he’d stood when he first knew that he would always love her.
He’d spent the winter and spring teaching her how to ride—she not even a woman at fifteen, he barely a man. Galloping one day she fell off, but with wisdom and sufficient experience to direct her fall into a hill of fresh straw. Her landing proved easy. Gasping for air and eyes alight, she had laughed and laughed at her failure, tears of mirth dribbling down her cheeks as his heart raced . He’d said she’d grown too bold. She replied that it was because of him, that she would not have left the house all winter if he had not promised to teach her how to ride.
At that moment, he had known that whatever came—wherever his wandering life took him, and whatever she did to push him away as she always did—he would never stop loving her.
Stammering, he’d told her she was pretty. She laughed harder, called him an idiot, and lifted her hands for him to help her from the straw. He took her up and never wanted to let her go.
That night at the May Day festival, beneath the old oak in shadows cut by slivers of moonlight through branches, he kissed her for the first time. Years of dreaming and finally he found the courage. She did not shy away or object, but offered up her lips, pure and sacred, as the altar upon which he might worship. He’d known he shouldn’t, that miles separated him from a gentleman’s daughter, that she was his superior in every way. And yet she allowed him to kiss her, simply, briefly. Afterward, the promise in her eyes and playful smile on her lips carried him through the summer traveling through Devonshire with his uncle’s family.
He’d been a fool. A young fool who’d known the absolute folly of his hopes, yet had hoped them anyway.
Watching her now he could force no words to his tongue, no taunt or even praise. He hadn’t been tongue-tied in eleven years. Only this woman could do it to him.
“Well?” Gold dusted her eyes. “Aren’t you going to gloat over your victory?”
He released Tristan and went to her horse’s side. “Would it suit you if I behaved unsportsmanlike now?”
She unhooked her knee from the pommel to dismount. He lifted his arms and as naturally as if it hadn’t been a decade since she’d last done so, she came down into his hands. Her waist was slender, the curve of her ribs soft.
She looked up into his eyes, her cheeks rosy with life. “You might marvel at what a bruising rider I have become.”
“I might, if I ever used such a word.” He held her beneath her arms and she did not seek to disengage herself.
“Bruising?” She laughed. “Isn’t that word in your Gypsy lexicon?”
He spent so little time with other Rom now, he barely knew. He knew nothing, in fact, with her so close. The sunshine tangled in her hair that had come loose. His brain was shutting down, her body in his hands and her scent of wind and sea and honeysuckle all he knew.
“What a bruising rider you have become, Miss Caulfield.” His voice scraped.
“I think I learned it so that I could gallop away from the life I was living if ever I wished to. I have done that, leaving my family to come on this ridiculous quest. I am doing that now.” Her eyes widened. “Why have I told you this?”
“Because you know that I won’t condemn you for it. I want my prize.”
“Your prize?”
“For winning this challenge.”
“Oh.” Her breaths were swift. “But you have the stronger mount, and I am riding sidesaddle. This contest was not fair.”
“Excuses? It seems you are shrinking from this adventure already.”
Her eyes flashed. “I will win the next challenge. All right. You won this time. What prize will you claim?”
No single pair of pink lips should be so tempting.
“I claim a kiss.”
The pink lips parted. Her gaze darted back and forth. “Wouldn’t you rather I rub down your horse when we come to the next village? Or perhaps conjugate a few dozen Latin verbs?”
“That wouldn’t be very
He’d spent the winter and spring teaching her how to ride—she not even a woman at fifteen, he barely a man. Galloping one day she fell off, but with wisdom and sufficient experience to direct her fall into a hill of fresh straw. Her landing proved easy. Gasping for air and eyes alight, she had laughed and laughed at her failure, tears of mirth dribbling down her cheeks as his heart raced . He’d said she’d grown too bold. She replied that it was because of him, that she would not have left the house all winter if he had not promised to teach her how to ride.
At that moment, he had known that whatever came—wherever his wandering life took him, and whatever she did to push him away as she always did—he would never stop loving her.
Stammering, he’d told her she was pretty. She laughed harder, called him an idiot, and lifted her hands for him to help her from the straw. He took her up and never wanted to let her go.
That night at the May Day festival, beneath the old oak in shadows cut by slivers of moonlight through branches, he kissed her for the first time. Years of dreaming and finally he found the courage. She did not shy away or object, but offered up her lips, pure and sacred, as the altar upon which he might worship. He’d known he shouldn’t, that miles separated him from a gentleman’s daughter, that she was his superior in every way. And yet she allowed him to kiss her, simply, briefly. Afterward, the promise in her eyes and playful smile on her lips carried him through the summer traveling through Devonshire with his uncle’s family.
He’d been a fool. A young fool who’d known the absolute folly of his hopes, yet had hoped them anyway.
Watching her now he could force no words to his tongue, no taunt or even praise. He hadn’t been tongue-tied in eleven years. Only this woman could do it to him.
“Well?” Gold dusted her eyes. “Aren’t you going to gloat over your victory?”
He released Tristan and went to her horse’s side. “Would it suit you if I behaved unsportsmanlike now?”
She unhooked her knee from the pommel to dismount. He lifted his arms and as naturally as if it hadn’t been a decade since she’d last done so, she came down into his hands. Her waist was slender, the curve of her ribs soft.
She looked up into his eyes, her cheeks rosy with life. “You might marvel at what a bruising rider I have become.”
“I might, if I ever used such a word.” He held her beneath her arms and she did not seek to disengage herself.
“Bruising?” She laughed. “Isn’t that word in your Gypsy lexicon?”
He spent so little time with other Rom now, he barely knew. He knew nothing, in fact, with her so close. The sunshine tangled in her hair that had come loose. His brain was shutting down, her body in his hands and her scent of wind and sea and honeysuckle all he knew.
“What a bruising rider you have become, Miss Caulfield.” His voice scraped.
“I think I learned it so that I could gallop away from the life I was living if ever I wished to. I have done that, leaving my family to come on this ridiculous quest. I am doing that now.” Her eyes widened. “Why have I told you this?”
“Because you know that I won’t condemn you for it. I want my prize.”
“Your prize?”
“For winning this challenge.”
“Oh.” Her breaths were swift. “But you have the stronger mount, and I am riding sidesaddle. This contest was not fair.”
“Excuses? It seems you are shrinking from this adventure already.”
Her eyes flashed. “I will win the next challenge. All right. You won this time. What prize will you claim?”
No single pair of pink lips should be so tempting.
“I claim a kiss.”
The pink lips parted. Her gaze darted back and forth. “Wouldn’t you rather I rub down your horse when we come to the next village? Or perhaps conjugate a few dozen Latin verbs?”
“That wouldn’t be very
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