Colonel Gareth Wilson, retired, shut the oven door and used a carving knife to slice a small piece off the end of the steaming roast he had just removed from it. The meat looked deliciously juicy: the perfect shade of pink. Setting the knife aside he went to the refrigerator and leaned into its depths to locate a bunch of parsley. Herbs in hand he straightened and shut the door, his eyes widening in surprise at the man standing behind it.

“Who --?”

The swarthy, bearded man wore a dark red turban and a conservative, English-made dark grey suit. He raised his right hand, one finger extended upward. His lips pursed in a scolding expression and he shook his head slightly. Colonel Wilson was too surprised not to comply with this strange request for silence. And then before he could react the man had moved close, pressing him backwards across the kitchen until he slammed against the countertop next to the stove. The stranger’s hand was plastered over his mouth, suppressing his startled squeal.

“Tell me your clue or I will disembowel you with this knife,” the man hissed, seizing the carving knife from beside the roasting pan on top of the stove. Colonel Wilson’s eyes widened, his double chin wobbling as he shook his head against the man’s hand. The man pressed the tip of the knife against the side of Wilson’s stomach, his lips parting in a menacing sneer to reveal straight white teeth.

“I ask again: your clue Colonel. If you refuse, I will take you from this place and kill you very slowly. You will tell me in the end, or tell me now and live.”

The tip of the knife pierced the Colonel’s white apron, waistcoat, and the shirt underneath it. He nodded rapidly, wincing at the sharp pain as the knife penetrated his flesh. His attacker withdrew the knifepoint and his hand so that the Colonel could speak.

“Never!” the Colonel growled, shoving the man back across the kitchen with both hands. The prick of the knife had sparked anger, and with it strength and determination. He would not be bullied, and he would not betray his associates.

“Gareth?” a woman’s voice echoed in the hall beyond the kitchen door. “Is dinner almost ready or shall I refresh everyone’s drinks?”

Now the attacker’s eyes widened as his expression turned furious. “You are a dead man!” he hissed, dropping the knife on the floor as he sprinted to the garden door. Colonel Wilson pivoted in place watching him go, his face fading from crimson to grey as he gasped for breath, one hand pressed to the bloodstain on his stomach.

“Gareth?” Mrs. Wilson, stepped into the kitchen. “Gareth!” her curious question became a scream as she watched her husband crumple to the floor.

 

Chapter 1

 

“He’s lovely darling, but could you please keep him away from the flowerbeds?” Emma Knight Steed stood at the edge of a mown meadow on the Steed property watching her husband canter a dappled grey gelding in a zig-zag course between bright orange cones on the ground. Horse and man cut a dashing figure.

He had ridden up to the house an hour before mounted on the grey leading a shiny-coated buckskin mare. The moment he’d stopped them the grey had plunged his nose into the freshly turned dirt of a flowerbed where Emma had just planted several dozen tulip bulbs. When he’d raised his head chewing on something crunchy Emma had waved husband and horses away to the outer garden.

These horses were the latest in a succession of such animals that Steed had been trying out all winter. Contrary to Emma’s prediction, after recovering from injuries received in Venice the previous fall Steed had not forgotten his decision to begin playing polo. All winter he had made regular visits to horse auctions and breeders in the company of their groom. His interest had not gone unnoticed by the local polo royalty, as Emma thought of the ultra wealthy enthusiasts who spent fortunes sponsoring teams. As winter melted into spring and everyone from local pony clubs to the richest of polo establishments began slapping on fresh paint and grooming the exercise rings, the telephone had begun to ring.

Steed had played polo in his early days in the army, and again for a season when he was working with Cathy Gale. But since then other priorities had limited his riding to less organized events. Polo required constant training for frequent matches. Although Emma was concerned about the dangers of the game, she was intrigued that Steed felt that he could work it into his schedule now. It could only mean he did not expect to be subject to the random lifestyle of a field agent any more. In any case, he’d been invited to play – at first for fun and then, as he’d proven himself still adept in the saddle, in local matches. So far he’d only played on borrowed horses, but Emma had resigned herself to the eventual acquisition of a handful of polo ponies. At least so far he was planning on boarding them rather than enlarging the barn.

Steed rode over to where Emma was standing holding the reins of the buckskin mare in one hand and a couple polo mallets in the other.

“Let’s see how he likes working with a stick,” he said, holding out his hand for one of the mallets. As Emma rolled a ball across the grass the grey’s head popped up and his eyes followed the bright ball. Steed grinned and spurred the horse after the ball, stick swinging.

