Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Logan came back into the yard with the basket looped over one arm and a folded blanket tucked beneath it, he found Rose halfway to another horse.
He slowed at once.
She had moved toward a smaller mare tethered near the rail, one hand already reaching for the pommel as she placed a cautious foot against the mounting block beside it. There was nothing reckless in the attempt. If anything, she was being almost painfully careful.
His heart skipped a beat anyway. “Rose.”
The sound of her name in his voice made her freeze at once.
She turned, too quickly, her skirts catching against the saddle, her hand flying back to steady herself. A faint flush rose into her cheeks the moment she saw him standing there.
Logan crossed the yard slowly, the basket hanging from his hand, his gaze moving once over the mare and then back to her face.
“And what is it ye think ye’re daein’?” he asked.
Rose stepped back from the horse. “I was only looking.”
“Aye,” he said. “And I’m a monk.”
A soft breath escaped her, dangerously close to a laugh, though she did not let it become one.
“I merely thought,” she said, smoothing one hand over her skirts as though that could restore the dignity of the moment, “that if we are to ride out, it would make sense to attempt it properly.”
Logan came to a stop before her and set the basket down on the block. For a moment, he only looked at her.
She was either very brave or very foolish. Likely both.
The thought came with a faint, unwilling pull at the corner of his mouth.
She had spent half an hour learning not to tense at every shift beneath the saddle, and now here she was, slipping toward another horse the moment his back was turned.
There was something almost absurdly endearing in it, though he did his best not to let it show.
“Properly,” he repeated.
Her chin lifted. “Yes.”
He looked at the mare she had been aiming for, then back at her. “Ye learn quickly, but ye’re nae riding alone yet.”
Her mouth tightened for the briefest moment, and her gaze dropped away before she lifted it again, composed as ever. The change was slight, gone almost as soon as it came, but Logan caught it all the same.
“I did not say I would ride far,” she replied. “Only that I might try.”
“And I’m tellin’ ye that ye’ll nae try it on a horse that isnae mine, with nay one holding the reins when ye’ve only just stopped grabbing at me arm every time one lowers its head.”
Her eyes narrowed at once. “I grabbed your arm once.”
“Aye,” he said mildly. “And wi’ remarkable conviction.”
That did make her laugh, though she bit it back almost immediately and looked away, as if annoyed with herself for the sound.
Logan bent and lifted the basket again. “Come down.”
She hesitated just long enough to prove she wanted to argue. Then, perhaps because she knew he was right, or perhaps because she knew he would only stand there all day waiting her out, she let out a small breath and turned obediently.
He stepped closer, putting the basket aside again. His hands came to her waist without warning, and though he had done this before, though he had held her there, steadied her there, lifted her there, it did nothing to lessen the effect of it.
Her body went still the instant he touched her.
He lifted her down in one smooth motion. He felt the narrowness of her waist beneath his palms, the brief, yielding shift of her body as her boots found the ground. For a moment, she stood closer than either of them intended, her breath touching the front of his neck, her eyes lowered.
If she had looked up, he was not entirely certain he would have remembered any sense of propriety.
He let go.
Then, because he needed to restore the distance between them, he turned and led her toward his own horse.
“This one,” he said.
Rose followed, gathering her skirts lightly in one hand. “You are always giving orders.”
“It keeps people alive.”
She gave him a look at that, quiet and a little wounded, as though she heard the rebuke in it. He regretted it before the feeling had fully formed.
His tone eased when he looked back at her. “And I promised ye a picnic, nae a broken neck.”
That helped. The stiffness left her shoulders by a fraction.
He mounted first this time, settling into the saddle before turning back toward her. Rose looked up at him, then at the horse, then back at him again. There was caution in her face, but less than before.
He reached down. “Give me yer hand.”
She placed it in his without speaking.
Her fingers were cool from the morning air. He closed around them and felt them tighten faintly in answer. Then he caught her by the waist again, with his other hand, and lifted her up before she could gather enough thought to be embarrassed.
She let out a small, startled breath as she landed before him.
