grass beside the road. “It isn’t far. It will allow you time to still your shaking knees before attempting to ride again.”
“My knees are not shaking.” A lie .
He offered her a skeptical brow and started up the road.
Fumbling with the reins, she drew them over the mare’s ears. “This horse is a splendid runner. What is her name?”
“Iseult,” he said over his shoulder.
A prickling tingle went up the back of her neck where he had held her. “And yours?”
“Tristan.”
Her throat closed, but the wind separating them now as he walked ahead like he owned the road made it difficult for her to respond anyway.
Iseult, a princess of medieval tales. Tristan, a knight of Cornwall devoted to her, whose love was thwarted by a powerful king.
Somehow the scandalous adventure story of passion, magic, and betrayal had found its way into her papa’s collection. She and Taliesin read nearly every book in his library, competing to prove which of them could read them all before the other. The story of Tristan and Iseult had been Taliesin’s favorite. At the time, young and naïve, she hadn’t understood why.
A shout came from behind. A boy rode a pony toward them. Passing the carriage, he raced forward.
“Miss!” he called. “Sir! Hold up!” He reined in, pulling off his cap to bow from the saddle. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but my pa got to thinking today about what you asked him about that wreck. He sent me to tell you he’d remembered something you might like to know.”
“You are the smith’s son, aren’t you? What did your father remember?”
“He said that a year or so back he had a visit from a fellow over at Drearcliffe who wanted him to break open an old box he’d found washed ashore. The thing was solid lead and soldered shut and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it all sealed up like that.”
“Drearcliffe? I don’t know that village. Where is it?”
“Not a village, miss. It’s old Sir Wilkie’s place, ’bout four miles inland by the crow. Pa says you could go lookin’ there. Sir Wilkie might have more old boxes like the one he wanted opened.”
“What was in the box?”
“Papers and such.” He wagged his head sorrowfully. “No treasure, miss.”
Papers . From a box sealed in lead. Ships carried such boxes to protect the contents from water.
“Thank you. You have been very helpful.” She smiled. But the boy’s face only lit when Taliesin put a coin in his palm. The boy doffed his hat again, turned the pony about, and spurred it toward home.
Taliesin turned his attention upon her and quite abruptly she found her tongue useless. Her tongue that wanted to taste his again.
He bowed elegantly. “I await your command, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that. It’s silly.”
He laughed. “You really haven’t changed, have you?”
If he meant that his teasing still drove her insane, and that she always wanted his black eyes upon her, then she had not in fact changed.
“To Drearcliffe?” she said. “Can you find the way?”
A hint of a smile showed again at the corner of his mouth. “I can find my way anywhere, princess. That is, after all, what I’m here for.”
To help her make her way along the coast in the footsteps of Arabella and Luc’s unsuccessful investigator. But Drearcliffe was not on the investigator’s itinerary, just as kisses atop windswept hills weren’t on hers.
Gathering the mare’s reins and drawing her hood up about her ears, she ducked her head into the wind. Eyes on his shoulders, she followed him.
SHE HAD NEVER wanted to touch another man.
Years ago the squire’s son, Thomas Shackelford, had tried to kiss her, the first time when she asked him to teach her how to drive his curricle. He let her drive them out of the village, then he’d taken the reins and slowed the carriage before putting his arm around her shoulders and his mouth on hers. She had pushed him away, and he had stiffly begged her pardon. But the following week he
“My knees are not shaking.” A lie .
He offered her a skeptical brow and started up the road.
Fumbling with the reins, she drew them over the mare’s ears. “This horse is a splendid runner. What is her name?”
“Iseult,” he said over his shoulder.
A prickling tingle went up the back of her neck where he had held her. “And yours?”
“Tristan.”
Her throat closed, but the wind separating them now as he walked ahead like he owned the road made it difficult for her to respond anyway.
Iseult, a princess of medieval tales. Tristan, a knight of Cornwall devoted to her, whose love was thwarted by a powerful king.
Somehow the scandalous adventure story of passion, magic, and betrayal had found its way into her papa’s collection. She and Taliesin read nearly every book in his library, competing to prove which of them could read them all before the other. The story of Tristan and Iseult had been Taliesin’s favorite. At the time, young and naïve, she hadn’t understood why.
A shout came from behind. A boy rode a pony toward them. Passing the carriage, he raced forward.
“Miss!” he called. “Sir! Hold up!” He reined in, pulling off his cap to bow from the saddle. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but my pa got to thinking today about what you asked him about that wreck. He sent me to tell you he’d remembered something you might like to know.”
“You are the smith’s son, aren’t you? What did your father remember?”
“He said that a year or so back he had a visit from a fellow over at Drearcliffe who wanted him to break open an old box he’d found washed ashore. The thing was solid lead and soldered shut and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it all sealed up like that.”
“Drearcliffe? I don’t know that village. Where is it?”
“Not a village, miss. It’s old Sir Wilkie’s place, ’bout four miles inland by the crow. Pa says you could go lookin’ there. Sir Wilkie might have more old boxes like the one he wanted opened.”
“What was in the box?”
“Papers and such.” He wagged his head sorrowfully. “No treasure, miss.”
Papers . From a box sealed in lead. Ships carried such boxes to protect the contents from water.
“Thank you. You have been very helpful.” She smiled. But the boy’s face only lit when Taliesin put a coin in his palm. The boy doffed his hat again, turned the pony about, and spurred it toward home.
Taliesin turned his attention upon her and quite abruptly she found her tongue useless. Her tongue that wanted to taste his again.
He bowed elegantly. “I await your command, my lady.”
“Don’t call me that. It’s silly.”
He laughed. “You really haven’t changed, have you?”
If he meant that his teasing still drove her insane, and that she always wanted his black eyes upon her, then she had not in fact changed.
“To Drearcliffe?” she said. “Can you find the way?”
A hint of a smile showed again at the corner of his mouth. “I can find my way anywhere, princess. That is, after all, what I’m here for.”
To help her make her way along the coast in the footsteps of Arabella and Luc’s unsuccessful investigator. But Drearcliffe was not on the investigator’s itinerary, just as kisses atop windswept hills weren’t on hers.
Gathering the mare’s reins and drawing her hood up about her ears, she ducked her head into the wind. Eyes on his shoulders, she followed him.
SHE HAD NEVER wanted to touch another man.
Years ago the squire’s son, Thomas Shackelford, had tried to kiss her, the first time when she asked him to teach her how to drive his curricle. He let her drive them out of the village, then he’d taken the reins and slowed the carriage before putting his arm around her shoulders and his mouth on hers. She had pushed him away, and he had stiffly begged her pardon. But the following week he
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