding her tongue, Deborah walked quickly from the barn toward the house. She had started to defend her mare, Heather, but decided better of it. For a fortnight, at least, she would be the soul of compliance, as gentle and agreeable as a daisy in a summer breeze. And when she got to Bedfordshire, she would help her father in every way possible. She must remember that being asked to train the Englishman’s horse was a great honor for him. He had a remarkable way with the animals and had gained a superb reputation throughout Scotland for producing winners at the meets. In a way, he would be the Bedfords’ secret weapon in the competition against other English nobles. As for herself, she was determined to ride one of the famous Iberian horses before she left England—no matter what manipulations or disguises were required.

On a dazzling July morning, with the sun turning the River Coe into a gurgling reflection of turquoise sky and the glen into a wealth of lush waving grass and variegated wildflowers, Deborah swung astride her mare and waved one last good-bye to Agnes. Her excitement made it easy to overcome a touch of guilt for leaving her sister behind to manage the farm. It helped to know that Agnes was a devoted homebody and had no desire to leave her comfortable hearth and daily routine. And, of course, Ag wouldn’t want to be parted from Ed Duncan in any case. Deborah knew love could be a powerful force, but she had no interest in dabbling with that fierce emotion anytime soon. The boys of Argyll County were such a tedious lot, talking of nothing but fishing and crops and politics. The only one who intrigued her in the least was Fisk Campbell, and lately he’d begun to try her patience beyond endurance. He was full of arrogant pride because of his blood ties with John Campbell, Earl of Argyll. It was only lately the MacDonalds had accepted the Campbells’ overtures of friendship at all, much less entertained the possibility of a marriage bond between clan members. Only two things attracted her to Fisk: his admittedly excellent horsemanship and the perverse pleasure it gave her to defy her father’s wishes.

Smiling as she urged Heather onto the river road, she remembered the day she had raced Fisk across the heath above Loch Etive. He had claimed his shiny cob was the fastest horse in the Highlands. But she counted on the Irish blood of her half-Connemara mare, as well as her lighter weight, to win the day. Much to Fisk’s embarrassment and chagrin, she had won by a length. Why, he didn’t speak to her for hours. And then he made every excuse he could think of for his loss, from his mount’s having a sore tendon to a case of colic.

Come along, Deborah, shouted her father from the window of the coach traveling several yards ahead of her. Stay in view, or ye’ll ride in here with me.

She waved her agreement and settled into an easy pace just beyond the rising dust created by the coach and the horse tied behind it. She wouldn’t choose to sit in one of those rocking, creaking conveyances when she could ride in the bright warmth of a day like today. The only difficulty was keeping Heather on a firm rein when they both were in such high spirits. She adjusted her jaunty tam of red plaid and touched the heel of her soft leather boot to Heather’s ribs. In instant response, the mare stepped gaily forward.

Hello, Deborah, came a call from behind her. Turning, she was amazed to see Fisk Campbell riding hard to catch up with her. They had said their good-byes in a rather tense meeting just last night. She didn’t want to repeat the scene. Still, she pulled in to allow him to join her.

Fisk, what are you doing here? she asked curtly.

I couldn’t let you go without one last word, he said. A word... and perhaps a kiss.

A word is fine... and it’s good-bye. A kiss in broad daylight is not allowed.

He fell in at an easy gait at her side. By all the saints, you look more fetching than I’ve ever seen you. Deb. And my heart is breaking. Surely you won’t deny me one last token of your affection.

Your heart won’t break, Fisk. It will find a new love before the week is out. I’ll warrant. Nay, the kiss you stole last night is token enough.

Not enough... not near enough, missy. You ride into danger, I fear.

Danger? How so?

The English are not to be trusted, as you well know. They’re inclined to eat innocent Scot lassies for breakfast, then hunger again before mid-morn. And if they discover you’re Catholic, they’ll roast you slowly over a spit before the dining.

Nonsense. The Earl of Bedford knows our religious persuasion and has no problem with it. This is an enlightened age... now that William and Mary have the throne. Perhaps, but you’re a MacDonald, and your chief has refused as yet to sign the pledge to the Crown. There could be trouble over that.