“Are you going to try this one?” Emma called out, stroking the mare’s neck.

“You try her,” Steed replied, whacking the ball far out into the meadow.

Emma watched man and horse gallop away, then she shrugged, her mouth curling into a sly smile as Steed and his horse caught up with the ball and he swung at it. His stroke went amiss and the ball shot off to the left. Steed’s horse had to turn hard on its haunches to follow, losing valuable seconds regaining his speed. Emma mounted the mare, secured the other stick in her right hand, and spurred the horse after the ball.

Steed saw her coming in from his left, but neither he nor his horse gave way. He noticed the mare’s eye roll back toward him as she calculated her speed versus that of her stable mate, and then at the last moment she put on a burst of speed, placing Emma and her stick on the ball strides ahead of Steed. Emma hit the ball off slightly to the right on a heading that her mare could easily adjust to. They galloped off after it leaving Steed and his mount to make another sharp turn in order to follow.

Emma worked the ball across the meadow, the mare keeping herself between it and Steed’s mount. As they reached the far edge of the mown area Emma tried a trickier backhanded hit, intending to send the ball back the other way. But her stroke was off and the ball flew in a wild arc away from both riders.

The mare recovered and plunged after it on the flank of Steed’s gelding, who had turned faster. Now Steed gained control of the ball and continued playing it, staying close to Emma for the competition and to judge the horses in close quarters.

“Take it,” he shouted to her after a while, sending it flying at her mare’s legs. The horse dodged it, nearly pitching her rider off over her shoulder. But Emma kept her seat and used the forward momentum to strike the ball back toward Steed. They rode back across the meadow passing the ball back and forth, stopping at the edge where they had started.

“I had no idea that you had played polo, Mrs. Peel,” Steed said.

“I haven’t. It’s invigorating, isn’t it?” she replied. Steed laughed and shook his head. He was not really surprised at her proficiency – he could not think of any activity that their cases had required of them that she’d not excelled at.

“Well you could fool most people,” he said. “What do you think of her?” He studied the buckskin mare.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” Emma replied patting the mare’s withers. “She was completely focused on the ball.”

“I noticed. And his run is as smooth as silk.”

“So have you finally found your ponies?”

“I think I have. At least for a start. I’d best ride them back to Gregory’s – and bring my checkbook. Want to come?”

“I supposed I should come see the stable. Then I’ll know where to find you, since I’m to become a polo widow,” Emma agreed with a laugh. Steed smirked at her and spurred his mount toward the front garden.

 

“Colonel? Can you hear me?” Mike Gambit studied Colonel Wilson’s face. The steady beep of a monitor was the only indication that the man was alive. The sharp odor of disinfectant could not mask the all too familiar scent of a dying man. “It’s Gambit – Mike Gambit. You can’t have forgotten me, I was too much trouble to forget,” Gambit went on.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Wilson said from across the room. “I believe he can hear us, but he hasn’t shown any sign of it. The doctors say he could recover any day. They never state the obvious alternative, but I know.”

Gambit took a last look at the wan face of his former commander, then forced himself to meet the woman’s eyes. She looked drained, as anyone would after a four-day hospital vigil.

“Can I convince you to let me take you home for a rest?” he asked, going around the bed to her. She shook her head, her eyes focused on her husband’s still face.

“No. Not yet. If he wakes up I have to be here.”

Gambit pursed his lips and nodded slightly, following her gaze back toward the bed.

“The doctor said he had a heart attack,” he said. “But you reported seeing an intruder.” Even as he spoke he silently chastised himself for asking. This is not a case. He had to learn to turn off his investigative habits.

“There was,” Mrs. Wilson said, looking up at him through round, green eyes. “I came into the kitchen just as a man ran out the back door. Gareth was hurt. He collapsed and I thought the man had stabbed him – he had, but not very deeply. Gareth’s heart had given out. He must have been terrified.”

“Did the intruder steal anything?” Gambit asked. He found it difficult to believe that the Colonel Wilson he’d served with had been terrified.

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t checked, actually – I’ve been here. But I don’t think he was carrying anything. He even dropped the knife.”

“That he stabbed the Colonel with?”

Mrs. Wilson nodded.

“You did tell the police about it, didn’t you Mrs. Wilson?”

“Certainly. They took it as evidence. It --,” suddenly she was sobbing, pressing her hands to her face. Her next words came out in a wail: “It was Gareth’s favorite carving knife.”

