Thump. Thump. It wasn't the sound of a horse. It sounded like a caged tiger.
"Why did you buy him?" Basia asked, her voice quieter now. "He cleared a six-foot ditch in the hunting field in Leicestershire," Henry said dryly. "He flew over it like a bird. I wanted a horse that could jump the stone boundary wall on the south estate.
No horse has ever cleared it. And the day after I paid for him, he realized he didn't have to tolerate a rider if he simply chose to crush them against the nearest wall." Henry gestured to the door. "He is yours to saddle. West will not help you.
I will not help you. If you cry out, I will have West pull you out, but the wager is forfeit." Basia licked her lips. They tasted like salt and dirt. She looked at West who was holding a heavy leather halter and a lead rope.
He held them out to her, his expression a mix of pity and grim expectation. She took the leather. It was stiff and cold. "Are you backing out?" Henry asked.
He didn't sound triumphant. He just sounded tired. "There's no shame in it. He's a killer." Basia looked at the Duke.
She saw the absolute certainty in his eyes, the certainty that she was going to fail because everyone failed him. He lived in a world where problems could be bought, sold, or locked behind oak doors. She lived in a world where you either faced the teeth or you starved. "I need a bucket of oats," Basia said to West, "and open the top door.
Let the light in." West hesitated, looking at Henry. The Duke gave a curt nod. West unlatched the top half of the heavy door and swung it open. Dust motes danced furiously in the sudden shaft of gray daylight.