Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,24

Ryne strode determinedly toward Elizabeth.

“So, you prefer to ride before me on horseback. Why didn’t you tell me sooner, my love? We could have been off by now. Well come, it is time to go.”

“No! Wait! I’ll change.”

St. Ryne smiled. “It is too late now, my love,” he said softly. “Now, will you walk down the stairs before me or do you wish me to carry you?”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what? You should know by now there is a great deal I will dare.”

Elizabeth shuddered slightly. Without a word she walked numbly past him and down the stairs. She listened in a daze as he ordered a warm hooded cloak for her and almost docilely followed him outside to where a groom held his horse. He threw her up onto the front of the saddle then mounted behind her. The Earl of Rasthough stood in the doorway and silently watched his son-in-law, wondering for the first time in his life what would become of his daughter, Elizabeth.

By this reck’ning he is more shrew than she.

—Act III, Scene 3

Gray fog, like wet wool, cloaked the roads and valleys, bearing with it a biting chill, a harkening of winter’s approach. For several miles, and what seemed like eons, Elizabeth held herself erect and silent, paying little heed to St. Ryne’s inane observations concerning the countryside and crops or his body’s offering of warmth and shelter. Her attempts to ascertain their destination, or even their direction, were foiled for St. Ryne assiduously avoided the main roads, taking a circular route that soon had Elizabeth lost. Time hung as heavy as the fog surrounding them.

Eventually even St. Ryne grew silent as they plodded across fields and along old cart trails. They rode for three hours—time enough for the ache in her back to become an agony then return to a dull throb. At some point she slipped closer to St. Ryne, feeling the warmth of his body on her back. She ceased to care, for such was the stuff of pride that she would exchange full measure for the warmth and dryness of a comfortable chair by a blazing fire. It was thus that their approach to Larchside went unnoticed, until the tired horse responded to his master’s pull on the reins before the steps of a feebly lit manor house.

Dazedly, Elizabeth raised her head to look about her, scarcely noting when St. Ryne encircled her slim waist to lift her down. She rested her hands on his shoulders for balance and briefly closed her eyes in relief, grateful they had reached their destination.

St. Ryne felt a surge of compassion for his beleaguered bride. She looked so frail and exhausted. He glanced up at the rundown manor and a twinge of conscience swept over him for bringing her to Larchside. Gently he set her down before him.

“Ah-h!” Cold water shocked Elizabeth to her senses. She glanced down at the icy puddle in which St. Ryne had set her. “Fool!” she gasped. Her skirts, like a candlewick to oil, were quickly drenched with water, her thin shoes soaked. Shivering, she carefully picked a path to the steps.

St. Ryne closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth in vexation. Why was it that whenever she was complacent and he felt remorse for his actions, some incident would occur to rekindle her temper?

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I caught pneumonia from this jaunt of yours,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where are we? What is this place?” She looked up at the unpretentious building.

“Larchside,” St. Ryne said as he splashed toward her.

“Larchside?”

“Yes. Your settlement.” He stooped to pick her up.

“Justin! What are you doing? Put me down!”

“Never, for we progress,” St. Ryne replied, carrying her up the steps. “That is the second time you have called me by name. Henceforth I shall live for the day it comes trippingly off your tongue,” he said.

The front door of Larchside creaked open, and any scathing comments Elizabeth would have returned died. She tightly compressed her lips and turned her head away from St. Ryne’s mocking countenance.

“Thank you, Atheridge,” St. Ryne said as he carried Elizabeth into the hall, setting her down gently. “This is my wife,” he said with a curious smile on his face. “The Viscountess St. Ryne.” He removed the sodden cloak from around her shoulders, handing it to Atheridge.

“My lady,” Atheridge returned dutifully, bowing before her.

Stunned, Elizabeth scarcely paid heed, her mind reeling from the scene before her. There was dirt and dust everywhere. She took