For the Love of a Pirate by Edith Layton Page A

favorite boat,” she said.
    He strode along at her side. He tried to keep pace so he wouldn’t have to see her walking in front of him. It was a sight to see, but he didn’t want to be caught seeing it.
    â€œHe loves to watch the sun come up over the horizon and spread across the water,” she explained. “He left the sea, but never completely. He says he’s got salt water in his blood, and I think he does. We can see the sea from the top of the house, and there’s a road that borders it that we’ll take down to the village, if that’s all right with you. It might be a bit windy though. Autumn’s here, and the wind blows fiercely sometimes. I find it refreshing. But if you think you’ll be too cold we can take the road through the wood, and then down to the village. Or maybe you want to go back and put on something warmer?”
    â€œI won’t be too cold,” he said stiffly. It was one thing to be thought a fop—what else could be expected of a woman who knew nothing of fashion? It was quite another to be thought a hothouse flower.
    Constantine asked a stable worker for his horse, and was cinching its saddle when he stopped short and stared. There, in the center aisle of the stable, stood his hostess. She’d thrown on a moth-eaten man’s jacket, stepped on a mounting block, and swung herself up on a pretty roan mare.
    â€œSomething amiss?” she’d asked him, with a twinkle that told him she knew exactly what was.
    â€œI don’t often see ladies riding astride,” he said stiffly. “In fact, the only time I have, I’ve been at Astley’s Amphitheater to watch an equestrian performance.”
    She smiled. “Lucky you!” she said blithely, as though she hadn’t understood the barb in his comment. “Oh!” she cried with sudden mock surprise. “Does my riding astride offend you? I do have a sidesaddle, but what use is it here, with only my old friends and a stray fox or hound to see me? And you, of course. Our roads are steep and difficult. Riding the correct way for a lady might well be the most incorrect thing I could do—for my life and limb, that is. But if it bothers your sensibilities . . .” she said, raising her head and wearing a noble expression that made Constantine want to wring her neck. “I’ll throw on a sidesaddle. After all, if I do fall, you’ll be there to pick me up. If it doesn’t get your lovely clothes all dirty, that is. I shouldn’t want that. So if I’m lying in a muddy ditch, never fear. You can ride back and get someone to retrieve me.”
    She cocked her head to the side and waited. The stable workers hid their grins behind their hands.
    â€œIt is your home, and your choice,” Constantine said coldly. Of course, it was also shocking; it just wasn’t done. But as she’d said, who was there to see her but him? And he’d soon be gone from here, or at least, as soon as he could go.
    Then she grinned, clapped a jockey cap over her curls, bent low, and gave her horse its freedom to run. But she knew the road. Constantine didn’t. He followed more slowly. He was an excellent rider, but in that as in all things, a cautious one, and he didn’t want to risk his horse or himself to an unexpected hole in the road. He felt a universe away from Rotten Row in London, and the tame and lovely byways of Kent, where his uncle’s house was.
    Fifteen minutes later, Constantine was gritting his teeth, trying to keep them from chattering. He’d lost his hat to the sea wind almost as soon as they’d come in sight of the beach. Now he could only hope he could keep his head on.
    Lisabeth was riding like a demon.
    He plowed on, head down, until he looked up to see that she’d stopped at the top of a hill, and was waiting there for him. Her cheeks were red, so was her little nose, her eyes sparkled, and she laughed out