Page 72 of The Work of Art

Arthur kissed her forehead.

“She may sometimes bite or strike out…but that’s only because…because…” Her voice trailed off, the impassioned defense she gave on behalf of her mare fading as he bent his head and kissed the right corner of her mouth. He heard her catch her breath.

“Do you really mean to stay with me the rest of your life?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes as he deliberately kissed the left corner of her mouth. “I vowed it to you the day we married.” Her arms moved to circle his neck. “You vowed it to me, as well.”

Arthur captured her mouth in his for a long, languorous kiss. Philly was warm, sweet, and responsive, melting into his embrace in the same maddening way she had on their wedding night. He eased her back onto the bed, feeling her fingers tighten in his hair as he came down with her and kissed her once more. “We vowed a lot of things to each other that day. Quite a bit about children, if I recall.”

Her cheeks were flushed from his kisses and her blue and amber eyes were as soft as velvet. “I meant everything that I promised you.”

Their marriage ceremony had been hastily planned and hurriedly performed, but Arthur remembered every look, every touch, every recited word. The course of his life had been irrevocably altered that day, and now, as he looked down at Philly, there was no response he could give that was equal to the magnitude of his feelings except to admit to her the simple truth.

“So did I, Philly. So did I.”

Philly leaned down across Persephone’s withers, holding the reins deftly in her gloved hands as the mare stretched into a full, thundering gallop. The wind bit her face, tearing at the veil of her high-crowned riding hat, and caused the thick skirts of her habit to blow back against Persy’s flanks. Unbidden, a smile of pure happiness spread across her face.

“Faster, Persy!”

Persephone responded by extending her neck and surging forward in a burst of speed, her giant hooves hardly touching the ground as she moved across the field in what, to any casual observer, would appear to be a bolt.

“Mrs. Heywood!” Mr. Greene shouted from behind her, his chestnut gelding struggling to catch the much bigger, much stronger mare. “Mrs. Heywood!”

She didn’t listen, and she didn’t stop until she crested the final hill. Only then did she shorten Persephone’s stride, bringing her down to a trot, and then to a walk. The head groom wasn’t far behind. While she waited for him, Philly patted Persephone’s damp neck, walking her on a loose rein around the large Hawthorn tree that graced the hill.

Arthur had thought it best she confine her morning rides to a path that ran near to Heywood House. It was a beautiful ride with an avenue of elm trees, a stone bridge over a small waterway, and a few steep hills, but after riding it for so many days in a row, Philly was anxious to venture farther.

If she were accompanied by one of the younger grooms, she might have been able to convince them to go into Heycombe with her, or in the opposite direction toward Melton Abbey. Greene, however, was the head groom, and one of the few servants who had been at Heywood House as long as Arthur had. He was fiercely dedicated to his post—and equally dedicated to his master. Philly doubted she had the ability to talk him into anything.

“I say, ma’am. ’Tis not safe!” Greene trotted up to join her, his words coming out in gasps as if it were he, and not his horse, who had just ascended the hill. “Uneven ground hereabouts…poachers…sheep!”

“Sheep?”

“Aye. Sleep under this Hawthorn, they do, to shelter from the sun. Galloping horse might scare ’em.”

Philly frowned. She’d never seen any sheep sleeping under the tree. If she had, she wouldn’t have dared to come up the hill at such a frightening pace.

“No harm done,” Greene said. “Not that it mightn’t be best to carry on a mite slower.”

“Yes, of course.” The joy she’d felt during her mad race to the top of the hill was dissipating quickly. “I should never have been so reckless. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Nothing wrong with a gallop now and then, ma’am. But if you must do, ’tis much better on the flat by the elms. Much closer to the house, too. Safer, that.” Greene brought his horse up to walk alongside her, his saddle shifting dangerously to one side.

“My goodness, Greene. Have a care.”

“It’s only a loose girth, ma’am.” Greene leapt off of his horse to tighten it. His oversize coat caught on the saddle as he landed. “Blast it,” he muttered under his breath as he attempted to release himself.

The sun was shining brightly, and as Greene lowered the flap of his coat, it flashed with uncommon brilliance upon a metal object.

Philly blinked. Heaven’s sake, it was a pistol!

Was it so dangerous here in Somersetshire? Or was it merely a matter of course for the local men to carry pistols?

“Greene?”

“Yes, ma’am?” He cast a glance in her direction as he vaulted back into the saddle and gathered up his reins.

“Is the poaching so very bad here on the estate?”