A Bouquet of Thorns by Tania Crosse

and travelling to and from the capital. If only they lived permanently in his London house, none of this would have happened. But Rose
belonged
on Dartmoor. He understood that and he wouldn’t have had it any other way, but sometimes she exasperated him.
    That was why he had sold the horse. It was wilder than she was. Without it, she would surely calm down just a little. To perfection. He was tempted even now to try and get the beast back. But he must stand firm. If he gave in, he would lose respect. And he
would
buy her another animal to ride – something fast, for only that would suit her, but something more reliable. And he had to admit that he really would feel more at ease and might be able to allow her a little more of the freedom she craved. Besides which, once their son was born, she might be so devoted to him that riding might become something of the past and she would forget all about the horse that had meant so much to her.
    As for Florrie Bennett, well, he was quite astounded at the way the formerly meek woman had become so forthright. With Henry Maddiford’s death, and with her own grief now under control, she seemed to have taken upon herself the role of Rose’s protector – as if Rose needed protecting from
him
! Personally, he’d have liked to see the woman out on her ear for her insubordination, but Rose clearly loved her, and Charles really couldn’t be so cruel as to dismiss her. Florrie Bennett he could put up with – and she would be useful when his son was born. But that wretched nag was an entirely different matter!
    She was peering into the sepulchral darkness, her eyes dimmed with terror as she stared into the black mouth of hell. Feeling her way as she edged blindly into the deep pit of the damned. Moans, disembodied voices, wailing. Spectres with faces stretched and distorted. She saw him then, in a ghoulish flash of light, his body stretched out on the torture rack. Heard the whine of the lash as it cracked through the air. The unearthly cry from a voice she recognized, and her heart tore. There was blood. Blood everywhere. Running down a hairy, ebony hide. The great animal reared skywards, front hooves pawing frenziedly at the air, eyes rolling and ears laid back at its rider who thwacked his rump viciously with the riding crop.
    Rose blinked her petrified eyes, and was overcome with relief as she realized she was sitting bolt upright in bed looking down on Charles as he lay on his back beside her, breathing heavily in an undisturbed sleep. The raging pulse in Rose’s skull began to slow, and she fell back on the pillows, snuggling under the blankets, for the cold sweat that slicked her skin was making her shiver.
    Relief. Just a nightmare. But it wasn’t, was it? Seth either had been, or was about to be, flogged. Seth, who had resigned his army commission because he was never the fighting sort; who wanted a quiet life, a good night’s sleep after an honest day’s hard work. Seth, who knew and cared for God’s creatures, and had saved the stunted puppy’s life. Had done the same for the wretch in the dark Tavistock back street, and had ended up in hell because of it.
    Rose’s eyes flew open and she tossed her head from side to side in a torment of frustration. How could she go back to sleep when Seth would be suffering such agony, helplessly restrained while his back was cut to ribbons. And God alone knew what had happened to poor Gospel. Where was he now? Was he frightened and alone in a strange place? In the unfamiliar surroundings of a town, perhaps? Was someone caring for him, winning his trust, or was he being subjected to beatings to make him behave, or to a harsh martingale? Or was a cruel, pinching bit being forced into his strong, sensitive mouth? A great wave of exasperated fury threatened to drown her, so powerful that it was beyond tears, and she ground her teeth like some demented harpy.
    Dawn was breaking, and she judged it