Gambit instinctively took her into his arms. She shook with sobs, her hands still pressed to her face. Hysterical women made him nervous. He never knew what to say, so he held his tongue. After a few minutes she pressed herself away, glancing up with an embarrassed expression.

“Forgive me,” she said, clearly once again in control of herself. “It’s so difficult to believe, I – I don’t think it’s real yet.”

“I know Mrs. Wilson. But the Colonel is a strong man. He’ll come around and by this time next month he’ll be back out on the polo field.”

“I pray that you’re right, Mr. Gambit. Thank you,” Mrs. Wilson forced a smile, then went to her husband’s bedside to take his hand. Gambit slipped out of the room pondering the irony of the soldier who survives the horrors of countless battles only to collapse in his kitchen. He hoped that would never be him.

 

A movement behind the mannequins in a haberdashery caught Emma’s eye as she strode along New Bond Street after a visit to Burberry for a scarf from the summer sale. She recognized Steed’s back, attired in his current favorite blue pinstripe, as he walked away from the window accompanied by a salesman holding a folded shirt. Emma was always delighted to catch Steed in the act of enhancing his wardrobe – it justified her own seasonal refitting.

She slipped in through the door behind another gentleman shopper and made her way to a display of neckwear. The merest glance at the shirt carried by the salesman had given her enough information to select a coordinating necktie that she knew Steed would like. Meanwhile Steed and the salesman were standing at a counter pairing ties with several shirts. She stepped up beside Steed and laid her selection across the shirt she’d seen. Steed looked up at her, his mouth splitting in a delighted grin. Before he could acknowledge her she winked playfully and spun on one heel, exiting the store.

The salesman tsked at her departing back. “How presumptuous!” he declared and reached for the tie. Steed put his hand on top of the neckwear.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

The salesman flared his nostrils in dismay as he gathered the tie and the shirts that the shop’s tailor had custom made for Steed.

 

Emma waited patiently outside the shop until Steed stepped through the door and looked her way.

“Hello darling,” he said, stepping close to smile into her warm eyes. She smiled back, then glanced down at the carrier bag in his hand.

“You bought the tie?” she asked.

“Certainly! It was perfect for the shirts I was picking up. What are you doing here?”

“I really was just passing by,” she shrugged, holding up her own tan plaid bag.

“It’s serendipity then. You must let me buy you lunch.”

Emma glanced at her wristwatch. “All right, I can fit you in,” she said pertly. Steed arched one brow as he took her arm, then smiled when she winked at him.

 

“Come back to the apartment. We’ll spend the afternoon – I’m certain there’s something dry and bubbly in the fridge.”

Steed delivered his invitation over his plate of Coquille Saint Jacques as if it were a business proposition.

“That’s quite a seduction, darling, but I have a meeting at three,” Emma replied with a wistful smile.

“Surely it can be changed,” he responded, his professionalism barely concealing disappointment.

“I’d rather not,” she watched his face register the rejection. “It’s with Miss Grant – Tasha Grant?” She paused, watching him switch from disappointment to recognition. “I have been meeting with her regularly since we got back from the states.”

Steed’s look turned stormy as he recalled Miss Grant’s remote involvement with the trouble they’d had in the US two months ago. The Knight vice president had come into possession of information that would have saved Emma, her friend the American agent Amanda Stetson, and another American agent from two firefights and hours of being pursued by villains. Miss Grant had insisted on delivering the information only to Emma, thus delaying it reaching Steed and the American agency that needed it in order to protect her. Ultimately Miss Grant had given in and told Steed directly, but by then Emma and her friends were already fleeing the villains on the Potomac river via speedboat.

Steed had expressed his anger with Miss Grant to Emma once she was safe. And other members of the Knight executive staff who were aware of the situation had done the same upon Emma’s return to the office.

But Tasha Grant was a good manager and a loyal Knight employee. Emma had determined to coach her rather than reprimand or fire her. Their first meeting had been the hardest, with Miss Grant clearly expecting to be dismissed and Emma struggling not to give free rein to her anger over the incident.

“You haven’t fired her?” Steed asked.

“Knight has a decade invested in her, and she has a tremendous base of knowledge about Knight Weaponry. Dismissing her for a single lapse in judgment would be poor management.”

“She nearly got you killed,” Steed’s voice had lowered to a growl.

