Chase for Love: A For Love Novel, #1

By Amanda Meredith

Harrison Stoke, the Duke of Guildford, has just hired the unknown son of Britain's best horse trainer, to develop the prospects for his new racing stable. There's something about Vic that Harrison can't place, but the boy is a marvel with horses, and Stoke Stables has seen nothing but success since his arrival. 

Vic has a secret, one that he's finding hard to keep from the attentive duke. Too many aristocratic men thought they could take advantage of a horse trainer's daughter so Victoria O'Reilly began to dress like a boy for protection. She became Vic O'Reilly, and the plan had worked well until she was nearly raped by the son of her employer. Her father sent her to Stoke Manor, hoping his friend would keep her safe. But when her attacker unexpectedly arrives at Stoke Manor, Victoria is injured, and her true identity is revealed, changing everything.

Harrison tries to keep her safe from the danger that haunts her while struggling not to form an attraction. Victoria tries to focus on training the duke's steeplechase prospects, but finds herself constantly distracted by his presence, and the aristocratic world she is thrown into.

Through danger, friendship, understanding, and victory, they learn that they weren't just training horses for the chase, but had been chasing each other all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Meredith
• Release date: Apr 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781974572045

Amanda Meredith

I was born in Bay City, Texas in 1985 but grew up in a small town in Central Illinois. My husband and I have three children and now live in Colorado. From an early age, I was passionate about the written word. I LOVE to write. Romance, to be specific. I love the happily ever after that, I believe, everyone deserves. My stories aren't the 'stop and smell the roses' type romances. While I believe everyone deserves happiness and true love, I know that sometimes you have to walk a hard road to find it. Those are the types of stories I like to write. The happily ever after that wasn't found: It was earned. I work to earn mine on a daily basis and so do my characters.  When I'm not writing, I ride horses, play acoustic guitar, sing, read like I get paid for it, and support a rather distracting addiction to Pinterest.  I love to cook, which combined with my pinning addiction, leads to many experiments foisted on my unsuspecting husband and kids, with mostly good results

Book preview

Chapter 1

R ight, Vic, William O’Reilly reached up to pat the boy's knee as the horse pawed anxiously at the ground. It was hot, unseasonably so, for England in February. The mare’s flanks were already flecked with foamy sweat, and she’d only been through a warm-up canter around the track. I want ye ta take the jumps this time and keep her pace on the inside rail. Mercy’s a wee bit frisky this mornin’ so keep a firm rein on ‘er. The boy nodded, his jaw set.

She has’na quite learned her control so dun’na let her take the bit ‘tween her teeth. The boy nodded again, bringing the reins a notch tighter in his hands. Easy does it, Vic. He smiled and patted the boy’s leg again. She has greatness in ‘er; just has ta learn how ta control it. The boy nodded, clucking the horse forward, but William grabbed the reins and stopped him. The boy looked down with concern. Be careful, Vic.

The boy smiled, from ear to ear, and clucked the horse forward again. The pair trotted around the grass and lined up before the boy urged the mare into a gallop. The horse surged forward, muscles flashing beneath the black sheen, before Vic eased her back. Easy Mercy, the lad murmured as the horse relaxed a fraction.

With slight pressure from his calves, and a faint guide on the leather reins in his hands, he adjusted the angle to the jump. The mare’s muscles bunched beneath his legs as they soared over the first hedge. He smiled now, giving her a bit more rein. The horse responded, her stride lengthening on the turf. They soared over the next jump effortlessly. He kept his eyes ahead, always on the next hurdle. The horse, now in tune with his signals, soared over eight more jumps without hesitation. He asked her for more, letting her fly across the finish line at a full gallop.

A sharp yell from the fence had the mare shying away to the inside rail. Her shoulder brushed against the fence, clipping his foot on a post. He struggled to remain seated, but the mare’s sudden movement was too much, and he found himself flying to the ground. The world around him went black.

Vic!

William’s shout cut through the ringing in his head as he blinked his eyes open. He sat up, coughing as he tried to catch his breath. William reached him quickly, his strong hands gripping his shoulders.

Are ye all right, laddie?

