His heartbeats sped like a besotted fool, and Pedro grunted, fumbling with Erebus’s mane, the braids resembling knots.
A shaft of sun found her, painting her hair a shade darker than champagne but lighter than chardonnay. The night before, her scent had been layered, flowery, with a hint of citrus, of ripe neroli. A chaste kiss had tasted like roses and tea. What flavors did she hide under her lips? Perhaps she was indeed sweet. The endearment used by Gabriel and Cris grated on his nerves, and Pedro gritted his teeth.
She leaned her torso over a trunk, and her nimble fingers touched the cork bark as if measuring its length for a dress. Pedro had no patience for fidgeting, but in her, it was endearing. How she felt the texture of carpets, and petals, and pebbles. If no trinket was at hand, she touched her bottom lip, twirled a hair lock, the beauty mark on her cheek.
"Is he a Lusitano?"
"What do you know of Lusitanos?"
"Nothing, actually. But I love horses, and this one is the most magnificent I've ever seen. Does he have a name?"
At least she had a good eye for horseflesh. "Erebus."
She tilted her head. "I have to guess... the God of Darkness?"
He had to admit her deduction was not faulty either. His lips tugged up. "He created the night, filling earth's hollows with dark mist."
"It fits him." Her gaze rested on his hands. "I don't think you are an accomplished hair stylist. Why the braids?"
"To keep the reins from tangling in the mane."
"Why don't you cut it? Thoroughbreds have their manes cut all the time. It's the practical thing to do."
Pedro halted, the strands slipping from his fingers. "I wouldn’t sacrifice aesthetics for the sake of practicality."
She clucked her tongue, an infuriating grin on her face. "I did not know."
He crossed his arms. "Whatever do you mean?"
Her smile turned impish. "You are a romantic."
Pedro laughed. The girl who wanted to save the realm, judging his beliefs? "And you are what, a dull realist?"
"Be at ease. Your secret is safe with me. I've seen the mares and foals outside the coudelaria. Have you been breeding them for a long time?"
He shrugged. "Eight years. When I returned from Africa, the army would sell the horses from my regiment to the slaughterhouse. I bought the lot."
"I'm glad you saved the poor animals," she said, the words tinged with admiration.
Pedro glanced away. "Don't mistake it for charity. The Marshal reduced the cavalry numbers, and the horse breeders turned to cows and corn. I did not want the Lusitano race to disappear."
He had grabbed the saddle when twigs creaked behind him. Pedro released the tack and whirled. She had floated into Erebus’s space, delicate arms outstretched, inches from his nose. The stallion, his eyes rolling, ears flattened, was a second away from nipping her hand.
Pedro sucked in a breath, his heart shoving against his ribcage. He bolted behind her and circled his arm around her waist, bringing her against his chest. While Erebus neighed and reared, wrestling with his halter, Pedro retreated until his back touched a trunk.
"What—"
"Silence," Pedro panted.
She, too, breathed heavily, no doubt realizing her error. Pedro wanted to bury his face against her nape, feel her satiny skin, scent her fragrance. Instead, he dropped his head on the bark behind him, trying to slow his breathing.
Erebus settled, nickering and blowing from his nose.
The danger had passed, but his arms wouldn't push her away. Her lithe frame fit against him, the top of her head reaching his chin, her spine flush against his chest, her derriere cradled on his hips. If he lowered his mouth to her neck where her pulse throbbed, would she taste too sweet or fresh and elegant?
He could have her in this position.
The notion flooded him with heat. If he held both her hands folded on her front, she would be unable to touch him, and then tying her would not be necessary. No explanations required, no rules.
