lost track of time. I realized the hour and hurried back in hopes of washing up and dressing before you arrived.” He swings off Balios. “If you’ll allow me a few minutes to make myself presentable, I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“You look perfectly presentable now,” I say. “If you insist on a moment to wash, I’ll grant it, but there’s no need to change.” I lift the basket. “I brought a picnic snack, and what you’re wearing is very suitable for dining out of doors.”
“All right. Just let me walk and water Balios. He needs to cool down.”
“I can do that for you.” I smile. “I still remember how.”
He agrees. The question, of course, is whether the stallion will allow it. There’s a reason most people stick to mares and geldings as riding mounts. A stallion is headstrong and difficult, accustomed to leading rather than following. Or that is the common perception. The truth, as William would be quick to point out, is that, while wild horses generally have one stallion for a group of mares, the male often serves more as a stud and guardian with a mare in charge.
This doesn’t mean a stallion is a docile creature, ready to be led by anyone. He requires a firm hand, a leader he trusts, as he would expect in a herd. Balios is very well trained, though, and when William hands him over with a few words and a pat, the stallion deigns to let me take him.
William promises the stallion a brushing after his cool down, but I recall enough of my lessons to give Balios that myself. I spend a few minutes with the curry comb and then the hard brush, cleaning the dirt and sweat from his hard ride. I’m finishing when William’s voice cuts through the quiet stables.
“Trying to steal my horse now, too, I see.”
He strides in with Pandora trotting at his heels. He has, despite my objections, changed, wearing a high-collared shirt, trousers and a dark waistcoat, the Victorian equivalent of casual wear, as formal as it looks to me. He carries a picnic basket even larger than my own.
“You didn’t trust me to bring enough food?” I say. “Or didn’t trust my cooking?”
“I trust both very well,” he says, patting Balios’s nose. “But apparently, we think far too much alike. I had asked Mrs. Shaw to prepare a cold supper, planning a surprise picnic of my own. Please tell me you haven’t already picked out a spot to eat it. And if you have, perhaps pretend otherwise, allowing me some small advantage.”
“I hadn’t gotten that far.”
“Excellent.” He reaches for my basket. “I have the perfect spot in the moors, one I discovered a few years ago. It’s a bit of a walk, though . . .”
“Then, it’s a good thing I dressed for walking.”
His gaze slides down my sundress.
“Did you want me to change into something from the closet?” I ask.
“Certainly not. However, since you mentioned the suitability of your outfit, it gave me the excuse to properly scrutinize it, which I was loath to do before now.”
I sigh. “It’s a sundress. A very proper sundress. It covers my knees, my shoulders and my”—I look down—“most of my bosom. Believe me, I have ones that show off much more, and none of them would be out of place on a city street.”
“I was clearly born in the wrong century.” Another look up and down my dress. “If you would be more comfortable in another of your dresses—a less ‘proper’ one—I wouldn’t object.”
“Somehow, I don’t think my comfort is the issue. I’ll stick with this one . . . or I’ll spend the picnic talking to the side of your head as you politely avert your gaze.”
His eyes glint. “I would only avert my gaze if it caused you discomfort. Since that doesn’t seem to be the case . . .”
“Look all you want,” I say. “Pay particular attention to my sandals, which scandalously expose my bare ankles.”
“I noticed.”
“Of course you did.”
I shake my head and give Balios a final pat before we leave the barn.
15
William leads me to a spot that I can’t believe I’ve never found before. That’s my first reaction. Once I consider, though, I can see why I haven’t. He only found it himself a few winters ago, and even then, it was Balios who discovered it.
It’s a natural spring, bubbling over an outcropping of rocks, with a patch of moss below, so green and smooth that it