He stared at her. He looked as surprised as if she'd slapped him. “Me?” he asked, sounding amazed.
“Well, I wasn't talking to the pigeon up there,” she said, nodding her head at the wood-pigeon who cooed, cozily, in the boughs of a tree behind.
“Fine,” he said. He sounded affronted. Genevieve regretted her teasing. He turned his horse, riding past her up the path.
“Fine. You don't have strong opinions,” Genevieve called out to the rigid back.
He slowed to a walk. She drew up alongside him. He looked at her, his face tense, eyes wide.
“Why are you tormenting me?” he asked.
Genevieve felt a little sparkle of joy – that was the longest sentence, almost, she recalled hearing from him! All the same, the words confused her. “I? Tormenting you?” she asked.
“You keep questioning me!” he said.
“I am making conversation,” she said, heart beating faster. Why did he hate being questioned? If this wasn't simply an elaborate way to evade her interrogation, she knew nothing. She frowned. “I did not mean offense,” she added softly.
“Well, I took offense,” he said. He leaned forward, clicking his tongue, and his horse went ahead.
Genevieve raised a brow. My! She had touched a nerve there. But why?
“You are quick to take offense,” she said to his retreating back, quite loudly, so it carried. “But never seem to think how readily you give it.”
That made him stop. His back was rigid, every line of him tensed. She felt a prickle of fear. If she had been tormenting him, as he put it, had she gone too far? If he fell into a rage with her, what could he do? She looked around, aware of how dangerous the situation was. She slowed her horse, tempted to wait until he'd ridden off, or turn back.
Getting lost in these woods is not something I want to happen. It's past midday already – that gives us four hours before dusk starts to fall.
No, she decided, walking her horse forward, I would do best to follow him. She'd just try and keep well behind. She rode up the path into the trees. His horse walked on.
Around a bend, she found him stopped, waiting for her. Her scalp prickled, she leaned back and to the right, wanting her horse to turn.
“Milady,” he called out. “Stop. I...I'm sorry.”
GETTING CLOSER
Adair looked at Genevieve levelly. He felt the usual prickle of fear, combined with a resolute sense of knowing. He had to say that. It was right. He wanted to. He just dreaded how she was going to react. He braced himself for the scorn.
“Sorry?” Genevieve frowned. She leaned forward, as if she hadn't heard him properly.
“I said, I'm sorry, Lady Genevieve,” he repeated tightly. “I can be difficult sometimes. I just...it's hard. I don't do well with company.”
“I understand,” she said. “I'm also sorry.”
That took his breath away. He stared at her in raw astonishment. It felt as if strange flowers bloomed on the pine trees. Nobody had ever said that to him. “Milady?” he asked, staring.
“I said, I'm sorry,” she echoed. “I know I shouldn't have spoken so harshly.”
He let out a long sigh. “It's not your fault,” he admitted. “I sometimes misunderstand.”
She laughed, surprising him. “Well, you didn't misunderstand me – I was being horrid. I apologize.”
“You'd never be horrid,” he said.
He flushed. It was her turn to stare at him in amazement. He hadn't meant to say that. However, now that he'd said it, he couldn't take it back. Her brown eyes widened and went soft. She smiled at him.
“That's kind,” she said.
“It's true.”
Their gaze held. He swallowed hard, feeling it touch him right inside. As she had from the first moment he'd seen her, she affected him powerfully, reaching into him like nobody else did. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “We need to go.”
“Yes,” she agreed softly, turning her horse back to the pathway. “It's about to rain.”
As it happened, she was right: the woodlands around them were wind-still and silent, as woodlands are the instant before it rains. He rode on beside her in silence. They had slowed to a walk, for the path narrowed and the going was steep and slippery.
“You ride often?” he asked.
She turned and smiled at him. “You ask questions too, see?”
He blushed and laughed. “Sorry, milady.”
“As it happens, I don't mind. Yes, I ride often,” she agreed. “My father had me taught from when I was a small girl. I always loved it.”
“It's a sort of freedom.”
“Yes.”
Their eyes held. Adair felt something stir in his heart. She was the first person, besides himself, who had ever expressed that same sentiment, and so wistfully. Her voice ached with it and he knew that she felt as he did. That out here, on a horse, under the skies, there were no limits on a person. Elsewhere, the limits closed in like a cage, entrapping him.
He looked at his hands. “Funny,” he said in a small voice. “I don't meet many who see it that way.”
“No,” she agreed. “Me neither.”
They rode on in silence.
The ground was slippery here, and Adair hesitated, looking back over his shoulder. Lady Genevieve sat her horse straight-backed, her face calm. He shrugged.
She is a good rider. Best let her get on with it.
He rode on ahead. If he were to tell the truth, he was glad for the momentary quiet: he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. The constant surprise of how she made him feel, combined with the rapid changes – from icy sarcasm to closeness and back – were confusing.
He heard her stop – the steady sound of hoof-beats behind him ceasing. He turned around. She was staring back down the path behind them, that long neck turned, gleaming, against the dark fall of hair. It was so beautiful that he shivered.