Aye, Vic found his voice, an octave higher than he would have liked. He cleared his throat. I’m all right, Da, he answered with a deeper tone.

Ye scared the life from me! William checked him over again but Vic brushed off his father’s hands as he stood.

I was fine until some mug scared the damn horse!

Mug?

The voice from the fence was dripping with malice. The man walking towards them was of average height, and slender, nearly too thin, with cheekbones jutting from sunken cheeks. His skin had a slightly yellow tint, and his blonde hair looked dull, even in the sunshine.

Calling a Lord and your employer an idiot is not the brightest idea.

Vic stuttered, dropping into a clumsy bow. Pardon, my lord. The man looked at him with anger, and a hint of something else that made him shiver with fear I...

Viscount Maybourne. William stepped in front of Vic, bringing the Lord’s eyes away from him. I wasn’t expecting you home from London so soon. We would’ve waited ta run the horse.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise before narrowing. I’ve no need to inform you of my comings and goings, he sniffed, his words slurring a bit.

William inclined his head. Of course not, my lord. Only, your shout spooked the mare, my lord. I must insist on restraint around the horses.

Lord Maybourne’s eyebrows drew down into a scowl. You insist? His voice was cold. I believe you misunderstand your place here, Mr. O’Reilly.

Oh no, my lord, he answered, standing at full height. For an Irishman, he was tall, and his years of working with horses had given him a very stout frame. I understand my place well enough. Your father has put me in charge of the stables, though I had many a fine offer from estates across England.

Maybourne’s face paled at mention of his father, then reddened again. Be that as it may... he replied, his voice clearer. He was glancing around William with a hungry look in his eyes.

Vic had caught the mare and was murmuring to her. William shifted, just enough to block the Lord’s view again.

Maybourne glanced back to William, his scowl returning. I don’t think my father would appreciate, nor approve, of a stable boy riding his prized horse.

Vic is no mere stable boy, my lord, he stated with pride in his voice. He’s my son and has a gift with horses. He’s quite a talented jockey.

Maybourne’s scowl deepened. Your son? I wasn’t aware you had any children. He glanced back at Vic who was leading the mare back to the stable. How old?

William looked uncomfortable at the question but answered. Ten and six, my lord.

Maybourne’s eyes widened with surprise. He’s a bit small for that age.

William shuffled his feet, a nervous gesture, as he kept himself between Vic and viscount. Aye well, he has ta be small to be a jockey, but he’s a good hand with the horses. His size doesn’t impede his work.

That remains to be seen, he replied, still watching the boy. He looked away after a moment. I wanted to speak with you about the filly, Mr. O’Reilly, which is why I deigned to come down to the stables so early. I want to see Commodore’s Mercy run at Cheltenham.

William’s face turned red in anger. My lord, she’s not ready for a race yet. We’ve only just begun her training on the jumps.

Nevertheless, she will race.

William’s face was nearing purple. My lord, I must insist.

Maybourne’s eyes darkened and when he answered, his voice was sharp with malevolence. Mr. O’Reilly, I must insist that you learn your place. You do not tell the heir of Chester what he may or may not do with his horses.

William looked as if he were about to argue again but took a deep breath and sighed, his face returning to its normal color. Aye, my lord, he murmured, bowing. Maybourne turned back to the house without another word. William sighed before turning to the stables.

THAT DRUNKEN PEACOCK, Vic muttered as he walked the filly in the courtyard. A perfect run ruined by a spoiled heir. The filly nickered in response and Vic snorted, giving her a pat on the neck.

Such is our lot in life, William’s voice, full of humor, called from the stable entrance. But I will agree, twas a perfect run.

Vic smiled, his anger dissolving. Aye, it was, wasn’t it? Talk of horses always eased his mind. She’s a bit stiff on the landing but with more practice I think she’ll overcome it.

Oh, aye, William agreed, joining him. Yer filthy now from taking that spill. Why dun'na ye head down ta the river and wash up. I’ll finish cooling her off. Yer tutor comes in an hour’s time.

He groaned but handed the reins to his father’s outstretched hand. I don’t see why I must be tutored, Da, he complained. It’s not like I need an education to train horses.

