giving her reason to be thankful for her cushioned backside. Ignoring the suspicious noises from behind her, she climbed to her feet, brushing off her rump.
She approached the horse again, squaring her jaw in determination. There hadn’t been a male born she couldn’t charm or outwit and that included this cantankerous gelding. Anticipating his prancing retreat, she seized the pommel and threw herself headlong over his back.
The horse moved nary an inch. Holly landed draped over the saddle on her stomach, giving her a startling view of the horse’s underbelly. No wonder both charm and wit had failed her. The horse wasn’t a gelding, but a mare—a conniving female like herself. She caught the chaplet of bluebells before it could be . trampled beneath the beast’s fickle hooves.
She had anticipated Nathanael’s dry applause. What she had not anticipated were the strong hands that closed around her waist, lifting her until she perched sideways on the saddle, her skirts flowing prettily over the mare’s flanks. As those hands lingered against the relative slenderness of her waist, she forgot to breathe.
Gavenmore frowned up at her, his eyes narrowed to frosty slits. “You’re lighter than you look, my lady. No heavier than a thistle.”
Scrambling away from his touch with such haste she almost tumbled off the other side of the horse, Holly clung to the pommel and her wits with equal desperation. “ Tis only your superior strength that makes it seem so, sir.”
Gavenmore looked less than convinced by her flattery, but it seemed to appease him for the moment.
Holly perched rigidly on the saddle while her belongings were divided among the remaining horses. She had packed little, bringing only the gowns Elspeth had spent the afternoon frantically altering. After all, if her aim was to repulse her husband, what use had she for golden fillets to adorn the cream of her brow? Embroidered girdles to emphasize the slimness of her waist? Ivory combs to tame the raven silk of her hair? Amethyst brooches to complement the color of her eyes? She sighed wistfully.
Her one concession to vanity was the tiny bottle of myrrh she’d tucked into her stocking, her one concession to sentimentality the gilded hand mirror her mother had given her on her fifth birthday.
The stab of regret she felt for abandoning her treasures was blunted by a keener grief as her father approached to bid her farewell.
He grasped her ankle. She leaned down, bracing herself for a hissed rebuke, a final denouncement of the folly that had brought them to this grim pass.
He pressed his mouth to her ear, his majestic voice reduced to a conspiratory rumble. “Don’t rely solely on your disguise to repel him, girl. Just be yourself.”
With that enigmatic advice, he slapped her mount on the rump, sending it into a smart trot. Holly had to snatch at both pommel and reins to keep her seat, but she could not resist stealing a last longing glance over her shoulder at her papa. As he lifted his squat arm in a salute, she would have given even her precious bottle of myrrh to know if it was his old familiar twinkle, the glimmer of tears, or perhaps a bit of both reflected in his misty eyes.
Holly scowled at her husband’s back, envying the ease with which he sat his massive mount. Instead of flopping aimlessly in the saddle with each spine-jarring jolt of the horse’s hooves, he rode with fluid grace, at one with the beast’s loping stride like some legendary centaur of old. She frowned, trying to remember from Nathanael’s teachings if centaurs were given to ravishing nymphs. Or was it satyrs?
Stealing a look around to make sure no one was watching, she slipped a leg over the sorrel’s back to ride astride. No one commented upon her change of position.
Holly was so accustomed to being ogled that having everyone avoid her eyes seemed a curious sort of freedom. Elspeth stared straight ahead, convinced the Welshman would behead them all and leave their
She approached the horse again, squaring her jaw in determination. There hadn’t been a male born she couldn’t charm or outwit and that included this cantankerous gelding. Anticipating his prancing retreat, she seized the pommel and threw herself headlong over his back.
The horse moved nary an inch. Holly landed draped over the saddle on her stomach, giving her a startling view of the horse’s underbelly. No wonder both charm and wit had failed her. The horse wasn’t a gelding, but a mare—a conniving female like herself. She caught the chaplet of bluebells before it could be . trampled beneath the beast’s fickle hooves.
She had anticipated Nathanael’s dry applause. What she had not anticipated were the strong hands that closed around her waist, lifting her until she perched sideways on the saddle, her skirts flowing prettily over the mare’s flanks. As those hands lingered against the relative slenderness of her waist, she forgot to breathe.
Gavenmore frowned up at her, his eyes narrowed to frosty slits. “You’re lighter than you look, my lady. No heavier than a thistle.”
Scrambling away from his touch with such haste she almost tumbled off the other side of the horse, Holly clung to the pommel and her wits with equal desperation. “ Tis only your superior strength that makes it seem so, sir.”
Gavenmore looked less than convinced by her flattery, but it seemed to appease him for the moment.
Holly perched rigidly on the saddle while her belongings were divided among the remaining horses. She had packed little, bringing only the gowns Elspeth had spent the afternoon frantically altering. After all, if her aim was to repulse her husband, what use had she for golden fillets to adorn the cream of her brow? Embroidered girdles to emphasize the slimness of her waist? Ivory combs to tame the raven silk of her hair? Amethyst brooches to complement the color of her eyes? She sighed wistfully.
Her one concession to vanity was the tiny bottle of myrrh she’d tucked into her stocking, her one concession to sentimentality the gilded hand mirror her mother had given her on her fifth birthday.
The stab of regret she felt for abandoning her treasures was blunted by a keener grief as her father approached to bid her farewell.
He grasped her ankle. She leaned down, bracing herself for a hissed rebuke, a final denouncement of the folly that had brought them to this grim pass.
He pressed his mouth to her ear, his majestic voice reduced to a conspiratory rumble. “Don’t rely solely on your disguise to repel him, girl. Just be yourself.”
With that enigmatic advice, he slapped her mount on the rump, sending it into a smart trot. Holly had to snatch at both pommel and reins to keep her seat, but she could not resist stealing a last longing glance over her shoulder at her papa. As he lifted his squat arm in a salute, she would have given even her precious bottle of myrrh to know if it was his old familiar twinkle, the glimmer of tears, or perhaps a bit of both reflected in his misty eyes.
Holly scowled at her husband’s back, envying the ease with which he sat his massive mount. Instead of flopping aimlessly in the saddle with each spine-jarring jolt of the horse’s hooves, he rode with fluid grace, at one with the beast’s loping stride like some legendary centaur of old. She frowned, trying to remember from Nathanael’s teachings if centaurs were given to ravishing nymphs. Or was it satyrs?
Stealing a look around to make sure no one was watching, she slipped a leg over the sorrel’s back to ride astride. No one commented upon her change of position.
Holly was so accustomed to being ogled that having everyone avoid her eyes seemed a curious sort of freedom. Elspeth stared straight ahead, convinced the Welshman would behead them all and leave their
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