Peregrine dismissed all of the teams with a single eloquent glance, and most of the riding horses were rejected just as swiftly. Then they came to the last loose box, which contained a large stallion of so pale a gray that it appeared almost white.
"I own this horse myself," Mr. Tattersall said proudly. "Today he will be going up for auction. Splendid, is he not? He is of the line of Eclipse. His sire was…"
Peregrine cut the proprietor off with a quick gesture of his hand. "Bring him out."
A groom led out the young, high-spirited stallion. As it tossed its head, pulling at the halter, Sara nervously stepped back out of the way. Peregrine didn't notice. His face rapt, he circled the stallion, once more talking in the language he had used before. Soothed by his sure touch and hand, the gray steadied and watched him, bright-eyed with interest.
Sara thought that the prince would request that the horse be saddled and put through its paces. Instead, he took the reins from the groom and, with one lithe movement, swung onto the stallion's bare back.
"You will permit me?" Taking off his hat, the prince flipped it to Tattersall with a snap of his wrist. Then, under the stunned eyes of the proprietor, the grooms, and the gentlemenly clientele, he leaned forward over the stallion's neck, kicked it in the ribs, and they went bolting across the yard and out of Tattersall's Repository like silver lightning.
Having had time to become accustomed to the Kafir's ways, Sara was slightly less stunned than the rest. Presumably her companion would return when he and the horse had ridden off their high spirits, but meanwhile Sara felt uncomfortably conspicuous.
Then, to her relief, a familiar voice drawled, "My eyes say that it is you, Sara, but my mind flatly refuses to believe it. Pray clarify my confusion."
Sara turned to see the stout, good-natured figure of a distant cousin, Sir Wilfred Whiteman. "Believe your eyes, Wilfred." She offered her hand. "How are you today?"
"Prospering, my dear." He bowed gracefully. "Who is your energetic companion? A Red Indian from the American frontier? I understand that they prefer to ride without saddles."
She shook her head. "He's a friend of Lord Ross's, Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. He rides well, doesn't he?"
"That he does," Wilfred replied with unfeigned respect.
Sara smiled inwardly; if the prince wanted to become an instant legend, he was going about it very cleverly. Fashionable gentlemen like Wilfred might be startled by his actions, but in an approving way. Even Mr. Tattersall looked indulgent after his shock wore off, though he handed the prince's hat to a groom.
For ten minutes or so, Wilfred amused Sara with scandalous gossip. Then Peregrine trotted in on the stallion, both of them looking vastly pleased with themselves. "Magnificent, Mr. Tattersall," he said as he reined the horse in. "What is your price to sell him before auction?"
The proprietor's eyes narrowed as he speculated how much an ignorant foreigner might be willing to pay. "A thousand guineas."
"Done."
Sara almost laughed at Tattersall's expression when he saw that he might have gotten much more for the horse. However, she did not waste much sympathy on him; a thousand guineas was probably more than Mr. Tattersall could have gotten at auction.
Then Peregrine rode over to Sara. His wavy black hair, which he wore a little long, was tangled from the wind, and he looked untamed and splendid and free, not at all like an Englishman. "His gaits are like silk, Sara." He extended one hand to her. "Come, ride with me."
Sara felt the blood drain from her face. She looked up at him helplessly, knowing that he did not understand what he was asking. Then, as their gazes caught and held, his expression changed. He saw too much, damn him. His green eyes compelling, he said so softly that no one else could hear, "Trust me."
She wanted to turn and run. Instead, before she could think too much about what she was doing, she took a
"I own this horse myself," Mr. Tattersall said proudly. "Today he will be going up for auction. Splendid, is he not? He is of the line of Eclipse. His sire was…"
Peregrine cut the proprietor off with a quick gesture of his hand. "Bring him out."
A groom led out the young, high-spirited stallion. As it tossed its head, pulling at the halter, Sara nervously stepped back out of the way. Peregrine didn't notice. His face rapt, he circled the stallion, once more talking in the language he had used before. Soothed by his sure touch and hand, the gray steadied and watched him, bright-eyed with interest.
Sara thought that the prince would request that the horse be saddled and put through its paces. Instead, he took the reins from the groom and, with one lithe movement, swung onto the stallion's bare back.
"You will permit me?" Taking off his hat, the prince flipped it to Tattersall with a snap of his wrist. Then, under the stunned eyes of the proprietor, the grooms, and the gentlemenly clientele, he leaned forward over the stallion's neck, kicked it in the ribs, and they went bolting across the yard and out of Tattersall's Repository like silver lightning.
Having had time to become accustomed to the Kafir's ways, Sara was slightly less stunned than the rest. Presumably her companion would return when he and the horse had ridden off their high spirits, but meanwhile Sara felt uncomfortably conspicuous.
Then, to her relief, a familiar voice drawled, "My eyes say that it is you, Sara, but my mind flatly refuses to believe it. Pray clarify my confusion."
Sara turned to see the stout, good-natured figure of a distant cousin, Sir Wilfred Whiteman. "Believe your eyes, Wilfred." She offered her hand. "How are you today?"
"Prospering, my dear." He bowed gracefully. "Who is your energetic companion? A Red Indian from the American frontier? I understand that they prefer to ride without saddles."
She shook her head. "He's a friend of Lord Ross's, Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. He rides well, doesn't he?"
"That he does," Wilfred replied with unfeigned respect.
Sara smiled inwardly; if the prince wanted to become an instant legend, he was going about it very cleverly. Fashionable gentlemen like Wilfred might be startled by his actions, but in an approving way. Even Mr. Tattersall looked indulgent after his shock wore off, though he handed the prince's hat to a groom.
For ten minutes or so, Wilfred amused Sara with scandalous gossip. Then Peregrine trotted in on the stallion, both of them looking vastly pleased with themselves. "Magnificent, Mr. Tattersall," he said as he reined the horse in. "What is your price to sell him before auction?"
The proprietor's eyes narrowed as he speculated how much an ignorant foreigner might be willing to pay. "A thousand guineas."
"Done."
Sara almost laughed at Tattersall's expression when he saw that he might have gotten much more for the horse. However, she did not waste much sympathy on him; a thousand guineas was probably more than Mr. Tattersall could have gotten at auction.
Then Peregrine rode over to Sara. His wavy black hair, which he wore a little long, was tangled from the wind, and he looked untamed and splendid and free, not at all like an Englishman. "His gaits are like silk, Sara." He extended one hand to her. "Come, ride with me."
Sara felt the blood drain from her face. She looked up at him helplessly, knowing that he did not understand what he was asking. Then, as their gazes caught and held, his expression changed. He saw too much, damn him. His green eyes compelling, he said so softly that no one else could hear, "Trust me."
She wanted to turn and run. Instead, before she could think too much about what she was doing, she took a
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