The Captain and the Squire Read online

  “A race!” Shobna shouted from the back of the hall. “The two of you should hop on your horses and have a race!”

  Tarquin pointed his chalk at Chris. “But, Shobna, Chris doesn’t have a horse!”

  “But I do!” Longfellow called. “Oscar, the pride of the shire, the horse Mr. Beardsley Hardacre rode out whenever his diverse social engagements allowed it! Mr. Hardacre, how do you feel about handling a stallion?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first.” Chris grinned. Then he reached out and took Tarquin’s elbow in his hand. “What do you say, Tarks? I haven’t had a really good race since I captained the Dark Blues against Cambridge!”

  “A race…” Tarquin liked the idea of that. “Do you know, it might actually be rather fun! You’re on.” Tarquin turned to the audience. “Thank you for that suggestion, Shobna. Chris and I will have a race. What a gentlemanly way to resolve our differences—short of dueling pistols. A race it is.”

  The hum from the gathered crowd and their enthusiastic nods seemed to signal that all was well. Tarquin grabbed the chalkboard rubber. “Right, well, seeing as we’re done…”

  Shobna jumped to her feet, waving toward Tarquin. “One more thing…”

  Oh, hell.

  “And what would that be, Shobna?” Tarquin asked.

  “Oh, no, this is a question for Chris.” She flicked her hair and angled her head as if she was trying to look coy. “Would you like to take over as the village’s rowing captain?”

  Oh, bloody hell!

  “Well…whose noses would I be putting out of joint?” Chris asked carefully, giving just the slightest circle of his broad shoulders. “I’m all about making chums. I don’t want to upset anyone on the team with ambitions of leadership.”

  Shobna came up to the front of the hall and folded her arms on the lip of the stage. “No one in the team wants to do it! My dad’s retiring to Florida, you see, so he can’t be the captain anymore. We’re desperate, Chris, please!”

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Tarquin wondered how many other of Petunia’s friends would do the same. Maybe even Petunia would too.

  “Are you not a rower, squire?” Chris released Tarquin’s elbow and let his hand rest on his shoulder instead. “You’ve got the arms for it.”

  A shot of electricity zapped Tarquin and he stared in surprise at Chris. Oh, shit, are the stage lights on the blink again? But there weren’t any loose cables, nothing that could have unleashed that strange tingle.

  Tarquin shrugged. “Oh, but my hips got jammed in the boat once. I struggled and it rolled over with me still inside it. Upside down and underwater! Fortunately, I’m a bit of a swimmer, so I managed to get out in the end, but that rather took the shine off rowing for me, I must say.”

  “Then I’d love to, if the team’ll have me,” he told Shobna, whose wide eyes were fixed on him. “Let’s see if we can bring home some ribbons, eh?”

  “Captain Hardacre, I like the sound of that!” Shobna ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. “Let me have your number, Chris, and we can meet up—I mean, I can sort out a meet between you and my dad.”

  “Deal.” Chris grinned. “Now, squire, when shall you and I meet on the field of battle?”

  Tarquin looked at his pocket watch. “Why not today? No time like the present!”

  The hand on his shoulder squeezed in a show of enthusiasm, then was gone. “And the route? Something easy for an incoming city boy like me to follow?”

  “What about from our chapel to Upper Bough’s spire?” Longfellow suggested. “The time-honored Bough steeplechase route, as painted by Mr. Constable, I believe! No finer, nor more vigorous ride in Britain!”

  “What do you think?” Chris’ voice was quieter now, intended just for Tarquin. “Do you like a vigorous ride, squire?”

  “I do, but I rarely get the chance.” Tarquin held out his hand to shake. “Meet you in an hour, ready for a hard ride?”

  “I’m made for them.” He took Tarquin’s hand and shook it. “May the best man win, squire?”

  “I’m sure he will,” Tarquin replied. Chris offered him a bright grin then released his hand and turned back to the audience, who raised a cheer for this unexpected battle. Amid the noise, Shobna trotted up onto the stage and clapped her hands together for silence.

  “And three cheers for Captain Hardacre! Hip hip, hooray,” she announced.

  And the village cheered of course, because why wouldn’t they cheer for the man who had lived there all of five minutes?

  Village life at its finest.