Emma templed her fingers over her plate, her elbows planted indecorously on the white linen tablecloth, and studied him for a moment, giving him the time he needed to recover. “We do not know whether we could have prevented my being attacked even if we did have her information sooner,” she said. “The partners at Exten who gave her the information are as much to blame as she is, and we’re still doing business with them.”

“You should rethink that, too,” Steed grumbled, but he had calmed down.

“I have. I’m going to buy Exten – but you didn’t hear that,” she said with a smug smile, leaning back in her chair and moving her hands to her lap.

Steed’s eyes narrowed as he returned her smile. “Just don’t put Miss Grant in charge,” he snorted, then he leaned across the table toward her, “But why don’t you cancel your meeting this afternoon?”

Emma shook her head, impressed as always with his persistence. “I’m only working part time as it is, darling. I have to honor my commitments.”

Steed sighed, eying her with what looked like skepticism. She picked up her fork and took a last bite of her spaghetti carbonara – her doctor would have scolded her for such a rich choice, but it was divine.

“Well,” he finally drawled, placing his napkin on the table next to his plate, “I suppose I shall have to go home and arrange for a romantic evening instead.”

“Am I invited?”

Steed did not reply, but eyed her again as he signaled for the check. She smiled sweetly and sipped the last of her wine.

 

“I’m sorry to hear it, my lord. Yes of course. I would be honored. When is it? Good – plenty of time to train as a team. Yes. See you then.”

Steed replaced the receiver on the telephone in his study and smiled at his son, who he was holding in his lap. At seven months baby John was forming word sounds and curious about everything. Steed had baby-proofed the top of his desk: the pen stand, desk calendar, telephone, stapler, tape, and notepad formed an uneven row near the outer edge of the desk. A plastic ring with a bunch of colorful plastic keys sat in the middle of the blotter.

“Father’s been invited to play in a charity match,” Steed told John, who was straining to reach the keys. “It will be my first chance to ride Honey and Cowslip in a competitive game.”

Steed moved the plastic keys a little closer so that John could reach them without realizing that they’d been given to him. He seized them with a squeal of pleasure and promptly dropped them into his father’s lap. Steed picked them up and held them in front of John.

“But Honey needs some work in close quarters. I shall have to see if your mother will help me.”

John took the keys back and stuck the yellow one in his mouth. Steed had noticed that his son seemed to favor that one. He was sure it must mean something.

“And you and mum shall have to come watch, because the Prince is supposed to award the prizes. Won’t that be fun?”

“What prizes?” Emma asked, smiling at her two men as she came into the study carrying a tray.

“Polo prizes,” Steed said with extra enthusiasm, rising to join her at the small tea table across the room. “Lord Eric is short a man. Colonel Gareth Wilson is in hospital.”

Emma set the tea service on the table and put the tray aside.

“Why?” she asked, sitting down across from him.

“Heart attack, apparently. Lord Eric said there was something peculiar about it, but he did not have the details. In any case, the Colonel will not be able to play and I’ve been invited.”

“I shall have to call Mrs. Wilson – perhaps there’s something we can do to help her,” Emma said as she poured. Then she shot Steed a narrow-eyed look. “The Prince is a player, but you’ll have to win if you want to shake his hand.”

Steed shifted John and his keys to the knee away from the table. “I’ve done more than shake his hand over the years,” he sighed, his eyes darting to hers with a sly smile. “He’s been more trouble than you might expect, although it’s only known to a select few.”

“So you wouldn’t want your son taking after him, hum?” Emma asked, dropping sugar in both of their cups.

“Well, I won’t talk out of school,” he said, taking up his spoon to stir. “But between you and me, I think they could use some fresh blood in the line.”

Emma grinned at him as she sipped her tea.

 

“Another biscuit, Mrs. Peel?” Steed asked, holding up a piece of his aunt’s shortbread.

“No thank you darling,” Emma sighed, closing her eyes. The shadows of the swaying treetops danced on her face. The light breeze carrying the scent of spring flowers and grass made her drowsy. The ride and picnic had been his idea, but she was thoroughly enjoying it. Beside her she felt Steed shifting, and then he was close, pulling her into his arms.

“A lazy afternoon deserves lovemaking,” he whispered, his lips tickling her ear. She smiled, running her fingers into his hair as he kissed her mouth. He tasted of shortbread and wine, and he made her feel lightheaded, ready for anything as he explored her with his hands. One drew the hem of her loose skirt up, stroking her bare thigh. She’d dressed to be undressed and they both knew it. It was his duty to oblige.