Politics again. The subject bores me. If Ian MacDonald doesn’t want to sign some slip of paper, I don’t see why he should do it. He’ll not make any more trouble.

So you say, but I’m not so sure. The Campbells have signed, as have other MacDonalds. Your stubborn laird is taking a great risk... and risking the rest of the clan as well.

That’s absurd. Besides, Ian will sign—I heard him say so—just not until the deadline in December. ‘Let the English sweat a bit,’ he said. They’ve treated him badly, and so he’ll not sign ’til he’s good and ready. Her voice rose in annoyance. Why did Fisk always bring up politics or religion, two subjects that roused passion and argument? No one ever changed his mind about either, no matter what points were made.

We’ll see. But I’ve also heard rumors about the Bedfords—especially this man James Cortez Bedford.

But how could you, all the way from England?

You recall I was at the track at Newmarket last year. I won a tidy sum which bought you the beads you so rarely wear, he said bitingly. I heard of this blackguard. His reputation is as foul as his visage.

You saw him? she asked, suddenly intrigued. "What was he like? You mean he’s ugly? They say his horse is magnificent—a Spanish pure-blood... or maybe part

Turk. And the man himself is a hero—a member of the Royals who fought in Tangiers. I've heard..."

Enough, he interrupted. Your eyes betray too much lively curiosity. You must be on guard. I tell you. I've not seen the man, but I hear his past is as dark as his way with women. He was born in America—in New Spain, to be exact—and they say his Bedford father took some Spanish woman out of wedlock to beget him. It’s a wonder the fancy Earl of Bedford will acknowledge the man to be kin.

She glanced toward the coach, which was now far ahead. If her father overheard such vulgar talk, he would blacken Fisk's eye here and now. I must ride on. Aye. I’m curious, but more about the horse than the man. Farewell, now. I'll return before deep winter.

Before she could resist. Fisk rose in his saddle, leaned over her, and kissed her firmly on the lips. Remember that, he called, roughly jerking his horse in a half-circle. Remember, Fisk Campbell takes what he wants. And I want you, Deborah MacDonald. I’ll be waiting.

Chapter 2

Beneath the high-ceilinged dome, the two men were locked in a titanic struggle. Both sweated profusely and grunted with the effort of running, turning, swatting at the flying ball; both swore gutturally at the loss of a point.

"Sfortunato... no! the smaller of the two men shouted as he lunged forward, almost falling but missing the ball entirely. That’s match point!"

The taller man, with the lithe, muscular physique of a natural athlete, approached the net and held out his hand. His piercing blue eyes registered simultaneous pleasure and sympathy. Yes, my friend, I know the score. Good match. Grinning, he shook hands with his opponent.

The goddamned French. They should never have thought up this new torture... this tennis.

Now, Mario, you love the game as much as I do. How else can you sweat off a night full of rum and debauchery? I’ve even heard it’s protection against the plague.

The swarthy, rather stout Mario walked off the court and sank heavily into a wooden chair. In that case, have a drink, Bedford. If you’re right, we should be healthy as plow horses.

Cort Bedford took a chair and reached for a cloth to wipe his soaked brow. You played tough today, Galanti. You’re a born athlete—taking after your Roman ancestors, no doubt.

Didn’t do them much good in the end, did it? You English built your castles from the stones of our fallen aqueducts.

Cort pushed dark, wet strands of hair from his forehead and drank deeply from a silver flask. Then he said, The aqueducts were a damned good idea. Brought plenty of fresh water into the city. Better than this tepid wine when you’ve worked up a real thirst.

Then let’s head for the baths. We’ve plenty of time before we leave for the country.