  Chapter Four

  Tarquin cantered through the lanes, down to the appointed spot for the starting line. Vulcan, his golden palomino, chuntered to himself as Tarquin rode.

  “We’re going to have a little race, Vulcan. You’ll do me proud, I know!”

  Chris’ efforts were laudable really, especially considering that he wouldn’t even be in the village for more than a few months. Even if the Oracle took to him, city slickers like that never stuck it out. They missed the noise and the bustle, the excitement and the lights.

  Although Chris was managing to generate rather a lot of excitement himself. Quite a crowd had gathered at the chapel, certainly more people than had been at the meeting earlier. In fact, it even looked as if the local pub’s most hardened regulars had come blinking out into the daylight to see the start.

  “Afternoon, all.” Tarquin tapped the brim of his helmet.

  The crowd called a greeting and a few phones were held up to snap photos. The residents always liked a bit of competition, from the annual boat race to pub dominoes, and this was no different. But it was time a Bough led the drag hunt out. The Hardacres had ruled that roost for far too long.

  And who’d decided that?

  Tarquin trotted Vulcan back and forth. His horse was ready for his run.

  Shobna emerged from the crowd and caught Vulcan’s reins. Then she dropped her sunglasses down her nose and stared into the horizon, her glossed lips parted.

  “Oh, my God! Chris is wearing jodhpurs!”

  Even Vulcan seemed impressed, if his interested neigh was anything to go by. Tarquin pulled on the reins, keeping Vulcan still. He watched Chris approach, apparently at home on a horse he didn’t know, and—

  Oh God, those legs.

  Even though Tarquin had seen those legs bare, there was something about jodhpurs. The way they clung. The way they made Tarquin want to stroke and grasp every inch of them before slowly teasing them off. No, yank them off in a frenzy of lust.

  And those boots. Those shiny, shiny boots that fit Chris’ legs so perfectly. And he was casually dressed in his shirt, sleeves rolled up, those arms, oh God, those arms…

  Tarquin looked away, but his head jerked up again, his gaze falling on Chris once more.

  Chris tipped his riding hat to Tarquin and patted the chestnut horse that Longfellow had loaned him. He had seen Beardsley on that same horse many a time, but the ancient troublemaker hadn’t looked like this. Shobna headed for the new arrival, her heels clicking on the road.

  “Looking hunky in your jodhpurs, Chris!”

  “Almost as good as hunky Tarks!” Chris chuckled.

  Hunky Tarks. No one had ever called him hunky before. Even if Chris was joking, Tarquin played the words back in his mind on a loop.

  Hunky Tarks.

  Then he saw Petunia standing in the crowd gazing at— Oh, not me, of course. Petunia snapped a photo of Chris and Shobna, then looked at Tarquin and called, “You’d better romp home, Tarquin. Make me proud for once!”

  Tarquin gave her a nod of acknowledgment. “I’ll do my best, dear. I can do no more.”

  “Time to start the race, I think!” Shobna grinned up at Chris. “Ready?”

  “Chris, join me at the top of the lane, here?” Tarquin indicated with a flick of his riding crop. “Side by side?”

  With a tip of his hat to the ladies, Chris trotted his horse alongside Tarquin. He looked down at the crop and asked, “Are
you terribly handy with that, squire?”

  Tarquin looked deep into Chris’ eyes. Please don’t say anything about me offering to spank your arse in my orchard. “I can be. When the need arises.”

  “I pinched an apple from your tree on my way down here.” He glanced back at the approaching villagers. “But you weren’t there to give me what for.”

  “Is that so?” Tarquin slapped the crop against his boot. “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”

  Chris parted his lips but, before he could reply, the audience was upon them. Had he just flirted with another man? No. Chris was a Hardacre, there had to be a sting in it. Is he laughing at me?

  “Ready, boys?” Shobna took a bright pink piece of chiffon from her pocket and held it up. The villagers watched, and in the air there was a sense of such anticipation that Tarquin could feel it. Sheer excitement. The air positively fizzed with it.

  “Petunia will count to three, and I’ll drop the scarf!” Shobna giggled.

  Tarquin almost rolled his eyes, but smiled at Chris instead. He returned it, widening his blue eyes for a moment.

