The stallion was fifteen hands of coal-black energy, wide at the chest, powerful at the neck. The horse’s hide glistened with sweat, but his breathing was strong and even. Astride him, the rider sat erect, his tanned, narrow face glowing. His mouth, full and sculpted, was curved in a smile that spoke of both recklessness and pleasure.

As the path leveled, the stallion’s stride lengthened. Here, they passed whitewashed cottages where clothes flapped on lines in the sea breeze. Flowers crowded for space in tidy lawns and windows were opened and unscreened. The sun, still high in the sky after noon, flashed its brilliant light. Without slackening, without needing his master’s light hands on the reins to guide him, the stallion sprinted for a hedge as high as a man’s waist.

Together, they soared over it.

In the distance were the stables. As there were danger and deadly attraction in the cliffs behind, so were there peace and order to the scene ahead. Red and white, and tidy as the lawns surrounding them, the buildings added another touch of charm to a landscape of cliffs and greenery. Fences crisscrossed to form paddocks where horses were being exercised with far less drama than Dracula.

One of the grooms stopped circling a young mare on a lead when he heard the stallion’s approach. Crazy as a loon, he thought—but not without grudging respect. This horse and this rider, merged together in a blare of speed, were a common sight. Even so, two grooms waited at attention for the stallion to slow to a halt.

“Your Highness.”

His Highness, Prince Bennett of Cordina slid off Dracula’s back with a laugh that echoed the recklessness. “I’ll cool him down, Pipit.”

The old groom with the slight limp stepped forward. His weathered face was passive, but he passed his gaze over both prince and stallion, checking for any sign of harm. “Your pardon, sir, but a message came down from the palace while you were out. Prince Armand wishes to see you.”

Not without regret, Bennett handed the reins to the waiting groom. Part of the pleasure of the ride was the hour he normally spent walking and brushing down the stallion. If his father had sent for him, he had no choice but to forgo pleasure for duty.

“Walk him thoroughly, Pipit. We’ve had a long run.”

“Yes, sir,” said the groom who’d spent three-quarters of his life with horses. Among his duties had been seating Bennett on his first pony. At sixty, with one leg game from a fall, Pipit remembered the energy of youth. And the passion. He patted Dracula’s neck and found it damp. “I’ll see to it myself, Your Highness.”

“Do that, Pipit.” But Bennett loitered long enough to loosen the cinches. “Thanks.”