William scowled, before sighing and giving him a smile. Yer mother, bless her soul, would turn in her grave if ye didn’t have a proper education.

Vic sobered at his words. His mother had died giving birth to him and he felt the need to please her, even from beyond the grave. Why did you lie about my age to his lordship? he asked, his voice laced with worry. He didn’t understand how men’s mind’s worked. Even his father’s.

Because at ten and nine, a man would be a lot bigger than you are, his father explained. He would’ve been more suspicious than he already was. Now go wash up and hurry back.

Vic nodded to his father, questions still full in his mind, and jogged out of the courtyard.

VIC SAT ON A LARGE boulder near the stream, rinsing the mud off his arms. He really wanted to strip off and jump in, but there was too great a chance that someone would see. He took a deep breath, as much as the cloth wrapped around his chest would allow and scrubbed at his arm. He’d taken his cap off, letting his hair, tied loose at the base of his neck, free. Most boys kept their hair short and trimmed, but Vic never did what other boys his age normally would. He didn’t muck stalls without his shirt. He didn’t relieve himself in the bushes outside the stable. He certainly didn’t joke about women the way the other grooms did. A branch snapped behind him and he whirled around, but a strong hand had grabbed his hair before he could fully turn.

Get your damn hands off me! he cried out, the back of his scalp stinging with pain. The voice that answered from behind him made him freeze in terror.

That’s no way to speak to your betters. Lord Maybourne, the future Earl of Chester, pulled again at Vic’s hair. He wrapped his other hand around Vic’s waist, pulling him closer. What are you doing down here alone? His voice sounded excited.

Vic swallowed, fear making a giant lump in his throat. My lord, he squeaked out and he cleared his throat. I just came down to wash up before my lessons.

Yes, you were quite dirty, he exhaled the word in Vic’s ear.

Vic shuddered, trying to pull away again. Aye, my lord. Maybourne held fast and Vic could feel something hard pressed against the small of his back. Whatever it was, he knew it was bad news. I’ll just be off now, my lord.

You may call me, Marcus, when we are alone, he murmured, his lips close to Vic’s ear. I shall permit it, under the circumstances.

Vic held back the bile in his throat. The young lord smelled like whiskey and vomit. The circumstances, my lord?

Yes. I left London quite unexpectedly and was unable to bring my entertainment with me, and you, Vic, shall be perfect as a replacement.

Something wet slid against Vic’s ear and he jumped, but Maybourne’s arms held him tight. Perfect for what? He struggled but Maybourne was stronger than he looked.

The viscount’s breath turned raspy. Ah, an innocent. His voice pitched with excitement. It’s been some time since I’ve had such a new and unused plaything.

Vic stopped fighting as his heart slammed in his chest. He had heard the stable hands talk. They had whispered that the young lord had unnatural tastes. Let me go, ye scurvy dog! He bucked in the viscount’s arms, knowing he needed to escape.

Oh, I don’t think so. I might have to make you my regular entertainment for my visits to the country.

Maybourne laughed and shoved Vic to the rock he’d been sitting on earlier. His stomach hit the edge, knocking the breath from his lungs. He felt his breeches being pulled at and he reared up. The back of his head hit Maybourne in the face, and the man stumbled back, his nose gushing blood. Vic backed away in shock. Lord Maybourne wiped his sleeve across his nose and clambered to his feet. He had a murderous gleam in his eye and something else that Vic could not place.

You’ll pay for that, boy, he growled. I can play rough too.

His hand shot out before Vic could duck and the slap sent him sprawling backwards. Before he could crawl away, Maybourne was on top of him, tearing at his shirt. No! he screamed, his voice high and loud. Leave me be!

Maybourne’s hands stilled with a hiss. His torn shirt had revealed the cloth bindings, wrapped tightly around his chest. What is this? Maybourne reached a hand down, pulling the bindings away, revealing firm breasts with rosy nipples. Vic screamed again, struggling to pull the cloth back in place. Maybourne grabbed him roughly between the legs and the high-pitched scream came again. A woman? He laughed as Vic started sobbing. Isn’t that interesting? He reached up to unbutton Vic’s breeches. It makes no difference to me.

