A familiar sight met his eyes-a lad or work rider swinging a leg over the sleek back of one of his champions. The horse was facing away, wide bay rump to him; Demon recognized one of his current favorites, an Irish gelding sure to run well in the coming season. That, however, was not what transfixed him, rooting his boots to the floor.
He could see nothing of the rider bar his back and one leg. The lad wore a cloth cap pulled low on his head, a shabby hacking jacket and baggy corduroy breeches. Baggy except in one area-where they pulled tight over the rider's rear as he swung his leg over the saddle.
Carruthers stood beside the horse, issuing instructions. The lad dropped into the saddle, then stood in the stirrups to adjust his position. Again, corduroy strained and shifted.
Demon sucked in a breath. Eyes narrowing, jaw firming, he strode forward.
Carruthers slapped the horse's rump. Nodding, the rider trotted the horse, The Mighty Flynn, out into the sunshine.
Carruthers swung around, squinting as Demon came up. "Oh, it's you." Despite the abrupt greeting and the dour tone, there was a wealth of affection in Carruthers's old eyes. "Come to see how they're shaping, have ye?"
Demon nodded, his gaze locked on the rider atop The Mighty Flynn. "Indeed."
With Carruthers, he strolled in the wake of The Flynn, the last of his horses to go out on the Heath.
In silence, Demon watched his horses go through their paces. The Mighty Flynn was given a light workout, walking, trotting, then walking again. Although he noted how his other horses performed, Demon's attention never strayed far from The Flynn.
Beside him, Carruthers was watching his charges avidly. Demon glanced his way, noting his old face, much lined, weathered like well-worn leather, faded brown eyes wide as he weighed every stride, considered every turn. Carruthers never took notes, never needed any reminder of which horse had done what. When his charges came in, he would know precisely how each was faring, and what more was needed to
bring them to their best. The most experienced trainer in Newmarket, Carruthers knew his horses better than his children, which was why Demon had pestered and persevered until he'd agreed to train for him, to devote his time exclusively to training Demon's string.
His gaze fastening once more on the big bay, Demon murmured, "The lad on The Flynn-he's new, isn't he?"
"Aye," Carruthers replied, his gaze never leaving the horses. "Lad from down Lidgate way. Ickley did a runner-leastways, I assume he did. He didn't turn up one morning and we haven't seen him since. 'Bout a week later, young Flick turned up, looking for a ride, so I had him up on one of the tetchy ones." Carruthers nodded to where The Flynn was trotting along, pacing neatly with the rest of the string, the small figure on his back managing him with startling ease. "Rode the brute easily. So I put him up on The Flynn. Never seen the horse give his heart so willingly. The lad's got the touch, no doubt about that. Excellent hands, and good bottom."
Demon inwardly admitted he couldn't argue. "Good," however, was not the adjective he'd have used. But he must have been mistaken. Carruthers was a staunch member of the fraternity, quite the last man to let a female on one of his charges, let alone trust her with The Flynn.
And yet…
There was a niggle, a persistent whisper in his mind, something stronger than suspicion flitting through his brain. And at one level-the one where his senses ruled-he knew he wasn't wrong.
No lad had ever had a bottom like that.
The thought reconjured the vision; Demon shifted and inwardly cursed. He'd left the countess only a few hours ago; his lustful demons had no business being awake, much less raising their collective head. "This Flick…" Saying the name triggered something-a memory? If the lad was local, he might have stumbled across him before. "How long's he been with us?"
Carruthers was still absorbed with the horses, now cooling before walking in. "Be two weeks, now."
"And he pulls his full load?"
"I've only got him on half-pay-didn't really need another hand with the stablework. Only needed him for riding-exercising and the gallops. Turned out that suited him well enough. His mum's not well, so he rides up here, does morning stables, then rides back to Lidgate to keep her company, then comes up again for afternoon stables."
"Hmm." The first horses were returning; Demon drew back into the stable, standing with Carruthers to the side of the mounting area as the stable lads walked their charges in. Most of the lads were known to him. While exchanging greetings and the occasional piece of news, and running knowledgeable eyes over his string, Demon never lost sight of The Flynn.
Flick ambled at the rear of the string. He'd exchanged no more than brief nods and occasional words with the other lads; amid the general camaraderie, Flick appeared a loner. But the other lads seemed to see nothing odd in Flick; they passed him as he walked the huge bay, patting the silky neck and, judging from the horse's twitching ears, murmuring sweet nothings with absolute acceptance. Demon inwardly cursed and wondered, yet again, if he could possibly be wrong.
The Flynn was the last in; Demon stood, hands on hips, to one side of Carruthers in the shadows, shadows rendered even deeper by the sudden brilliance of the westering sun. Flick let the bay have a last prance before settling him and guiding him into the stable. As the first heavy hoof clopped hollowly on the flags, Flick looked up.
Eyes used to the sunshine blinked wide, finding Carruthers, then quickly passing on to fix on Demon. On his face.
Flick reined in, eyes widening even more.
For one, tense instant, rider and owner simply stared.
Jerking the reins, Flick wheeled The Flynn, sending Carruthers a horrified glance. "He's still restless-I'll take him for a quick run." With that, she and The Flynn were gone, leaving only a rush of wind behind them.
"What the-!" Carruthers started forward, then stopped as the futility of any chase registered. Bemused, he turned to Demon. "He's never done anything like that before."
A curse was Demon's only answer; he was already striding along the alley. He stopped at the first open box, where a lad was easing the girth strap on one of his heavier horses.