Adair, stop it. You know that's not for you. You're not good enough for anyone.
He let the hurtful, hateful voices close in on him, drowning out the small sounds of his heart. He rode on.
“Almost one o' clock,” he murmured. He wasn't sure of that: it was a guess, based on the angle of the sun overhead, the quality of the afternoon sunlight. “We'll still be in time for luncheon.”
She wasn't listening, or perhaps his voice hadn't carried that far. He shook his head at himself.
Maybe she heard, and simply didn't think the comment warranted a reply. It was a silly comment, really. I'm sure they'll feed us something, even if we arrive much too late.
He looked around. He'd rounded a corner, and he couldn't see her behind him, though there were at least ten paces between the bend and him. His hair prickled upright.
Where was she?
“Lady Genevieve?” he called out, feeling nervous.
No answer.
He waited, and then called for her again. Still, there was no answer. He turned his horse, riding back along the path. He felt truly foolish. What if aught had happened to her? If the attacker from the previous day had ridden out and finished whatever it was he'd sought to start? He swore at himself, annoyed. How could he let that happen?
“Lady Genevieve?”
“Yes?” she appeared at the head of the path, face tense, but not obviously distressed. He let out a ragged sigh of relief.
“Sorry, milady,” he said quickly. “I was worried needlessly. Let's go.”
“Lord Adair...” she began, as he turned away. He stopped and turned to face her, surprised. She'd not used his name before.
“Yes?” he asked, voice ragged.
“Um...did you notice it?”
“Notice it?” he blinked in surprise. “Notice what, milady?”
She sighed, those fine nostrils flaring with a brief impatience. “The rider following us.”
“Rider? Following us?” he echoed, stupidly.
“The rider on the black horse, yes. The one who stopped at that tree, near the first bend. He's been tracking us for ten min
utes, at least.”
“Tracking us?” he stared.
Genevieve looked at him. “If I should wish to have my every sentence repeated, I would keep a jester in my employ. Sorry,” she sighed. “I got a fright. Yes, I think he is. He stops when we do.”
“Oh.” Adair stared at her. “He's still following?”
“I lost sight of him when we turned the corner,” she said. “Which is why I lagged behind. Sorry.”
“Don't be sorry,” he said automatically. “You should be more careful though, milady. If he had reached you...” He trailed off, shuddering.
“Why do you think it's me he wishes to harm?”
Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion.
Adair squirmed. He could see why she was suspicious – it fitted together so awfully well with the fact that he'd been there when she was attacked the previous night. He looked at his hands where they clasped the reins. Moved his finger over a break in the tanned leather, finding comfort in the familiar texture. Tried to think.
“I don't know if he wishes to harm you or not,” he managed to say. “I do know that, if anyone harmed you, I couldn't bear it.”
She said nothing. The silence stretched, encompassing the whole clearing in its blanketing stillness. He looked up. He was looking into her eyes. There was no more suspicion in them, only a softness that took his breath away.
“I believe you,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He looked at his hands again. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Somewhere inside him, pieces of the past drifted and settled, like ash blowing on the wind. “It's nothing, milady.”
Swallowing again, he turned his horse away sharply, not wanting to risk her seeing him cry. He wasn't going to cry.
He straightened his back and rode along the path, not turning around. He listened and heard her following him. They rode on in silence.
After ten minutes, when they were close enough to see the manor, its gables sticking up over the trees, he turned to her.
“Is he still following? I haven't seen anything.”
“No,” she said. “I think he's gone.”
He was surprised by the rush of relief that flowed through him, hearing that. “That's good,” he whispered back.
“I know.”
They rode on in silence.
Suddenly, she looked up at the sunlight, slanting through the leaves overhead. “It must be past one of the clock,” she commented.
“Yes,” he said, smiling wryly. “I think it is...”
He didn't get to complete the sentence. She leaned forward, shooting ahead into a trot, and then a canter.
“I'll race you to the manor!” she called, leaning over her shoulder to direct her comments to him. “Last one there gets the heel-end of the bread!”
Adair felt a grin of sheer amazement stretch his face. Her horse was cantering ahead, her black hair streaming behind.
“Challenge accepted!” he yelled, grinning. Then he shot off, squeezing his horse's flanks with his knees, guiding him into a canter.
They reached the gates of the manor's grounds, laughing and breathless. Adair leaned against his horse's neck, panting. “You won, milady,” he said, drawing a breath and grinning up at her, cheeks flushed. “I accept the heel-ends of the loaf, from now until you declare otherwise.”
She laughed, her head tipped back – a sound as sweet as syrup. He felt his soul sparkle.
“Only at this luncheon!” she grinned. “I think one race lost is not worth harsher punishment.”
He chuckled. “They are very hard, aren't they, the loaf-ends.”
“I think we could rebuild the west wing of the manor with them,” Genevieve agreed, nodding, as they rode in side-by-side through the gate together. “But please don't tell Arabella I said that.”
“I wouldn't,” he nodded, delighted by the notion of sharing a secret with her. “I think she would be most offended, and I wouldn't wish her offense.”
