“Yes. The seamstress comes tomorrow to make any necessary alterations, but the riding habit should fit well enough for today.”
“I’ll go see, shall I?” She turned for the stairs, forced her legs to remain at a stroll. Her measured steps didn’t last. She took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the chuckle reverberating behind her.
Throwing open the door to her dressing room, she gasped. Gown after gown spilled from trunks and wardrobes. The door to her closet didn’t close for the crush of silks and satins stuffed within. Evening gowns beaded with fine crystals, walking and carriage gowns of finely woven gabardine, and morning dresses made of the finest silks and velvets. She caressed the sumptuous fabrics, inhaled the scent of the lavender flowers that had been packed with the clothing.
No, fine clothes didn’t matter in the grand scheme of life.
But they didn’t hurt.
She found the riding habit half-buried underneath a satin dinner dress. She called for her maid and within minutes, she was smoothing the hunter green corduroy skirts and jacket down her body.
“It needs a wee nipping in around the waist,” Sheena, her abigail said, smoothing the velvet trim along the collar, “but otherwise a good fit.”
“Yes.” Winnifred angled her top hat to dip rakishly over one eye. “Very nice indeed.”
She met her husband at the base of the staircase, and he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm as they strolled to the front door. Two horses stood, saddled and pawing at the gravel drive, before the front door, a footman holding their reins.
Sinclair gave her a brief tutorial, showing her how to pull on the rein, smirking as she tried to imitate his clucking sounds. Finally, they were ready.
“This is my mother’s saddle. She never took to riding side-saddle so you’ll have to ride astride. I’ll order a woman’s saddle for future rides if you like.”
“This is fine.” She hoped. Her position should be more stable riding astride, but what would she do with her skirts?
“Nevertheless, I suppose I should have some available for guests. Most of my friends are married now. You can test out both, see which you prefer. Until then….” Sinclair wrapped his hands around her waist and hefted her up. “Swing your leg over.”
Gasping, she fumbled until she sat atop the beast, her face heating as she tugged her skirts out from under her, arranging them to cover her legs. The horse shifted, and she forgot her modesty to grip the thick mane.
Sin gripped her ankle and slid her boot into the stirrup. “Heather here is as gentle as she comes. You’ll have no cause for concern on her back.” He circled the animal and fitted her other boot into its stirrup. He patted the horse’s neck and handed her the leather reins. Three knots held the ends together, and she squeezed them tightly.
“Easy.” He pulled her hands forward so they were resting at the base of Heather’s neck. “Unless you want to stop, don’t pull back so. Heather has a sweet temper so she won’t say anything, but you’ll hurt her mouth if you keep pressure on the bit. With this type of horse, you want to be her friend, not her master.”
Well, she definitely didn’t want to be her enemy, not sitting so high up on a two-thousand-pound animal. “Indeed, friends it is.” She relaxed her hands even further and eased her breathing. Millions of people rode horses every day. She could do this.
Sin took the reins for the other horse, lifted his foot to stirrup, and swung himself onto the saddle. He nudged his horse, directing him into a blessedly slow walk, and Heather turned to follow.
“I didn’t tell her to turn.” She eyed the reins in her hand suspiciously.
Sin grinned. “Like I said, she’s an agreeable horse.” He inhaled deeply, and raised his face to the sky. “Now, what do you say we move a bit faster?”
She didn’t have much choice. When Sinclair’s horse eased into a trot, her horse followed suit. Winnifred tightened her legs around the horse’s middle and concentrated on not bouncing off the saddle.
“Do you see that stone wall, there?” Sin pointed into the distance, at a row of sandstone blocks that rose four feet high in points and crumbled down to the ground in others. “That’s where my great-great-great-great-grandda held off the Sassenach invaders in 1575.”
“That is a profusion of greats.” Winnifred wondered at his knowledge of family history. She knew the names of her grandparents, had even met her paternal grandfather before his death, but that was the extent of her knowledge of her own people. There must be a feeling of security that came with such knowledge. Sinclair was but one link on a chain, one that he could see stretching back into history, with the next link waiting to be made.
With her. She would be a part of his chain now.
A breeze ruffled his hair, pinning a strand to his cheek. He pointed at a low ditch that ran to the east of them. “And that is where my great-uncle Ulric lost his head in the Forty-Five Rebellion.” He leaned toward her, the leather of his saddle creaking, and whispered, “We had some Jacobites in our family. I hope your English sensibilities can countenance such a subversive history.”
Winnifred rolled her eyes. Her husband could be as playful as a giant puppy. A quality that was quickly becoming endearing. She tapped her heels into Heather’s flanks, and to her surprise, the horse moved forward. They continued the tour, crossing his land as Sin told stories of his ancestors, most of them bloody, all of them noble.
“I thought you said husbands and wives should be honest with one another.” She patted Heather’s neck as they drew to a stop.
“I did. I am,” he said, indignant.
“Surely there must have been some scoundrels in your family history.” She gave him a small smile. “Not everyone could have been a heroic saint.”
He grumbled. “Well, there might have been a bounder or two.” He jerked his head to the left. “There’s a nice valley over that hill where we can eat. Shall we try a gentle canter?”