Cort placed his flask on a nearby table, leaned back in his chair, and stretched out his long legs. His breeches and hose clung damply, and his shoes were scuffed from the sport. But he felt exhilarated and acutely alive, as he always did after a difficult win over a worthy player. The bath would be pleasant, but he was in no rush to start preparations for his upcoming journey. In fact, he had mixed emotions about his visit to his great-uncle’s estate at Bedfordshire near Woburn. London had been a most pleasant respite from his military duties—and the visit from his old friend from Naples had made the past month a festive time indeed. His rooms on the square fronting Bedford House had provided a base from which to conduct a constant round of social activities: mornings at the coffeehouses, afternoons of tennis and riding, evenings at the theater or private parties in the company of attractive ladies from the best families, and then later, visits to the gaming rooms... and a different sort of lady.

For James Cortez Bedford, the fast pace of the city was nothing new. Although he had spent much time away in the service of the king, London had been his home for the past thirteen years. As a member of the Royal Dragoons, he had fought the Moors in Tangiers, served a tour of duty in Italy, and finally trained a cavalry unit stationed in Naples. It was there that he had first encountered the magnificent horses of Spanish breeding that captured his fancy. With luck, he’d soon have enough money to establish a stud farm of his own in the English countryside.

Mario took a drink from his flask, then asked, "So how was the theater last evening? And how was the beautiful Lady Bower?’’

"The play was amusing until the rains came. The audience seated in the open pit scrambled for cover, disrupting everything. But the actors resumed their roles, and all ended well. As for Lady Bower... I fear her conversation cannot equal her face and fortune.’’

"With that face and fortune, she hardly needs to develop wit."

A view she obviously shares. But for my taste, I prefer a lady to do more than stare at me with eyes as blank as a babe’s. And that giggle... hell, ‘twas enough to send a man straight into his cups.

Mario chuckled. Then you’ll not miss the Lady Bower while in Bedfordshire?

Not a whit. I intend to concentrate on bringing Pegasus to the peak of his performance. The ladies can wait.

Don’t blame you, Mario agreed. You have a rare animal there. He’ll easily take the purse at the Newmarket race this fall.

He should if all goes well with his training. But you’ll share in the purse, too, my friend. Breeding your mare to Byerly’s Turkish stallion produced Pegasus. I believe he inherited the Andalusian intelligence and endurance and the Turk’s heart and speed. You’ve invested as much effort and expense in Pegasus as I. Don’t forget how difficult it was to smuggle your mare out of Naples.

I admit it took some sly manipulations. For years, we’ve guarded our horseflesh as carefully as our wives. As soon as the Spaniards brought their hot-blooded animals into the country, we began breeding the best to the best. But I have to tell you, Cort. your Pegasus is the finest animal I’ve ever seen. Something in the Turkish stallion’s blood added just the right touch to make him a champion. He’s a miracle horse.

I thank my old friend, Roger Byerly, for that. Or rather Byerly’s Turk. But remember, Pegasus must still be tested on the track.

He’ll fly, Mario said flatly. Just like his namesake.

The training will make the difference. I’m concerned about this Scotsman my uncle has hired for the job.

Surely Lord William would arrange for the best man available.

He would try, of course, but horse racing has never been his passion. He rarely rides. His favorite pastime is falconry. Since he’s been a widower, he spends most of his time at his fens—usually with his grandson, Wriothesley.

I hear Lord Wriothesley has a good courser—a stallion with the blood of a Spanish stud from Tangiers.

I’ve heard the same, Cort said, pulling himself stiffly from his chair. If he runs him at Newmarket, we could have a serious challenge.

Standing, Mario tossed a cloth around his neck. Well, the new Scottish trainer should know what to do. Will he also train Wriothesley’s animal?

No. He’ll be trained by William’s resident horse master—a good man, I hear. But William says this Scotsman has been unbeaten on the tracks in Scotland and Ireland. He asked me personally to try him. If he’s not competent, we’ll find someone else.

Still, I’d rather have an Englishman... or, better yet, an Italian.

Cort laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. Spoken with true humility. But we’ll give the Scot a chance. I’ll watch his style a day or two and then decide. At least with Uncle William’s lush pastures and the Wandon Heath track nearby, the facilities will be excellent.

Mario returned Cort’s grin. And as your friend and assistant. I’ll need to scout out the local ladies. Should be a few charming country girls, don’t you think?