“Me neither! Not for the entire world. I hope she's feeling better.”
“Feeling better?” Adair asked, feeling worried. “What happened?”
“Just a fever,” Genevieve said, her high forehead wrinkled with her frown. “I hope it's broken now.”
“Me too,” Adair nodded. “Was that why you didn't ride with us?” He felt another weight leave his heart. He had been deeply disappointed when she'd not joined them in the ride, though he'd assumed, since Arabella, too, had stayed behind, that their absence was somehow linked.
“Yes,” she nodded. “She asked me to stay and help mind Mirelle.”
“I see,” he said. “We missed you on the ride.”
She raised a brow. He felt like a boy caught stealing pies. He couldn't have said it more obviously, not really. I missed you. I wished you were there.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don't be.”
She looked away, cheek reddening. That surprised him – he had thought her immune to embarrassment.
“Come on,” she said. “Our horses should get to the stables. They're also tired.” Her voice sounded tight.
“I know,” he said, swinging his leg over and dismounting. He went to help her, but she stepped down neatly, using the wooden fence for help. It was so quick he didn't even see her. She looked at him defiantly, as if daring him to comment on the skill. He looked away.
“We rode far...you're right. My horse needs rest.” He patted the chestnut hunting-stallion's neck, and the horse snorted. He felt guilty for asking so much of him during their race.
“Yes. Well,” she agreed, mumbling. “I'm quite tired too. I didn't sleep well last night.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said instantly. He knew how it was when the night was dark and there was nothing to keep the frightening memories away.
She shrugged, tossing her black hair carelessly. “Well, mayhap I will sleep well tonight,” she said.
“I hope so.”
They reached the stables together. A stable-hand appeared and took their mounts, talking to the horses about hay and about how warm it would be when they reached the stables. Adair regarded Genevieve in the ensuing silence. She looked at the toes of her riding-boots.
“We should go in,” he said gruffly.
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved.
“Milady, I...”
“When we were...”
They talked at the same time and he stopped, flushing. “You speak first, milady.”
“When we were in the woods and that rider was following us, I wondered...who it was,” she said, haltingly. “If maybe...” She held out a hand toward the barn. So sinister by night, by day it was a rustic outbuilding, hay spilling out through the half-open door.
“I also wondered,” he admitted. “I don't understand.”
“What were you going to say?” she asked. “I mean, earlier.”
“I was going to say I was glad we met, back there,” he said, indicating the woodlands with a nod to one side. He felt his face go red with embarrassment, cheeks burning. What was he saying?
She looked at him, those dark eyes holding his. It was an effort to make himself look back. Her eyes drew him in, cool, dark depths that soothed, somehow, the ragged edges of his pain.
“I am, too,” she said. She turned away before he could speak.
He felt his mouth open with amazement and shut it, quickly, embarrassed lest she should see him gaping at her.
“Let's go in,” she said. She headed up the steps. Behind her, he followed, more slowly, lost in a daze of amazement.
I am too, the words echoed around his head. I am too.
He felt as if the sun had come out and painted his gray world right through with rainbows.
ASKING QUESTIONS
Upstairs in the parlor, the fire was still burning. Arabella and Francine had gone, taking the babies with them. It was silent, the embroidery still piled on the chairs; awaiting the return of its creators.
Good. I need time alone with Adair.
>
Genevieve stood by the fire, holding out her hands to the blaze. It was a daring thought, and one that clutched at her stomach with fingers of anxiety. And anticipation?
Nonsense, Genevieve. You're just nervous. You must be.
She had changed from her riding-things into a pale rose day-gown, modestly decorated at the neck with lace. She frowned into the fire.
She needed to address Adair directly. It was time to lay bare the truth. Was he a spy, in league with someone who sought to do her harm? Or was his interest in her...something else?
The question in her heart was: did she want to know?
“I don't know the answer.”
The feelings that Adair aroused in her were too big to ignore any longer. She liked him. She more than liked him. It wasn't suspicion, or the thrill of satisfying her natural and professional curiosity. It was attraction.
And, if that is the case, should I really be talking to him about this?
She didn't want to find out that he was a Hanoverian spy. She didn't want to know that he was here to infiltrate her cousin's peaceful household, or if he was working with the thug who’d grabbed her the previous night. If he was a cold-blooded torturer whose interest in her was purely in the information she carried, it would break her heart.
“But I have to know.”
There was no point whatsoever in hiding from that truth.
She sighed, feeling her fingers lace together, a habit when she was worrying at a problem. She drew a steadying breath and went up the hallway to see if she could find him.
“Lord Adair...?”
He was in the drawing room, where she'd expected to find him. He, too, had changed out of his riding-things and into a brown velvet day-suit. She took a breath as she stared at that chiseled jaw line and felt her body ache.
He looked up at her, questioning. She read so many phrases in those eyes: I want you. I want to know you more.
She bit her lip, knowing the same message shone out of her own eyes. She looked down at her hands and cleared her throat. “Lord Adair. I'm...glad to find you alone. I need to talk to you.”
Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 10
