The black stallion rose on his hind legs so suddenly that the entire courtyard seemed to draw one frightened breath. Gravel scattered beneath his hooves, a groom stumbled backward, and three young ladies in pale gowns retreated toward the waiting carriage.
The animal's dark mane whipped against the afternoon light as he struggled with the reins, not charging anyone, not striking at the crowd, but fighting desperately against something no one had thought to examine.
From the stable doors came an order sharp enough to cut through the frightened shouting: "Hold him! If he breaks free, I'll have him destroyed!"
Miss Eleanor Hale heard the word destroyed before she saw the man who had spoken it. She was standing among the invited guests in a fitted forest-green riding habit, her auburn hair gathered beneath a black riding hat and her hands clasped so tightly that her gloves creased at the knuckles. Her eyes remained on the horse. When the groom hauled backward on the bit, the stallion arched his neck and shuddered, and Eleanor noticed how he twisted his body away from the pressure of the saddle rather than the men gathered around him.
"Stop pulling at his mouth," she called. Her voice was not loud, but it carried across the cobbles with a certainty that made several gentlemen turn. "You're hurting him more." The groom paused, startled, while the horse struck the ground with both front feet and stood trembling. A woman in powder-blue silk caught Eleanor by the sleeve and whispered that this was neither the time nor the place for a young lady to give instructions to men.
But Eleanor had spent half her life learning what horses could not say. She knew the difference between an animal trying to hurt someone and an animal trying to escape pain. She also knew, with a cold certainty that settled beneath her ribs, that the horse before her had once been gentle. His name was Blackthorn, and she had watched him take his first uncertain steps in the spring grass seven years earlier.
Lord Alexander Harcourt came forward through the gathering, the skirts of his dark burgundy coat moving against his riding boots. At thirty-two he had inherited Eastmere Hall, its enormous debts, and the reputation of a family that had controlled this valley for generations. His face was handsome in a severe way, but the anger in his eyes was directed less toward Eleanor than toward the chaos unfolding before his guests. "Miss Hale," he said, recognizing her with visible surprise. "I was not told you would be attending. Whatever your history with this stable, I must ask you to stand back. This horse has become unpredictable."
"He has become frightened," Eleanor replied. "Those are different things." A murmur traveled through the ladies near the carriage. Alexander's jaw tightened, and Mr. Crispin Vane, the estate steward, stepped forward in a beautifully brushed brown coat with an expression of offended authority. "My lord, I warned you she would make difficulties if admitted here," he said. "Her father filled this stable with reckless ideas, and now she wishes to repeat them. We have already had three incidents with that creature."