  “One, two,” Petunia barked like a sergeant major. “Three!”

  Shobna dropped the scarf. “Go!”

  Tarquin tapped Vulcan, who went off as if he’d been fired from a gun. Seeing his route ahead was clear, Tarquin looked round quickly for Chris, to ensure they weren’t about to collide. It was with effort that Tarquin turned away because Chris in the saddle was a sight to behold, his strong arms tensed on the reins, and a very tempting triangle of chest on show at the neck of his shirt.

  But he wasn’t going to lose just for the sake of a quick ogle.

  Yet as Chris sat forward in the saddle, Tarquin couldn’t help but wonder what he must look like from the rear.

  By God.

  “I didn’t know Sussex had such outstanding views!” Chris called over the thundering hooves. “But I’m perfectly happy to be following in your wake!”

  “It’s a beautiful part of the world!” Tarquin replied. “I can show you some lovely places!”

  “I can already see one of them!”

  He can’t be talking about my arse, surely?

  Tarquin glanced at him again. Those blue eyes were full of humor, and he couldn’t detect anything spiteful there. Tarquin looked ahead once more, chuckling. He felt Vulcan tense as they came up to a fence and his horse soared over it with ease, landing at a run.

  He heard the sound of the pursuing horse’s hooves landing safely and saw, in the shimmering distance, the distant church steeple behind a belt of trees. He hadn’t felt so free in ages, with the warm sun on his back and the breeze in his face and nothing but nature for miles. And Christopher Hardacre to share it.

  Up ahead, Tarquin saw the red tiles and large stone chimneys of Bough Towers. And there, running up against the fence, was his pack of dogs. They ran in a flash of liver and white, golden and ginger fur, their long, feathery coats flying in the breeze. And what a racket they made!

  But Tarquin couldn’t stop to chastise them. He’d just withhold that evening’s Bonio.

  “There’s my pig!” Chris shouted, and he was right. The Oracle of Delphi was at the center of the pack, snorting along merrily with the hounds. “Hello, pi—”

  The greeting was cut off by the unmistakable sound of someone landing on the ground. Hard.

  Tarquin slowed Vulcan, then trotted back to see Chris’ horse riderless, and a figure sprawled on the ground. He dismounted and left Vulcan to crop the stubby grass.

  “Chris…bloody hell, Chris?” Tarquin took off his glove and knelt beside his nemesis, touching his fingertips to Chris’ face. He opened his eyes and blinked up at Tarquin, looking rather dazed. But alive, which was the main thing. “Does anything hurt? No broken limbs?”

  “Why do I always end up on the floor around you?”

  Tarquin patted Chris’ shoulder. “I can’t help it if you keep falling at my feet! Now, do you need a hand up?”

  He nodded, then asked, “Why did you stop? You were winning.”

  “But you fell off—I couldn’t just leave you.” Tarquin held out his hand to Chris. Was it usual to leave people lying on the ground where Chris came from? He tried not to read anything into the way Chris twined their fingers together but instead rose to his feet, pulling his opponent up with him.

  Tarquin steadied Chris with his other hand, placing it on Chris’ arm. He was so close to Chris now, Tarquin felt the heat of Chris’ body against his own. And that cologne again.

  No, no, no—don’t be so stupid, Tarquin!

  But there was a gentle smile on Chris’ lips. His full lips. Without even thinking, Tarquin leaned closer.

  Their lips didn’t touch. Mostly. Or so Tarquin told himself as the dogs began to bark again, shattering the silence.

  And if they did touch, it was only by accident. The merest brush of a kiss. That didn’t happen.

  Tarquin looked away, chuckling awkwardly. “Glad you haven’t broken your neck, canary!”

  He whistled to Vulcan and clicked his fingers. He heard the creak of leather as Chris hauled himself back into Oscar’s saddle, the gentle chink of metal as he took up the reins

  “You should get a head start,” Chris told him. “It’s only fair.”

  “Nonsense, my dogs were making a racket!” Tarquin swung himself into his saddle and brought Vulcan alongside Chris and his mount. “Let’s start again, count of three—together?”

  “Just before we do…” Chris leaned across a little in his saddle and crooked one finger, gesturing Tarquin closer.

