A Knight in Shining Armor Read online

Dougless started to follow them, but Nicholas, without looking at her, dropped the reins of his horse into her hand, then calmly strode off with Lord Harewood.

  “Just a minute,” she said as she started after the men, leading the horses behind her. But when Nicholas’s stallion started prancing, Dougless looked back at the animal. It was looking at her with a wild-eyed expression, as though it meant to do something bad. Dougless had had enough of men—any kind of man! “Just try it,” she warned, and the horse stopped prancing.

  Now what do I do, she wondered. If she was supposed to be Nicholas’s secretary and she was supposed to find out what secrets may or may not be in the papers, why was she standing here holding the horses?

  “Should I rub them down, your lordship?” she muttered as she started walking toward the back of the house. Maybe there was a stables where she could get rid of the animals.

  There were half a dozen buildings in the back of the house, so Dougless headed toward one that looked as though it might be a stables. She was nearly there when a horse and rider came tearing past her. The horse was as large and as mean-looking as Nicholas’s stallion (it was probably a stallion too, but Dougless always thought it was rude to look) and on top of it was a stunning woman. She looked like what all women wanted to grow up to look like: tall, slim-hipped, long, long legs, an aristocratic face, big breasts, a straight-backed carriage that would make a piece of steel envious. She had on English riding breeches that could have been painted on, and her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, but that only emphasized the striking features of her beautiful face.

  The woman halted her horse, then jerked on the reins and turned it around. “Whose horse is that?” she demanded in a voice that Dougless knew men would love: deep, throaty, husky, and powerful. Let me guess, Dougless thought, this is the great-great-great-etcetera-grand-daughter of Arabella-on-the-table. Just my luck.

  “Nicholas Stafford’s,” Dougless said.

  The woman’s face turned pale—which made her lips redder, and her eyes even darker. “Was that meant to amuse me?” she asked, glaring down at Dougless.

  “He’s a descendant of the Nicholas Stafford, if that’s what you mean,” Dougless answered. Dougless tried to imagine how an American family would react if someone mentioned the name of an Elizabethan-era ancestor. They’d have no idea whom she was talking about, but these people acted as though Nicholas had been gone only a couple of years.

  The woman dismounted beautifully, then tossed Dougless the reins. “Rub him down,” she said as she started toward the house.

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Dougless muttered. She now held three horses, two of whom looked as though they liked to kill small females before breakfast. She didn’t dare look at the horses but kept walking toward the stables.

  An older man, sitting in the sun, drinking a mug of tea and reading a newspaper, did a double take when he saw her.

  Slowly, cautiously, he rose. “Just be quiet, miss,” he said. “Stand very still and I’ll take both of ’em.”

  Dougless didn’t dare move, as the man was moving toward her with the stealth that one would use when approaching a wounded tiger. Slowly, he stuck out his hand, not wanting to get too near, and took the reins to one of the stallions. Cautiously, he led the horse away from her and toward the stables. Moments later he repeated his performance as he took Nicholas’s stallion away.

  When the man returned, he removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his brow. “How did you get Lady Arabella’s horse and Sugar together?”

  “Sugar?”

  “The stud from the Dennison’s stables.”

  “Sugar. Great joke. He should be named Enemy of the People. So that was Lady Arabella?” she asked as she looked back at the house and pretended she hadn’t guessed who the woman was. “So how do I get into the house? I’m supposed to be . . . helping.”

  When the man looked Dougless up and down, she knew her American clothes and her accent were about four strikes against her.

  “That door there’s the kitchen entrance.”

  Dougless handed him the reins to her docile mare, thanked him, and went off muttering. “The kitchen entrance. Should I bob a curtsey to the cook and ask for employment as a scullery maid? Wait until I see Nicholas! We’ll settle a few things right away. I am not his horse tender.”

  When she knocked on the back door, a man answered, and when she asked for Nicholas, he led her into the kitchen. It was an enormous room, fitted out with new appliances, but in the center of the room was a vast table that had probably been there since William the Conqueror arrived. All five of the people in the kitchen stopped working and stared at her. “Just passing through,” she said. “My, ah . . . employer, he, ah, needs me.” She smiled weakly. Too bad I’m going to kill him, she thought, and imagined the lecture she was going to give him on modern equality.

  The man she was following—who didn’t speak to her—led her through several storage rooms for the kitchen, with everyone she saw stopping and staring at her. Nicholas is going to look forward to his execution when I finish with him, Dougless thought.

  The man didn’t stop until they were at the entrance hall, a big round room with magnificent staircases going up both sides, portraits hanging everywhere. Lord Harewood, Nicholas, and the dashing Lady Arabella were standing close together, looking as though they were old friends. Arabella, if possible, looked even better now than she had when Dougless had first seen her, and her beautiful eyes were practically eating up Nicholas.

  “You have joined us,” Nicholas said when he saw Dougless, acting as though she’d been out taking the air. “My secretary must stay with me.”

  “With you?” Arabella said as she looked down her nose at Dougless. Dougless knew how a grape must feel when it was being made into a raisin.

  “A place must be made for her,” Nicholas clarified, smiling.

  “I think we can find room,” Arabella said.

  “Where? In the trash compactor?” Dougless said under her breath.

  Nicholas clamped down on her shoulder painfully. “American,” he said, as though that explained everything. “We will be here for tea,” he said; then before Dougless could say another word, he pushed her out the front door before him. He seemed to know exactly where the stables were because he headed toward them.

  Dougless had to hurry to keep up with his long strides. There were sometimes disadvantages to being five feet three inches tall. “What have you done now?” she asked. “Are we staying here for the weekend? You didn’t tell them you were from the sixteenth century, did you? And where do get off calling me an American in that tone?”

  He stopped on the gravel path. “What do you have to wear to dinner? They dress for dinner.”

  “What’s wrong with what I have on?” she said with a smirk.

  Turning, he started walking again.

  “Think Arabella will dress? Something with a cleavage to the floor, I’ll bet.”

  Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, a smile on his face. “What is a trash com . . . ?”

  “Compactor,” she filled in, then explained it to him. His laugh floated back to her.

  At the stables two grooms stayed well back while Nicholas mounted Sugar. “Had I grooms that cowardly, I would have flogged them,” Nicholas mumbled.

  Dougless couldn’t get a word of information out of Nicholas as they rode back to the rental stables. Thankfully, a man at the stables gave them a ride back to Thornwyck Castle, but he and Nicholas talked nonstop about horses, so Dougless couldn’t ask about what Nicholas had found out.

  It was lunchtime at the hotel when they returned, and Nicholas, still sweaty, went straight into the dining room, where he ordered three entrees and a bottle of wine.

  Only when the wine had been poured did he speak. “What would you know of me?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. Obviously, he’d been well aware that she was drowning in curiosity.

  Her first thought was to not give him the satisfaction of asking him anything.