“He's surefooted in heavy going,” was the curt reply.

Also had a bad mouth, which combined with his phenomenal strength, made him a difficult horse to hold, Leon thought. But maybe that was a masochistic fire in those black eyes and the count was out to match his temper against Tarrytown's gigantic strength.

Leon wasn't so far off the truth, although Charles Bernadotte Carrville Fersten, a count if he chose to acknowledge his father's lineage, normally didn't scrutinize his motives too closely. He just needed to ride.

His father had seen the morning news, too. As they watched, the death toll had mounted from the terrorist attack in Rome. Sixteen dead last count. The attack, reporters said, had Shakin Rifat's mark.

Whenever Shakin Rifat struck, Egon fell apart.

And then the phone would ring, and Sylvie would make demands.

Charles swore and swung himself up into the saddle.

Tarrytown jumped the first two timber fences beautifully, even under the adverse conditions. He was a massive horse of remarkable power, and a smile flashed briefly across Charles's mouth in appreciation. A half mile into the three-mile course, both horse and rider were thoroughly soaked and splashed with mud. Tarrytown took the first water turn without breathing hard and cleared the third and fourth hurdles like a leaper. Then, his head stretched out like a racer on the straight, his hooves scarcely touching the dark ground, Tarrytown flew down the treelined course. The pines were dark against the gray northern sky, in contrast to the silvery birches wet with rain, their tiny buds still tightly curled, waiting for a warm spring sun. Charles's spirits soared with Tarrytown's burst of speed and, despite the cold driving rain, he felt a warm surge of pleasure, a familiar elation synonymous with reckless wild rides.

But at the next water jump thoughts of Sylvie intruded like unwelcome messengers of doom, and he inadvertently tightened his grip on the reins.