Maybourne cried out suddenly, falling to the ground beside Vic. William, brandishing a stiff riding crop, struck him again and again, until the man was quiet on the ground. Vic still lay on the rock, sobbing as she tried to keep her shirt closed.

Victoria? William removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shaking shoulders before pulling her into his arms. I’m so sorry, child. She sobbed in his arms, unable to answer. Jaysus, I think I’ve killed him.

She stiffened and peered under her father’s arm. Lord Maybourne lay still, blood seeping from multiple wounds. The vicious gash across his cheek showed the bone beneath the skin. He... She shivered as she looked at the bleeding body of the man that had attacked her. He was going to rape me. She looked in her father’s face, it had gone pale. It mattered not if I was a boy or a girl.

Ah, Tori, he sighed, pulling her close again. I tried keeping ye safe from the horrors of this world. Yer mother would have seen to it better.

Is he dead? she squeaked the last word.

He spat at the still form. If we’re lucky, aye, but sick and evil men are never easily rid of. She shuddered and he pulled her off the rock. We must leave now, Tori, before he’s found.

Her head was spinning. Leave?

Aye, he answered, his face paling. I’ll hang for this, I will. Doesn’t matter that I was defending my own child.

Hang? She swayed, her vision hazing, but her father held her up with strong arms. He pulled her faster and she stumbled trying to keep up.

Aye, child. He’s titled, and they have ways around the laws. We’ll have ta separate...

No, Da!

He looked at her, sorrow filling his features before he answered. Tis the best way. They’ll be looking for me soon, and when they find me... He swallowed. I doubt there will even be a trial. And if yer with me, they may implicate ye as well.

But Da.

He glanced back toward the river where Maybourne lay. He’s a wicked one, that boy, and his kin aren’t any better. On the likely chance he survives, he’ll not stop searching for ye.

Da, I can’t leave you!

Ye must, Tori, he urged her into a jog when they reached the stable. I think I know somewhere you’ll be safe. A young lad I used to teach before I met yer mother. He’s a gentle hand with horses, and honest, for a gent. He told me ta call on him if I ever needed help, though he was still only a boy when I last saw him.

She tried to keep up with her father’s words, but her mind was spinning. A gentleman?

Aye, he answered, leading her into their small apartment above the stable. Third son of the Duke of Guildford. His father gave him a free rein, so to speak, and he dreamt of horses. Last I’d heard, he was trying to make his fortune breeding for the steeplechase. I dun'na know if he has an estate somewhere else so ye’ll have ta try Stoke Manor first. His father or brothers should point ye in the right direction from there.

Stoke Manor?

He began throwing her things in a worn bag. Aye, tis in Surrey. A day’s ride from London. You’ll have ta take the coach, maybe even walk a bit.

Da, I can’t...

You’ll have ta, Tori, he murmured, turning towards her. Yer life depends upon it. He turned away again, going to the desk and pulling out a sheet of parchment. I’ll send a letter with ye, asking for help. Ye can train his horses, earn yer keep. When ye save enough money, I want ye ta buy passage on a ship ta Ireland.

Ireland?

Aye, he muttered, his face turning dark. Yer mother has family there. They may take ye in, especially if I’m... if I’m no longer here.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to calm her racing thoughts. Nothing he said made any sense. I’ve no idea what you’re going on about, Da.

His face softened as he looked at her. I know, child. His voice was sad. There’s so much ye dun'na know. I’ll have another letter, that ye aren’t to open until yer on yer way. Twill explain it all.

Why can’t you just tell me?

There’s no time, Tori. They’ll find Maybourne soon, and we must be off before they do. Ye’ll ride with me ta town and I’ll get ye a ticket on the Midland Rail. It’ll take ye all the way to London. From there ye’ll be able ta take a coach ta Guildford.

How? Her voice was barely a whisper now.

I’ve been saving our wages as best I could. It’s enough to get ye there. He pulled out a pouch from the drawer that jangled with coin. Ye must stay dressed as a lad, Tori. Be on yer guard. And never let anyone see this pouch. Ye’ll be robbed before ye can blink. Keep it on a cord, ‘round yer neck.

Her knees felt weak but she heard herself let out a ragged whisper. I’ll never make it.

