Wolf Bride by Elizabeth Moss

invisible, hidden by a dip in the land. ‘I don’t know this area at all. But then Susannah and I were never permitted to ride beyond the North Field boundary as children.’
    ‘In case the wicked wolf and his son caught you and gobbled you up?’
    ‘Something like that,’ she replied drily, and risked a glance in his direction. Her pulse was still racing but her tone was deliberately cool, unbothered. He already thought her keen to bed him; he must never be allowed to guess what she had just been thinking, or she would die of shame. ‘Is that where you’re taking me today? To the wolf’s lair?’
    ‘Not quite. Though it is on my estate. It’s just a place I like to visit when I’m home.’
    ‘Is it far?’
    ‘Less than an hour’s ride.’ Their two horses were walking slowly side by side, his thigh pressed close to where she sat side-saddle. Her nerves were stretched thin as she tried to look unconcerned by such proximity, though in truth she had never before felt so light-headed in the presence of a man. He came to a halt and pointed to a striking cluster of trees on a hilltop in the distance, the fields around its base grazed by little white dots of sheep. ‘The other side of that hill.’
    ‘Then we had best get on,’ she muttered, and urged her mare into a trot, eager to get away from him.
    He passed her easily, breaking into a canter. Rather than be sprayed with sods of turf, she let her mare’s head go, so that both horses were soon cantering side by side.
    Wolf glanced at her, his eyes still narrowed in scrutiny, and she looked away. She guessed that he was trying to work out what had made her so uncomfortable back there.
    It would only be a matter of time, she realised in dismay, before he guessed at her rising desire for him.
    And then what?
    Why had none of the love poems she had read ever mentioned the strength of a virgin’s desire?
    Because they were all written by men, a voice jeered in her head.
    They reached the far side of the tree-topped hill just after noon and stopped in a rough hollow, with boulders and sparse trees, and nobody else in sight. The sun was high overhead, surprisingly warm for February, and after the long ride Eloise was thirsty and in need of somewhere private to relieve herself. Wolf discreetly led the horses to a nearby spring while she clambered over rocks and through trees to find a suitably unseen spot. Afterwards, she made her way back to where he was waiting with the horses.
    He stripped off his riding gloves, tucking them into his belt, then looked at her flushed face. ‘Thirsty?’ When she nodded, he held out a flask. ‘I filled it with cold water from the spring. Try some, it’s clean.’
    Dubiously, she put the flask to her lips. At court, drinking river water could kill you, it was so often mired with filth from the palaces. But she was so thirsty . . .
    She drank, then lowered the flask to stare at him. ‘It’s delicious.’
    ‘I told you it was good.’
    He removed his plain velvet cap, dragging his sleeve across his damp forehead. His smile prickled at her nerves. Suddenly she realised how closely Wolf had been watching as she drank, his blue eyes narrowed on her mouth. They seemed more piercing than ever in the sunlight, and all the more dazzling for the blackness of his hair, short and dishevelled where he had combed it back with his fingers.
    She licked her lips, and his smile became oddly intent. ‘Thank you,’ she managed huskily, holding out the flask.
    He reached for it, his gaze still on her face, and their hands touched briefly. A spark of the most intense desire raced through her, setting her veins alight. For a few seconds her chest hurt and she could not breathe; her gaze locked on his. She tried to speak but could not form words. It was as though her mind had shut everything out but the roaring clamour of her senses.
    Then he took the flask and turned on his heel, looking about himself. His voice was uneven. ‘I used to come here as