Forbidden by Susan Johnson (good books to read for teens .TXT) 📕

clean half-inch cut—and the horse had bled to death. The details of his dying were gruesome.

The huge black had tried to rise several times after the loss of blood had brought him down, a testament to his tremendous heart and courage. The stall's walls were splashed with blood, the straw bedding saturated, Morocco's death gaze, the groom tearfully related, directed toward the door. As if beseeching help. "I should have slept with him," the young Irishman finished, his bereavement evident in the redness of his eyes. "I should never have left him alone. If I'd been there, Morocco would still be alive."

"Or you might be dead, since we don't know who did this. And none of us anticipated this. Don't blame yourself. It's not anyone's fault." Or at least neither of theirs, he thought, with heartfelt regret. Could he have blocked Isabelle's attack? Was it possible to protect everything he valued? An impossibility, he as quickly decided. But some priorities certainly had to be established, he instinctively realized. He couldn't afford a disaster more grievous than losing a horse.

When he eventually returned to the bedroom, after the necessary decisions had been made for the black's burial�he would be brought home to the Chantilly estate where he'd been raised�Etienne devised a credible story about a seriously ill horse in his racing stable to satisfy Daisy's curiosity. And summarily canceled his polo for the remaining days of Daisy's stay. He simply wished to be with her for their short time remaining, he told her, his fear of Isabelle's twisted sense of revenge unvoiced. But after the particularly grisly manner of Morocco's death, he had no intention of leaving her alone.

If he'd previously had doubts about Daisy leaving Paris, he no longer did. And if he'd had any reservations of his own sense of loss once Daisy sailed, they were now canceled by an ardent relief in knowing she'd be beyond Isabelle's reach in Montana.

They stayed in that day, perhaps both aware of the fleeting hours left to them, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other's company. And protected, Etienne reflected, from the uncertainties of Isabelle's intent.

That afternoon while Daisy napped on the garden chaise, Louis surreptiously slipped a note to the Duc. Since the Duchesse's footman had delivered it, Louis knew better than to announce its arrival in Daisy's hearing.

The pale pink sheet of paper contained two brief sentences:

You didn't mention your black, Isabelle had written in her favorite lavender ink, when you gave the fifty-meter warning.

I hope you miss him.

Etienne crumpled the paper in his fist and handed it to Louis. "Burn it," he said, crisp and low, "and see that my pistols are loaded and placed in the top drawer of my bureau."

Five days later, the Duc and Daisy traveled together to Le Havre for her sailing. He saw her settled in her stateroom, their conversation disjointed and fitful as they exchanged those social banalities required in leave-takings. He'd write—he'd telegram; she should write, too, when she found time; she wished him well with Bourges; he hoped her court dates went smoothly; give Hector a hug for me, she said, and he promised he would. The seas looked choppy, a cognac helped, sometimes, to relax, he offered, and she smiled, reminding him after spending years on horseback, she was immune to erratic rhythms. As they held each other, the last warning whistle for departure shrilled.

"You had better go."

"I had better go."

But neither moved.

"Come to Montana with me." Daisy's words were a spontaneous declaration of feeling and need, but she'd realized even before she'd finished speaking, Etienne couldn't or wouldn't and she smiled at the end, as if in bantering whimsy.

He hesitated. "I can't."

"I know."

They both knew the full extent of their commitments to other people and circumstances; they both knew the happiness they'd shared was predicated on adjusting their schedules and lives for a few brief weeks—and an extension right now wasn't a possibility. They were rational adults; they understood.

But beyond rational judgments they were desolate. And while they'd exchanged all the prescribed phrases denoting a future, neither was certain in their hearts such a future existed.

The Duc had Isabelle to deal with and after his thoroughbred's death, Daisy and Hector had become a concern. Daisy's return to Montana would effectively remove her from danger but Hector still remained to be protected. The divorce proceedings were going to be a horrendous stalemate unless Bourges was successful in changing the venue. And since meeting Daisy, Etienne hadn't been actively involved in his business interests. Both his steward and his secretary were waiting for him now in Le Havre with their most pressing affairs on the agenda for this afternoon.

After that, after all the significant problems were solved�then he had a future. He was a realist. But he was also in love. And there weren't any easy answers.

Daisy's concerns were based less on specific problem-solving than on issues of compatibility. Geographical and emotional compatibility. There was no question, she loved Etienne; whether his love was as committed still concerned her. He seemed determined somehow that she leave—and whether danger from Isabelle was indeed real continued to cause her disquiet. Had their relationship instead reached the habitual limits of the Duc's amorous interests? She didn't know anymore what was reasonable doubt and what was excessive sensibility to the patterns of his past behavior. She didn't know anymore if she could think rationally about Etienne Martel. She particularly didn't know if she could survive without him. And her sense of loss was already achingly real.

I won't cry, she determinedly told herself, I won't. For if this were simply another of the dozens or hundreds of good-byes the Duc de Vec had grown accustomed to, she wouldn't embarrass herself.

Dear God, the Duc thought, what if Isabelle's right and she keeps me in court a lifetime. He stood for a moment absorbing the feel of Daisy in his arms, inhaling the fragrance of her perfume, trying to memorize the smallest details of