A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,50
tall French windows and the hearth. She wore a scarlet riding habit and held a broad-brimmed black hat. At his entrance she spun around as if she’d been waiting for him.
He squashed that hopeful thought. “You’re even more eager than Bella to explore the maze,” he said with a smile.
She gave a startled laugh. “I’m not sure that’s humanly possible. She’s talked of little else since yesterday.”
“Ghosts,” he reminded her.
“’Tis Winnie who yearns for a ghost.” Her smile grew stronger.
Drew made a face. “Ah, yes. How could I forget?”
Still smiling, she looked down at her hands, gripping the hat, then back up at him. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then plunged on as if she’d reached some momentous decision. “I was wondering, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble or inconvenience, if I might ride out, as well.”
He went still. “With me?”
She blushed. “Yes. Or not, if that would disturb—”
“Of course,” he said, mesmerized anew. Anytime.
A glow came into her face. “Thank you!”
“I don’t know if there’s a fit horse for you,” he said, remembering with a frown. “Allow me to ask Watkins—”
“Oh no.” She put out her hand, then snatched it back. “That is—I asked Mr. Duncan if he would lend me his horse, and he agreed.”
Drew wondered again if he should believe his friend’s disavowal of any interest in her but put that aside for now. If she rode Duncan’s horse, Duncan couldn’t come with them.
“The saddle,” he said slowly.
The familiar wild, impish smile curved her lips. She twitched up the hem of her habit to show him that she wore boots and breeches under her skirt. “I came prepared for any chance.”
His heart thudded and soared. “Then let’s be off.”
Watkins was waiting at the stables. Drew saddled his horse while a groom brought out Duncan’s mount and Ilsa watched with barely contained eagerness. She did indeed ride astride, mounting herself before he could help her. Drew told Watkins they wanted to have a bit of a gallop first, and they set out.
She rode like a centauride. Her breeches and boots were dark, and when she looped up her skirts it looked for all the world like she rode sidesaddle, but she controlled her horse with the ease of a cavalry officer. Duncan’s horse was a bit frisky but performed under her hand like a lamb.
Drew was entranced.
“Oh, that was brilliant!” she cried when they had let the horses race across a rolling meadow, clearing a low stone wall, and now had settled back into a cooling walk toward the path where Watkins was to meet Drew. “I’ve not ridden like that in years!”
He pulled up beside her, laughing. “Why not?” There were plenty of places for a good gallop near Edinburgh.
Her face froze. “My husband didn’t approve.”
“What?” he exclaimed in astonishment. “Why not?”
“He—” She brushed a wisp of hair from her face with one gloved hand. “He didn’t think it decorous behavior. Proper ladies ride in carriages.” She leaned down to pat the horse’s neck, hiding her expression. “But that was worth the wait! I feared I’d forgotten how.”
Drew was intensely curious about her husband. Duncan had said Ramsay was a hotheaded fool who got himself killed. He wanted to ask, but checked himself. “Where did you learn to ride astride?” he asked instead.
“My father.” She smiled again, the moment of tension and anxiety gone. “He decided any child of his must be a bruising rider, and I was the only one, so I received excellent lessons.”
He grinned in memory. “My father also taught me. Put me on a pony when I wasn’t quite three, to my mother’s alarm.”
“Oh, Papa didn’t teach me himself. He was much too busy. I had a riding instructor from the time I was five.”
Ah yes; Drew remembered that her father was a successful merchant. “He’s Deacon of the Wrights, aye?”
“And a town councilor,” she said somberly, before wrinkling her nose and laughing. “Yes. He wasn’t at the time, though. My grandfather, his father, was the deacon then. Papa was learning his tradecraft, working long hours. And when my mother died . . .” She sighed. “I suppose he thought I would miss Mama less if I were kept busy all day with lessons.”
Drew heard the thread of sadness in her voice, but her expression was calm. “I hear Deacon Fletcher is the finest cabinet-maker in Edinburgh.”
“As his daughter, I must tell you he is the best cabinet-maker in all of Scotland, and therefore the world, thank you kindly,” she returned pertly.