Rose turned her head enough to send him an offended look over her shoulder. “I am beginning to see, my laird, that you take an unholy pleasure in making me appear helpless.”
He gathered the reins around them both. “If I wanted ye helpless, I’d put ye back on that first mare and watch ye ride straight intae the midden.”
She made a sound then, half laugh and half protest. It warmed him more than the sun on the stone.
When the horse moved beneath them, Rose settled more quickly this time. Her back brushed his chest with the first few steps, then held there, light and maddeningly present. He kept one arm around her waist to steady the reins.
This is only necessary, naethin’ more.
That did not change the fact that every shift of the horse brought her more squarely against him.
“Are ye still afraid?” he asked after they passed out through the gate and took the narrow track down toward the river.
Rose was quiet for a moment. The wind lifted a strand of pale hair loose near her temple and pushed it against his jaw before carrying it away again.
“No,” she said at last, and he heard the small smile in it before he saw it. “At least, not in the way I was before.”
He looked down at her profile. “That’s better.”
“It is,” she said. “And I would like to ride alone soon.”
“Would ye now?”
“Yes.” She paused, then added more softly, “Especially if it means I can put more distance between myself and those hunting me.”
The words hit him harder than they should have.
He had nearly forgotten, for the stretch of a morning, what still followed her. Or at least, managed, for a little while, to place it behind the horse beneath them and the feel of her body against his and the absurd lift in his chest whenever she answered him without fear.
“A horse will help ye ride faster,” he said. “It willnae solve everything.”
“No.” Her fingers tightened lightly over the pommel. “But it would feel like choosing something for myself.”
That stayed with him as they rode the rest of the way.
The spot he chose lay along a bend in the river where the bank widened and the grass grew softer under the shelter of low trees.
The water moved there without hurry, catching pale light across its surface.
Heather and gorse gave way to reeds closer in, and beyond them, the hills rolled open and quiet.
He dismounted first, then held up both hands to her. Rose did not hesitate this time. He caught her about the waist and lowered her carefully, and if his hands lingered a fraction longer than they had to, it was only because she looked as though she might slip on the damp ground.
He spread the blanket while she stood looking out at the water.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, almost to herself.
Logan glanced at her over his shoulder. “Aye.”
She turned then, the wind brushing her skirts around her legs, and lowered herself to the blanket opposite him. He unpacked bread, pastries, cheese, and a stoppered flask, and she watched the small display with an expression that was, absurdly, almost solemn.
“That is far more than a picnic,” she said.
“I wasnae certain what Englishwomen counted as enough.”
The answer earned him the look he wanted.
“I am beginning to suspect,” she said, reaching for a pastry, “that you enjoy saying ‘Englishwomen’ simply to see whether I bristle.”
“Aye,” he said at once.
She stared at him, then laughed softly and bit into the pastry.
They ate more easily here than they had in the hall.
The open air stripped something formal away from her.
Not entirely. Rose would always hold herself with more care than anyone in his world did.
But she softened in places now. Looked at the water while she spoke instead of the plate and let her hands move a little when she forgot herself.
“My sisters and I used to go to a river, near Briar Hall, in summer,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her fingertips. “Though ‘go’ is perhaps too generous a word. We were escorted, supervised, reminded not to stain our hems or speak too loudly or wander too far.”
“Sounds joyous.”
A smile touched her mouth. “It was, in spite of it.”
He leaned back on one hand, watching her. “Tell me.”
Rose glanced down at the pastry in her fingers, turning it once as though deciding how much she meant to give him. Then she looked back toward the river.
“My sister Giselle always stepped into the water first,” she said. A small smile touched her mouth, softer than the ones he had seen at the table. “Even when she had been told not to. Especially then, I think.”
“A rebellious creature.”
“She would say spirited.” Rose’s smile deepened by a fraction. “She used to slip off her slippers and hand them to me as though I were meant to approve of it. Then she would wade straight in and look back with this expression that made it quite clear she expected admiration rather than scolding.”
“And did she get it?”
“From Marion, no. From me…” Rose let out a small breath that was almost a laugh. “Occasionally.”
“Marion is the sensible one, then?”