He had slipped her panties down her legs and she had unbuckled his belt and opened his flies, all in between languorous kisses, when a loud snort next to their heads startled them apart.

Dancer, her bay mare, was cropping at the grass near the edge of their blanket. Emma turned her head toward the horse and Steed turned it back with a hand on her cheek.

“Ignore her and she’ll go away,” he said, dropping his mouth to the bare flesh of her throat. His fingers were stroking her most sensitive places, already inciting a tingling little shudder. But she looked again toward Dancer, a distant memory suddenly popping into her mind.

“Steed, do you remember an argument I once made for buying a lot of land?” she asked. His fingers stopped and he lifted his head to stare into her eyes. His expression was puzzlement bordering on irritation. He was very aroused, and hated being interrupted. Making love to Emma was one of his greatest pleasures in life. She smiled impishly and struggled to sit up, forcing him to move off of her.

“Darling please,” he complained, irritation beginning to win out. Emma caught hold of Dancer’s reins and stood up.

“I asked you once if you’d ever made love on horseback,” she reminded him, smiling more broadly as his eyes widened.

“And I told you no, and that you’d want a very private place for it,” he nodded, rising as well.

“You first. I’ll face you,” she said, one hand on Dancer’s withers. Emma was an accomplished rider and Dancer so well trained that she often rode bareback, as she had today to their picnic. Steed planted his hands on Dancer’s back and sprang up, swinging his leg over.

“Up you come,” he said, extending his arm to Emma. She locked her forearm with his and allowed him to pull her up. “Put your legs over mine,” he suggested, at the same time adjusting his seat and trousers to free his genitals. She lifted her thighs up over his, putting both hands behind herself on Dancer’s shoulders to scoot closer to Steed. She gasped in surprise as she enveloped his cock, and before she knew it he had shifted and was guiding it into her, all hot and wet and solid.

“Oh Steed,” she moaned, feeling him reach around her. She didn’t want to move, but she had to raise her arms and place them on Steed’s steady shoulders as he took up the reins and kicked Dancer lightly. She obliged with a walk, and then a bouncing, thrusting trot. It was too rough in their delicate position, so he squeezed the horse to a slow canter, trusting her to circle the clearing with only the slightest signals from him. The further they went, the less attention he had to spare for her direction.

They rocked in unison, the motion of Dancer’s easy canter controlling their pace. Emma clung to Steed and Steed to the horse, both of them lost in the conflagration growing in their loins. He spurred Dancer to go faster, barely aware that he and Emma were leaning away from a turn as they rounded the far end of the clearing and started back. Emma’s head was thrown back, her breathing a long gratified cry. Her loins were streaming in endless climax that drew him on, kept him hard and determined to satisfy her for as long as she wanted him.

And then Dancer jumped – a little leap over some small obstacle – and on the landing Steed thrust so deep Emma cried out, deep muscles convulsing around him in a staggeringly powerful orgasm that triggered his. There was no stopping it, and as Dancer slowed to a jarring trot the quick, deep thrusts sent him spiraling almost beyond consciousness.

Emma clung to him, nearly sobbing at the last sharp jabs before he softened within her. Dancer slowed to a walk, then dropped her head to crop again at the grass, oblivious to the rapture taking place upon her back. Nearby Commander, Steed’s regal black stallion, flared his nostrils and watched them curiously.

“All right?” Steed whispered, holding Emma tight. She sucked in a ragged breath and tilted her head back to look into his eyes.

“That was,” she paused, searching for the right word, “rougher than I expected.”

“Are you hurt?” his eyes narrowed in concern.

“No,” she forced a smile, “but I may need a few days to recover.”

His brows shot up in alarm, making her giggle, which in turn eased his concern. “Well, I could say the same,” he admitted, wondering, in fact, about the best way to disengage without hurting himself.

As if reading his mind, she scooted back slowly, gently breaking the connection. She pulled her leg over between them and slid to the ground, her skirt falling down around her thighs. Surprised that her knees were unsteady she put a hand on Dancer’s neck while Steed dismounted as well. He guided her back to their blanket with an arm around her waist.

“That was an interesting experiment,” he said, stretching out and pulling her to him. She snuggled against his shoulder, one hand on his chest.

“I think it may need some refinement,” she replied.

“Are you saying you want to repeat it?”

Emma laughed, then winced at a little ache in her nether regions and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “No, not soon. I think I’ll study horse gaits first – you know, velocities of up and down versus forward and back --,” she stopped because Steed was laughing.