Aye, you’ll make it, he assured her. The O’Reilly’s are a strong lot.

What about you?

Don’t ye worry about me, Tori. I’ve lived a good life.

Da...

Hush now, child. We must fix yer clothes and be off at once.

Too shocked to argue, she adjusted her bindings as her father brought her a new shirt.

Keep yer hair under your cap, dun'na use the privy in front of anyone, and dun'na speak unless ye have ta.

She looked down at her now flat chest. The charade they’d been living for years was quite convincing. Am I to pretend to be a boy forever, Da?

Goodness no, child. Tis only ta keep ye safe, until ye reach Ireland. Yer too pretty for yer own good. Always remember that yer a lady, Victoria Murphy O’Reilly.

She blushed. Sometimes it was easier to forget. Aye, Da.

He turned from her, hurrying to pack his own things. They were gone before the calls of alarm rose on the manor.

Chapter 2

Harrison Stoke, the Duke of Guildford, tried to listen as his steward, Edward Townley, informed him of the condition of the estate. His head was pounding, the result of falling from a horse the day before, and he had no interest in such boring matters.

He was never meant to be the duke and was ill prepared for the responsibilities it entailed. He was the third son, the second spare, and he never wanted, nor dreamed of having the title.

His father had refused to let his eldest brother, and heir to the dukedom, have any type of childhood. Instead, forcing Harold to endure his youth in books, estate papers, and schooling. His elder brother, Hugh, had been educated as well but being what was commonly referred to as ‘the spare’, was allowed more freedoms.

Harrison, being the needless third son, was spared the rigid education his brothers were forced to endure. Though he spent some time at Eton, he was back home at Stoke Manor sooner than his brothers and allowed to follow his passions wherever they led him. They had led him straight to the stables.

He glanced out the window as Mr. Townley droned on. The mares were out to pasture, many of them with newborn born foals, galloping and bucking around their mother’s legs as they grazed. He sighed, wishing he could be out of doors, watching them run.

He had spent his childhood in the stables, learning from the best trainers, working with the best horses. Steeplechase and flat racing were all the rage in England, and his father had wanted a piece of the fortune there was to be had in it. His father indulged him with a generous stipend, which Harrison had used in turn to make the Stoke family one of the biggest names in horseracing.

He’s had never been interested in the money. Deemed a forward thinker by his father, he cared more about the welfare of the animals, than whether they won a race. He was also interested in breeding a better horse, more capable of handling the fast paced and sometimes brutal courses.

He turned back to Mr. Townley, trying to pay attention to what he was saying. Financially, the estate was near the brink of ruin. When his father had been duke, the estate had thrived. Even after Harold had come into the title, there had been no issues. But Harold had died, only a year after becoming duke.

He’d been visiting Abbey Manor near Banbury, overseeing the refurbishment of the country house there. When he was satisfied that the work was going as planned, he left on the train from Oxford to London. He had never reached the city. The train derailed outside of town and Harold had been one of 34 souls lost that day.

Despite his training alongside their eldest brother, Hugh was ill prepared for the unexpected title. He was a consummate gamer, using his new control over the estate’s vast fortune, to gamble away nearly every penny. The stress of being duke proved too much to handle, prodding him into debauchery.

One night, a mere six months after coming into the title, he went into a drunken rage and attacked another nobleman over a game of cards. The scuffle turned deadly when both men drew pistols and fired. The other gentleman sustained a wound to the arm. Hugh had died from a bullet to the head.

Harrison had been in the stable at Stoke Manor, assisting in the birth of a new foal, when he was informed that he was now the 10th Duke of Guildford. That had been almost a year prior.

Your grace... The steward interrupted his thoughts once again. There may not be enough funds to finish the addition on the stables.

Harrison set the accounting papers down and tried to settle the frustration bubbling inside him. Mr. Townley. The best way to save this estate is through the stables. We’ll sell Abbey Manor if we must.

Townley’s face paled. He hadn’t expected that answer. But, your grace, Abbey Manor has been a part of the estate for more than two hundred years.

