"Come on, girl," Lillian murmured, pressing her heels gently against the horse's sides. "It is only water. You have done this a hundred times."
Minerva disagreed. She planted her hooves firmly on the bank and refused to move.
Lillian tried again, her voice soothing, her hands gentle but insistent on the reins. The mare's only response was to toss her head in equine indignation.
"She does not care for streams," Daniel observed, a note of what might have been amusement in his voice. "I should have remembered. She was nearly swept away as a foal, and she has been suspicious of running water ever since."
"You might have mentioned that before suggesting this route."
"An oversight. My apologies."
He did not look particularly apologetic. He looked, in fact, as though he were suppressing a smile as he guided his horse back across the stream toward her.
"What are you doing?" Lillian asked.
"Providing assistance."
He brought his gelding alongside Minerva, close enough that his knee nearly brushed against Lillian's leg. Then he reached out and took hold of the mare's bridle, his fingers closing around the leather with quiet authority.
"Steady," he murmured, and Lillian was not certain whether he was speaking to the horse or to her. "We shall cross together. She will be braver with company."
His hand was inches from her knee. If she shifted even slightly in the saddle, she would be touching him.
She did not shift.
"Ready?" Daniel asked.
Lillian nodded, not trusting her voice.
They moved together into the stream; Daniel guiding both horses with a calm competence that spoke of years of practice. Minerva tensed as the water rose around her legs, but Daniel's hand remained steady on her bridle, his voice a low, soothing murmur that seemed to settle the mare's nerves.
The crossing took perhaps a minute but it felt like a lifetime.
Lillian was acutely aware of everything: the rush of water around them, the cool spray against her riding habit, the solid warmth of Daniel's presence at her side. She was aware of his hand on her horse's bridle. And how his voice was low and calm. The way his thigh pressed briefly against hers as the horses navigated a particularly narrow section of the ford.
And then they were across, emerging onto the far bank in a scatter of droplets and displaced stones.
Daniel released Minerva's bridle and drew his horse back to a proper distance. His expression was composed, unreadable, but Lillian noticed that his hands were not quite steady on the reins.
"Well done," he said, and his voice was slightly rougher than before. "Both of you."
"Thank you for the assistance."
"It was my pleasure."
The words were formal, polite, entirely appropriate. But something in the way he said them, some undercurrent of meaning that Lillian could not quite identify, made her heart beat faster.
They continued on in silence, and Lillian did not trust herself to break it.
Chapter Eleven
The folly appeared without warning.
One moment they were riding through dense woodland, the path barely visible beneath a carpet of fallen leaves; the next, the trees fell away and they emerged into a small clearing, at the center of which stood the most beautiful ruin Lillian had ever seen.
It had been a classical structure once; a miniature temple, perhaps, with columns and a domed roof in the style that had been fashionable a century ago. Now it was crumbling, reclaimed by nature, wrapped in ivy so thick that the original stonework was visible only in patches. Half the roof had collapsed, and the columns were cracked and weathered, their carved capitals worn smooth by decades of rain and wind.
But the decay only made it more beautiful. There was something achingly romantic about the scene; the golden light filtering through the broken roof, the carpet of crimson leaves on the mossy floor, the sense of time passing and beauty enduring despite everything.
