She tilted her head back, her eyes closed, lips parted, a flush rising on her cheeks. Desire.
If he whispered her name in her ear, if he clasped her waist, if he caressed a path down her collarbone—
Pedro locked his jaw and set her away. "No one taught you stallions are dangerous? This is a warhorse." He forced himself to release her arms. "He could have trampled you before you had the chance to scream."
"I'm sorry to have given you such a fright. I promise I won't forget. This will be my first lesson."
"Lesson?"
She lifted a dainty shoulder. "My first lesson on Lusitanos, of course."
"Stay away from him." Pedro steered her away from the stallion. He shouldn't allow her this close. She was Maxwell's sister, a good Samaritan, and a distraction that could kill them all. "We’ve dallied enough here."
Chapter 14
Annerolledtheblanketand stored it in Hemera's saddlebag. Cris checked the mare's cinch while humming a soft tune. The count had yet to look at her since Erebus had rejected her friendship. She tested his name on her lips—Pedro. Peter, but he wouldn't like to be called that. Most Portuguese treated the British with deference, but not him. She couldn't picture him deferring to anyone. He watched the horizon with a binocular, an Olympian God inspecting his domain. She shouldn't be so fanciful, and if she had any prudence, she would avoid their puzzling interactions.
"Cris, are we far from Barca D’Alva?"
The safe brother stopped his work and grunted. "If we don't stop, we should arrive before noon."
Anne stretched her arms, her gaze finding Pedro again. Admiring him was much easier when he wasn't glaring or being outrageous, like picking her up, threatening to drop her, or—she touched her lips—kissing her. Cris’s handsomeness was as inviting as a green field or a placid lake. Pedro Daun's beauty was of an altogether different sort. The kind felt in the pit of the stomach while atop a cliff, watching glassy waves crashing against the rocks, or when facing a tiger with its tawny head on his paws, eyes unflinching and magnetic.
Cris bumped her shoulder. "The brooding will stop when we reach safety."
"Is he always like this?"
"Not always." Cris frowned, lips twitching. "Sometimes he's worse."
"Sir! You should not speak ill of your own brother."
Dropping his head back, Cris laughed, the sound startling a pair of doves.
The count pierced them with his stare. "If you have time for jests, it means we have tarried too long." He mounted Erebus. The war horse was gentler than a kitten with him.
"Pedro's bark is worse than his bite," Cris whispered, helping her mount, and took James’s basket with him to his steed.
They crossed hills, some arid, with the occasional oak or olive tree on a carpet of dry undergrowth, others lush with rye and corn. The sun was high when a meadow opened before them, tall grass rifling in the breeze. A silver ribbon glittered on the horizon—the Douro River. Barca D’Alva must be near.
"You are not smiling today." The count aligned his horse to Hemera's side. Atop Erebus, his knee loomed at least a palm higher than hers. "I did not know English girls were evil-tempered."
Anne perked up, looking at him askance. "Evil? I don't have a thimble of evil inside me."
"No?" He smiled a devilish smile, the dash and elan of all things outrageous. "I bet you have."
She raised her chin. "How could evil be inside humankind if God made us in His own image?"
He stared at her for a long moment. "Aren't you naïve? You have evil inside you, and so have I. Perhaps I'll prove it to you."
She scoffed. "How?"
"We have time."
Despite listening to his absurdities, or perhaps because of them, her stomach fluttered, and her hands soaked her gloves. Being near him compared to eating candied fruit while balancing on a tightrope.
Pedro said something in Portuguese, and the stallion danced sideways, right hoof crossing in front of the left, its neck arched, black mane flowing with the breeze.
"How do you do that?"