Harrison restrained the outburst welling up inside him. Townley had been his father’s steward for as long as he could remember. He’d never liked the man. The Stoke family owns more than enough property here in Guildford, as well as a large house in town. Abbey is a small estate, with no real income. Stoke Manor will be more than enough to provide for the estate between the farmland and the horses. Inform the solicitor that it is for sale, Mr. Townley.

As you wish, your grace. The steward gave a stiff bow and backed out of the room.

Harrison took a deep breath, half-tempted to go to the liquor cabinet and pour himself a snifter of brandy. Instead, a knock at the door had him furrowing his brow. Enter. The door squeaked open and the stable master stuck his head in. His brow relaxed. Mr. Trent, come in.

Your grace.

Allen came in, bringing the smell of the barn with him. Harrison imagined most of the gentry would recoil at the smell of hay and horse manure. He smiled to himself as Allen sat.

There’s a young lad, just arrived, looking for a job.

You’re the stable master, Allen, he reminded him. You don’t need my permission to hire a stable boy if one is needed.

Allen smiled, at ease with Harrison. They had worked side by side in the stables since he’d been a boy. I remember what you said, your grace. This one’s a bit complicated though.

He lifted an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. There wasn’t much that Allen couldn’t handle. How so?

Well, he came with a letter of recommendation. Allen handed the sealed envelope to him. And he claims his father was William O’Reilly.

His hand stilled midway from cracking the seal. William O’Reilly. The man that had spurred his passion for horses as a lad. William had been the stable master at Stoke Manor nearly twenty years before. The trainer himself had only just reached adulthood, but his father had still paid a fortune to bring him on. William had been a genius with horses.

He’d had been ten when the Irishman first arrived at Stoke Manor, and William had taken the time to teach him to ride and handle the horses. William had been the same age as his older brother, Harold, and Harrison had treated the trainer more like a brother than an employee. When he left for Ireland five years later, Harrison had considered him a mentor and friend.

He frowned, rifling through the papers on his desk, pulling out the yesterday’s newspaper and handing it to Allen. Have you seen this? Celebrated trainer hung without trial in Chester, the headline read.

Allen’s eyes turned sympathetic. Aye. Saw it yesterday. Damn shame, that is. You don’t believe this rubbish, do you?

Hardly, he growled. I do believe he attacked Lord Maybourne, but William would have had good reason to do so.

How do you reckon they managed a hanging, but no trial?

The Earl of Chester has deep pockets, and a large influence in the county. He shook his head. Allen was right. It was a damn shame. Does the boy know?

Says he’s been traveling three days. I don’t think he’s seen the papers yet.

He cracked the seal and read the letter. Bastard, he growled, setting the parchment on his desk.

Your grace?

The earl’s son attacked the lad,

The Viscount Maybourne? He scowled when Harrison nodded.

I assume you’ve heard of him?

Aye, he’s a sick one, that man, he muttered. I imagine William didn’t take kindly to his child being abused.

No, he confirmed. He writes that he was able to save the lad before any permanent damage had been done. How does the lad seem? He looked up from the letter, concern filling his features.

A bit jittery. Nervous around the other men.

Harrison cursed, his brows furrowing in anger. William caught him with the lad, attacked him with a riding crop, and almost killed the bastard. He picked up the letter again. He knew he’d likely be hung. He writes that I am the only person he knew that could keep his son safe from Maybourne. And he asks that I provide the lad with a job training the horses and let him have his own apartment.

That’s a bit impertinent, Allen mused.

He snorted. But just like William to ask. The lad must be as gifted as William, for him to request such a thing. From the tone of this letter, he didn’t seem to be aware that I am now the Duke of Guildford.

What would you like me to do?

He stood and reached for his jacket. Start him as a stable hand. I owe William enough to help the boy. There’s an empty room above the tack room he can use for lodgings. I’ll come out and speak with the lad in a moment.

Your grace. Allen bowed with a smile and left the room.

Harrison looked out the window as he slipped his arms in the jacket and buttoned it. He didn’t want to be the one to tell the boy that his father was dead but there did not appear to be another option.

