Before she could answer, he loosened the reins. Guinevere lunged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Ambrosia gasped, stiffening in surprise, but Dash’s arms came firm around her, steadying, guiding. “There,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough with command and promise. “Feel the rhythm. Let her carry you.”
Guinevere devoured the ground beneath them, her strides powerful, bounding. The world blurred around them—trees flashing past, the thunder of hooves rolling through Dash’s chest like a second heartbeat. Slowly, Ambrosia caught on, learning the rhythm of the mare’s gait.
Again, she laughed.
The sound of it lit him up inside, sweeter than music, more intoxicating than wine. She leaned back into him, her head brushing his chin, light auburn tendrils catching on his cheek.
Dash bent close, breathing her in, the heat of her back pressed tight against his chest. Their bodies rose and fell together, as though she had been made to fit into him.
This—this was more than a flight across the park. It was…everything. And for the first time in two years, he felt whole.
After what felt like a breathless eternity—though even eternity could never be enough—he drew on the reins. Guinevere slowed, first to a gallop, then to a canter, and eventually to a walk, until at last she came to a halt, sides heaving with exertion.
Ambrosia’s chest rose and fell with exhilaration, musical giggles still floating in the air between them.
Dash held her close a heartbeat longer, unwilling to let go. When he spoke, his voice came out rusty: “You see, princesse? You and I, together… we can fly.”
Dash didn’t expect an answer, but he knew she had heard.
After a moment, he loosened his hold.
“Let’s walk for a while, shall we?” At her nod, Dash swung his leg over the back of the horse and then, taking ahold of Ambrosia by the waist, he lowered her to the ground beside him.
And her eyes, they sparkled. She had enjoyed that. She presented this calm, demure widow to the world but he’d seen the passion within her. She yearned to live life to the fullest.
“Gwennie will need time to cool off anyway.” Dash led the mare with one hand and, with the other, offered his elbow to his princesse. She took it without hesitation, though her gaze stayed fixed ahead, thoughtful.
“Was she beautiful?” The quiet question slipped from Ambrosia’s lips. She did not look at him when she asked it.
“In a childlike way,” Dash said after a pause. “I’d be surprised if she weighed more than seven stone.”
Her brow furrowed faintly. “She was very ill, then?”
“Yes.” His answer was somber, the ache in it unavoidable. Barely three months had passed since Hannah’s death. “She was already consumptive by the time we married. Her companion, Lark, once confided to Bea that Hannah had never really known good health.”
“Beatrice… Your sister, right?”
“Yes. I’ll have to introduce the two of you sometime. She is here. In London. After Hannah’s passing and Lark’s departure, I couldn’t leave her alone at Dasborough Park.”
“And your mother?”
Ah, she would not know of his loss.
“We lost her a little under a year ago. It happened quickly. It came unexpectedly, but she did not suffer.” His throat thickened, even though he’d spoken the words many times before.
Something about telling Ambrosia…
She turned to meet his eyes, hers genuinely sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, Dash. I know—when you talked about her. I know that you loved her dearly.”
Dash could only dip his chin.
“I did. Very much.” Losing the last of one’s parents left one feeling somewhat unrooted, rather like one of the cuttings he’d brought over to Ambrosia’s house before he’d replanted it.
“Did she know the nature of your marriage?”
“Yes. When I brought Hannah home, there was no reason to keep it a secret.”
