William laughed. “Actually, this is Patrick Swayze. Mum named him. Mostly so she could tell her friends she spent all morning riding Patrick Swayze. It’s a joke that works well for women of a certain age.” William tapped Achilles’s saddlebag. “I hope you’re hungry, Bramley’s packed one hell of a picnic.”
After a quick lesson, we rode across Home Field, side by side—me wriggling in the saddle, trying to get comfortable, trying not to look like a massive tit.
“This was the site of the Battle of Buckford Field in 1485,” William said, starting his tour. I tried to look impressed. “WhenI was a kid, you could still find arrowheads. It’s all been gone over by metal detectorists now. Haven’t found one in years.”
William rode ahead to open Hill Gate, and I watched as his magnificent arse bounced up and down, rising in and out of the saddle. It was going to be a long day.
In the oak woods, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The ancient trees had huge gnarled trunks and fat sprawling branches hung with moss. The air was busy with the sound of bird call. We picked through the uneven ground and overgrown trees for a while until William said it was time to dismount. He grabbed the saddlebag, took my hand—sending my heart into fits—and told me to close my eyes.
“Are you crazy? I’ll break an ankle.”
“Good point,” he said, and crouched down. “Hop on.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you a lift. Close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise.”
I mean, come on, how romantic was this? And this was the man who wouldn’t even kiss me? How was I supposed to interpret these signals?
I put my legs either side of William’s back and leant down into him.
“Put your arms around my neck.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said, but I was loving every second of it.
“Tighter. Now squeeze your legs around me.”
I sank into William’s back. The warmth of his body radiated into mine, like he was charging my battery. Then I felt his weight shift, and he stood like it was no effort at all. He handed me the saddlebag.
“Close your eyes. Hold on tight.”
I didn’t need telling twice.
William marched through the forest like a machine. I felt like Katharine Hepburn being carried across the river byHumphrey Bogart inThe African Queen. I could feel every muscle in William’s chest, his back, his arms, his shoulders, flexing beneath me. Our bodies were pressed together, the heat quickly turning the clothes between us damp with sweat. I held my face close to William’s neck and breathed in the heady mix of shampoo and horse and leather. If I hadn’t knocked one out in the shower that morning, I’d have destroyed a perfectly good pair of yoga pants and, quite possibly, have blown William’s back out. A waft of an unfamiliar perfume found my nostrils, and a few moments later, William stopped.
“OK, open your eyes.”
I blinked, readjusting to the light.
“Oh my God. It’s… beautiful.”
The entire forest floor was a sea of purple.
“They’re English bluebells,” William said. “They flower late here. Something to do with the hills. A microclimate or frost pocket or something. My father could have told you. Mind where you step.”
I unwrapped my legs and slid to the ground. “I wish I had my phone. Why didn’t you say? I could have brought a camera.”
William shook his head. “This place should feed your soul, not your Instagram account.”
“Does Indira know about this?”
“That’s the whole point. This might be the latest-flowering bluebell wood in the entire Midlands. That’s what makes it special. But it’s also a secret. That’s what makes it magical.”
I wanted to bawl him out for holding back on something that would look so great on screen, but it was hard to argue with him when he was showing me something so sacred to him.
William laid a blanket down on a large mossy rock overlooking the mauve carpet of flowers, and we ate lunch. Bramley had packed enough sandwiches, apples, hard-boiledeggs, biscuits, and tea for six people. Which was just as well because, as it turned out, William ate enough for five.
“Posh Spice and a red telephone box,” William said, passing me a sandwich.