  Tarquin didn’t turn away. Holding on to the reins with both hands, Tarquin tipped his head toward Chris. That look of amusement was on Chris’ face again.

  And this time, there was no denying that their lips touched. And the touch turned into a kiss. Tarquin sighed, pressing his lips to Chris’. He had wanted this for so long, the kiss of a man, and for it to be a man like Chris—a handsome man with a gentle smile and sparkling eyes—almost made Tarquin melt off his saddle and onto the ground.

  But he shouldn’t be doing this.

  Tarquin broke from Chris’ lips.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” he whispered.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since you leapt into my garden yesterday,” Chris admitted, still smiling. “Our secret?”

  Tarquin nodded. “Yes. Our secret.” He was about to look away when he turned back and said, with a grin, “Our very naughty secret.”

  “Count us in, squire.” He circled his shoulders and lifted the reins again. “Before they send out a search party.”

  Tarquin shifted in his saddle, his posture upright and perfect. “After three. One…two…three!”

  But no matter how perfect his poise, Tarquin’s lips still tingled from that kiss. He didn’t set off at once, and Chris was now in front of him.

  What a view.

  It’s almost worth losing the race for.

  Those shoulders, and the way his back tapered down to his waist, and that arse! What a spectacular backside!

  Tarquin couldn’t remember seeing anything like it. The jodhs were so gloriously tight, unlike Chris’ shorts that he’d had on yesterday. The curve of those buttocks was delectable. Tarquin had no intention of overtaking, even though he knew Vulcan wouldn’t find it difficult in the least. He was content just to gaze.

  So he gazed. He watched the subtle movements of Chris’ muscles as he mastered his steed, the slight adjustment here, the little shift there. Half-naked was bloody hot enough, but somehow, jodhpurs had turned up the heat even more. In jodhpurs, Christopher Hardacre was blazing.

  Tarquin only noticed the church coming up ahead at the last moment. He’d lost, but he was happy. Why not have a master of the drag hunt as stunning as Christopher Hardacre?

  In fact, he was so content after that kiss that he didn’t even notice Chris had slowed Oscar to a canter until Vulcan sailed past them. He heard hooves galloping behind him, and Tarquin
knew that the victory was his. His nemesis had proved to be anything but.

  The crowd of villagers had arrived at the finish line and they cheered as Tarquin raced home in first. He raised his hand, waving to everyone, and smiled over at Petunia, who still didn’t look happy.

  But I’ve won, dammit, I’m the master of Bough Bottoms’ drag hunt. What more does the bloody woman want?

  Shobna trotted forward to meet the returning horsemen, her mobile held in front of her as she approached. Now her smiles were for Tarquin, because he was a winner. He was the Master of the Hunt.

  Tarquin puffed out his chest, posing for the cameras, but he beckoned Chris forward. “And Chris, too! What a ride that was!”

  “Outridden by the squire!” Chris chuckled, drawing his mount alongside. “But I needed that!”

  Tarquin laughed, patting Chris on the back. And left his hand there. No one’ll notice.

  “The victory was yours.” Longfellow emerged from the crowd, nodding grudgingly. “A worthy hunt master, Mr. Bough.”

  And he pronounced it right.

  “Thank you, Mr. Longfellow. I was wondering, though…” Tarquin realized he still had his hand on Chris’ back, so he gave him another pat before taking his hand away. “Chris, if you ever want to share some of the duties, I’d be more than happy to. You were very keen, and I wouldn’t want to restrain you. Not too much, anyway.”

  “That’s very kind.” He met Tarquin’s gaze. “Maybe I could pop over the fence and we could have a chat about our mutual interests? I’ve a feeling we could do something really interesting together.”

  Tarquin nodded. His throat was a little tight. “Yes, we should definitely get together and thrash something out.”

  Petunia shouldered her way to the front of the crowd, her face now set into a smile. Of course she was happy. She was happy because he had won.

  “I believe a little celebration is in order, don’t you?” Tarquin said. “A new master of the drag hunt, and a new captain of the rowing team. Everyone, let’s go to the pub. The drinks are on me!”

  Chapter Five

  Tarquin felt like the Pied Piper as he led the villagers into The Floral Pomander. He strode up to the bar and handed the landlord a wad of banknotes. “That should be enough for a round, shouldn’t it?”