A few, no doubt, Court said pleasantly. Country lasses and a string of unattached blue bloods with an eye on Wriothesley’s future title and fortune. I expect no shortage of opportunity for liaisons.

"Molto buono. Mario winked. Our good fortune, you must agree."

Cort nodded as they left the court. Privately, he was growing tired of the many light flirtations of late. Spending the summer at Bedfordshire would be a good chance to escape such dalliances and concentrate on the horse. He might even pay a visit to the house his father had abandoned all those years ago when he left England for America. The place was practically in ruins the last time he saw it, though the surrounding property had possibilities. Maybe it was time to settle down at last. He’d give it some thought... later.

Chapter 3

Deborah found it difficult to control Heather’s natural exuberance for the trail, even though she rode astride wearing comfortable leggings she had sewn herself, ignoring her father’s blatant disapproval of the unladylike apparel. It was the last day of travel, the sun was bright, and the air held a snap; within the hour, she would arrive at the Earl of Bedford’s vast estates. Dozens of questions whirled through her mind, questions soon to be answered. She tried to recall the few comments her mother had made about her own girlhood at Balquhain Castle. None of her mother’s curt observations had been favorable. More often than not, they were bitter remarks about strict rules, pompous elders, and immoral schemes. Deborah had paid little attention to any of it. But now that she would soon take up residence at one of England’s most important country estates, she wished she knew more about her connections with her blue-blooded Leslie relatives.

Her curiosity was most titillated by the mystery of Captain James Cortez Bedford. Was he really half gypsy? Was he a serious horseman or merely a dandy interested only in his winnings from the track? How could she manage a secret ride on his famous Spanish stallion? One thing for sure, she couldn’t let such an opportunity pass, even if it meant disciplinary action by her father, by Captain Bedford, or even by the Earl of Bedford himself.

She was so busy with her thoughts, she almost missed seeing the handful of people hurrying in the direction of the fen about a hundred yards from the road. Having now intersected the main road, she was seeing many more travelers. Suddenly everyone in sight was headed toward the tree-lined marsh. From the cries coming from that direction, she guessed something was definitely amiss.

A glance over her shoulder revealed that her father’s coach was some distance behind. She would have time to satisfy her curiosity before she continued on her way. She cantered across the pasture and ducked under low-hanging branches. It was shadowy and cool and smelled of pungent, moist earth. She pulled up and dismounted. At once, her boots sank over the toes into oozing mud.

For a moment, she hesitated, then secured Heather to a tree and stepped carefully forward, doing her best to put her weight on rocks or fallen tree limbs. She soon joined a dozen or more people standing in a circle around one end of a thick, watery bog. To her dismay, she saw a medium-sized dog, probably a greyhound, churning for its life in the midst of the murkey goo. Nearby, a man was complaining that the dog had bitten him when he attempted a rescue. From every side came shouts of advice, but no one dared to make another attempt to save the unfortunate creature.

Quickly, Deborah returned to her horse and removed the rope she always carried as part of her tack. Slogging back to the pit, she prayed the rope was long enough to do the job. Already the poor hound’s hind legs and rear had disappeared. Desperately, it pawed the black ooze with its forelegs. Its howls filled the air as the onlookers watched in morbid fascination.

Do something, Dodsworth! called one observer.

You do something, Lacey, came the reply. I’m bitten already.

But Fletcher’s the earl’s best coursing hound. His Lordship will have you spitted for dinner when he finds out.

Don’t you think I know that? Dodsworth snapped. But even if I got out there without sinking, the beast will take my hand off, he’s that crazy.

During this conversation, Deborah was busy tying the rope securely around her waist. She had removed her vest and tucked her hair up under her tarn until only a few fractious tendrils escaped. Here, she said briskly to the man Dodsworth standing near the pit. Give me plenty of slack—and don’t pull ’til I tell you.

Startled, the man took one end of the rope and watched her drop to her hands and knees in the mud. Look out, lad, he’ll take off your nose! Dodsworth shouted.

Where’d the boy come from? a hefty woman inquired.

"At least he’s got