Chapter 3

The stable was in chaos when Harrison arrived. His prized stallion had escaped the groom and was running rampant in the stable courtyard. He cursed his luck. If the stallion didn’t have such perfect bloodlines, he’d be tempted to shoot the beast. The young stallion was called Black Devil and the name was perfectly appropriate. He had injured three stable hands in just as many months and had almost kicked him in the face the week prior. He was a devil indeed, but a gorgeous one.

He caught a glimpse of the stallion as he streaked past the entranceway to the courtyard. Fast as lightning, the beast was, with clean lines, and a proud head, full of teeth prone to biting. He pulled the gate shut behind him and sighed as he watched a few of grooms run past the hall in pursuit. It was a pointless gesture. Black Devil wouldn’t be caught unless he wished it. It was best to let him tire himself out before even bothering in the attempt.

He jogged down the cobblestone path to the opening of the courtyard and skidded to a stop when he saw the grooms standing and staring. He followed their line of sight to the opposite end of the courtyard and he muttered a curse. Good Lord, he’s killed someone.

The stallion stood, head lowered and sides heaving. His muscles quivered with tension, but he stood still, his head cradled in the hands of a young boy. The boy was thin, and a bit on the small side, but his hands were confident as he stroked the stallion’s head. The lad must be daft. The stallion was more than dangerous, deadly even, given the opportunity. He started forward, but a firm hand on his arm restrained him.

A moment, if you please, your grace, Allen whispered. The lad has him in some kind of trance. See him whispering to the beast?

Harrison wanted to argue but relaxed, looking back to the boy. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could see the lad’s mouth moving as he stroked the stallion’s cheek.

Best to stay still, lest we break the spell, your grace.

Harrison nodded and watched as the boy pulled a length of rope from his pocket, and loop it around the stallion’s neck, looping the other end around his nose. The crude halter wouldn’t hold if the beast decided to bolt, but an audible gasp went up around the courtyard when the boy turned, holding the makeshift halter with only a finger. The stallion followed the lad towards the stable in a relaxed walk, his tail flicking lazily. He and Allen moved away from the entrance as the lad approached. He was still whispering, soft words in Gaelic, from what Harrison could make out.

Which stall is his, Sir? the boy asked when he was closer. His voice was high and squeaky, that of a boy just becoming a man.

First on the left, Allen answered, the shock evident in his voice.

The boy nodded and continued down the aisle. The stallion followed like a lamb as the boy led him into the stall and turned him round. Harrison and Allen both followed, dumbstruck by what they were witnessing, and watched as the stallion once again lowered his head for the boy to remove the makeshift halter. The lad scratched behind the beast’s ear, before leaving the stall, and shutting the door behind him.

That was extraordinary, Harrison whispered as the boy walked toward them.

The boy gave the men a brilliant smile while he tucked the rope back in his pocket before brushing the dirt off his hands. Thank ye, Sir.

Allen cleared his throat. This is His Grace, The Duke of Guildford.

The lad’s eyes widened as his face blazed with color. Apologies, your grace, he stuttered, fumbling into a bow.

He smiled. No need, lad. I’m not quite used to the title myself. The boy straightened, giving a small smile. Black Devil has been quite the beast to the staff, yet you lead him round like a lovestruck puppy.

Oh, he’s a fine animal, your grace, the boy replied with a shy smile. Fine lines, deep chest, long legs. He’ll be a fast one, your grace. The few mares I saw at pasture would make excellent breeding prospects.

Harrison chuckled as he held up his hands. Easy, lad. He hasn’t even been raced yet. The boy blushed again, making him look quite childlike. He recalled the letter from William saying his son was ten and six. This lad looked small for one that age. 

Oh, but he will, your grace, the boy insisted. Just you wait. He’ll win them all.

He smiled at the boy, recognizing the same confidence he had seen in William. I assume that you are Vic, the new stable hand Allen was telling me about.

Aye, your grace, he replied. Vic O’Reilly.

He lifted an eyebrow as he studied the boy. Vic isn’t a very Irish name, and if I remember, your father was very Irish. The boy blushed again, it seemed to be a habit he had.

Aye he was, your grace. The name is from my mother’s family. English relatives. Twas a family name.

Vic isn’t a very English name either, Allen muttered. The lad shrugged.

Harrison decided not to press the issue. There were