Pendragon

"When are the cat races held? Surely now it is too cold."

"They begin again in April and run through October."

"And you are a trainer."

"Oh yes, for a long time now. You can call me the boss."

"Ah, you're the one who makes all final decisions, decides which techniques are the most efficacious, the overlord trainer?"

"I like the sound of that. I will tell my brothers that my new title is overlord. They can drop the trainer part. I will demand that they use my new title or I will make them very sorry." He looked very interested, and so Meggie added, "As a matter of fact, I did spend one entire summer at Lord Mountvale's racing mews being tutored by the Harker brothers." She lowered her voice into a confidence. "They are the ones who developed the technique of the Flying Feather."

"I have heard of the Harker brothers. I understand they have a special intuition when it comes to selecting champion racers. What is the Flying Feather technique?"

"Curled feathers are tied to the end of a three-foot pole. It is waved in a clockwise motion-it must always be clockwise, at no less than a six-foot distance. It evidently has a mesmerizing effect. Goodness, I hadn't intended to tell you all about the Flying Feather technique; it is still supposed to be a secret. I am considering adopting it when I have a proper candidate. Ah, listen, I don't hear anything. It is a good sign," she added, pointing to the orchid, "its leaves are no longer quivering from the vibrations of her voice."

He laughed, just couldn't help himself. He couldn't recall having laughed so much with one single human being. Life had always been rather difficult.

And Meggie thought it was as if he laughed only when he pla

He unwound the handkerchief and lifted her hand to inspect the finger. "Yes, it has."

Meggie said, "Thank you, my lord. Perhaps I don't know all the ways of the world, but I have never before had anyone suck my blood. Or lick my finger."

He felt a lurch in his gut; it was lust and it hit him hard. He looked at her closely, realizing that she didn't understand the teasing promise of her guileless words, didn't realize that they promised, on the surface at least, a woman's very pleasurable skills. No, she was outspoken, a vicar's daughter, just turned nineteen. "No?" he said slowly, then added, "Then I have added to your education."

She said abruptly, "My father will wonder where I am," and she turned to go. "Sharing sanctuary was pleasant, my lord."

She was just going to leave him? Another blow to his manhood. "Miss Sherbrooke, a moment please. Will you ride with me tomorrow morning?"

That got her attention, but she didn't hesitate, just said pleasantly, "I thank you for the invitation, my lord, but no, I don't want to ride with you tomorrow morning."

He looked as she'd slapped him, as if he simply couldn't believe her gall in turning him down. He looked, quite simply, flummoxed. She wanted to smile at his obvious male conceit, but she didn't. She just wanted to leave. She realized now that she shouldn't have remained in here, alone with him. He had gotten the wrong idea about her. She didn't want any attention from him, she didn't want any attention from any man. She wouldn't have stayed in here with him if she'd been in London, but this was her home. No matter, she'd been wrong.

He saw her withdraw completely from him. He didn't understand it. She'd been so confiding, so natural. But no longer. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, he persevered. "I understand from my steward, a very old man with fingers that tap by themselves when the weather is going to turn bad, that it will be unseasonably warm tomorrow morning, a fine morning for a ride."

"Mr. Hengis is famed for his weather predictions in these parts. I did not know about the tapping fingers. I hope it will be a fine morning and you will enjoy yourself. As for me, no thank you, my lord. I must go now."

He said as she turned to leave the conservatory, "I understand you enjoyed your first Season in London last spring. Do you intend to return to London in April?"

"No," she said, not turning to face him. She could feel his frustration, pouring off him in waves, and something else. Why did he wish to be with her so badly? It made no sense. "Goodbye, my lord."

"My name is Thomas." She would swear she heard a damn you under his breath.

"Yes," she said, "I know," and left the Strapthorpe conservatory with its dizzying smells and hair-wilting heat.

He stood there, watching the back of her head as she walked quickly out of the overly warm room. Lovely hair, he thought, blondish brownish hair with every color inbetween thrown in, the same hair as the vicar's, her father. Their eyes were the same light blue as well. He sighed, then left the conservatory some minutes after her. Truth be told, he was getting nauseated from the overpowering mix of all the flowers.

He met several guests in the large entrance hall. Meggie Sherbrooke wasn't among them. Damn her. He wasn't a troll. What was wrong with her? He was polite and charming to everyone before he took his leave.

Perhaps she didn't ride. Yes, perhaps that was it and she was ashamed to admit it. He would think of something else. She was nineteen years old; for a girl she could have been long married by now, well, at least a year or so. As for himself, he was rich and young and healthy and now he even sported a title. What more could a girl possibly want?

She was a vicar's daughter, for God's sake.

And she trained racing cats.

Chapter 6

WAS PLAYING with Rory, telling him stories about famous cat champions from years past. The most famous of all the cat racers in this century was Gilly of Mountvale mews, who had died of extreme old age some two years before.

"No one had much of a chance when Gilly was racing," she was saying as she handed Rory a small cat carved in cherry, painted in Gilly's distinctive black, gray, and white colors. "See how high his tail is? Racers always carry their tails high. I'm told it means they're very proud, that they know their own worth, and they are very pleased with the world and their place in it."

"Meggie?"

"Yes, love?"

"I don't feel very good."

Meggie felt fear so strong that she couldn't breathe for a moment. Automatically she laid the flat of her palm against his forehead. He was roasting. The fever. Somehow he'd gotten the fever. They'd all been so careful, kept both Alec and Rory home, entertained them endlessly, taken such care, and still he'd gotten ill.

She lifted him in her arms, no mean feat because Rory was quite good-sized for his age. "Let's go see your mama."

He didn't try to pull away, as was his wont, for he was a very independent little boy, no, he became boneless in her arms, his cheek resting on her shoulder. It scared Meggie spitless.

Meggie was praying frantically as she quickly walked from the nursery downstairs to the drawing room. Both her father and Mary Rose were there with his curate, Mr. Samuel Pritchert.

"Mary Rose," she said quietly from the door. Mary Rose looked up. The smile on her face froze because she knew, oh yes, she knew immediately that something was very wrong, wrong with Rory. Rory was ill, he had the fever. She said blankly, "Oh no, not Rory. Oh no, Tysen."

Tysen immediately went to Meggie and lifted Rory off her shoulder. "What's this, my boy? You are feeling a bit pecked?" Tysen felt his cheeks, his forehead, and felt fear cramp his guts. "All right," he said, all calm and easy, "I'm going to give you to your mother and be right back. You just rest, Rory."