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“Lord Winchester did not have this same preference for mediaeval literature, I gather.” What he really wanted to know was if she had been happy or if she enjoyed
her married life. If she loved the fop. There must be a self-inflicted penance trait in him to be willing to know if she meted out the ultimate betrayal. That which happened in the very core of her heart.
Her attention spun abrupt on him, with a surprised glint in it. “No, he did not.” Her tone unfathomable. “He collected wood-carved horses.”
“Wood-carved horses?” Of all things! The goddamned man must have been the bore of bores.
“Yes. Every time he saw one in a shop or country-fair, he bought it.” Her head gyrated back to the path they rode. “He displayed three hundred of them in his study.”
For all the fop made a good suitor, the match was not made in heaven, that was for sure. Annabel so feisty, full of life, willing to experience the new and untried with a man like the count.
He wondered if the man bored her in the bedchamber, too. She was so tactile and sensuous. The image of another man touching her acid enough; that the fop wasted her natural passion blasting angered Romulus.
They rode in silence for long minutes, a cool breeze floating the horses’ manes and mussing Romulus’ sleek hair.
“Oh dear me!” She exclaimed looking up a hill to the remnants of a Celtic Christian church.
He had been absolutely certain she would marvel at this spot. Whilst he waited for them to ride to the top of the hill for her to see it in full, he kept his eyes on her.
Not a very big building, the tower stood firm about fifteen feet, but without the roof. The ruined walls around it had uneven heights. Up the hill, a Celtic cross stood beside the ruin, against the sea in the background.
In awe, she dismounted, taking off her hat and hanging it on the saddle horn, and walked to the ruin. “It is extraordinary.” Her delicate hand touched a stone on the wall.
“It is not so big as the most famous of them.” He commented, inflated by her obvious appreciation of the place. It made him jealous of that pile of rocks.
She turned to him to find his murky irises almost green fixed on her. Cheeks flushing, she gyrated to explore the church.
“I calculate they built it around the fifth century, soon after the Romans left.” His grave tone made it all the more enchanting.
“It is contemporary of the first Arthurian legends, then.” Her fingers ran over the tower, reverent.
“It is possible.” He had neared her. “My ancestors did not bother to conserve it.”
“It must have been in decay by the time they gained the land from the Normans.” She perceived his feet moving towards her. The memory of his arms around her the day he chased her after his meeting invaded her inexorable.
“You are right, I deem. This church had been here for almost six hundred years.”
When she directed her eyes to him again, he stood just a few steps from her, the proximity causing her insides to become lax. Brisk, she walked to the stone cross, admiring the rounded shape at the top and carved patterns down the length of it.
The whole place became even more magnificent with the backdrop of the sea in a shade of pale blue with the morning light. The salty sea air in her nostrils, the seagulls crying loud, the cool wind on her face completed the scenery.
Feet advancing to the edge of the hill, she looked down at the waves smashing against the rocks. She found this collision of the elements fascinating. Annabel wandered around the ruins, losing track of time. She could sense Romulus’ attention on her, causing her awareness of him to reach uncomfortable levels.
A sudden slap echoed in the air, and she turned in time to see the blasted Duke by her mare. “What are you doing?” She pleated her brows, bewildered.
He slapped the horse’s flank again, sending her mount running over the fields. “Sending her home.”
“What the darned for?” She clomped down the hill in a feeble attempt to stop the horse.
“To do something I have wanted to do for… eight years.” He beguiled her with that impossible lopsided grin on his atrociously sensuous mouth.
“Which is…?” Her hands flew to her waist.
His glare collided full with hers, murky hazel. “To ride with you.” He paused when his scrutiny found her cushioned lips. “Astride. For a second time that is.”
Those words induced a whole chain of reactions in her body. “You must be mad!” She regretted the high pitch it came out. It bared the keenness in her to him.
Scorching heat entered his gaze, making it go almost green. “Yes.” He braced his legs, his tall frame for her appraisal. “And you have a lot to do with that.”
