She tasted like sweet and forever, rolled up in a twist, flavorful candy cane.
The difficulty in pulling away could serve as a scientific experience run amok. A couple. An equal pull of parallel forced together from opposite ends. “Let’s put your purse inside. Did you bring a change of clothes?”
She nodded. “In the car.” Her voice croaked.
He went to the passenger side, seeing a knapsack in the seat. He snatched it out and turned to her. “You’re correct. We are running short on time.”
Alistar led her inside, through the massive entrance hall. “Pelz.” His butler was an apparition, there one minute, dissipating the next.
“My lord.”
Alistar thrust her purse and knapsack at the butler. “Take these to the Lilac room. We’ll be back in an hour.”
“Oh my God. This is where youlive? How do you pay for something like this?”
He cringed. Money was not something he talked to others about. Most of England’s upper crust did not. He certainly couldn’t admit his art kept him soundly in the black.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, her face scarlet. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries. We should go.”
Outside, he demonstrated how to mount using her left foot and throwing her right leg over the saddle. He went on to explain how to guide Paladia to the left or right with the reins. The amount of tension to tug back in order to slow or stop. His arousal almost got the best of him when he described how she could use the pressure of her thighs this way and that. He cleared the husky croak from his throat. “Confidence is key. A horse can sense its rider’s nervousness at the onset.”
“How am I supposed to not show nerves?” she muttered. “I’d rather skydive, and I’m terrified of heights.”
After twenty minutes of practice and letting her have her head in the corral, he felt she was ready. With a practice that was bone-deep, he vaulted up on Warrior and turned for the northeast edge of the property. He kept the pace to a brisk walk, certain a trot would land Peyton on the ground on her adorable derriere. He was thrilled to see her relax the farther they moved from the house.
“Lady Cecilia married Winslow,” Peyton said. “They had a son. His name was Forrest.” She glanced about, smiling. “Seems appropriate somehow.”
“Was there anything more regarding the curse?” he asked. Warrior shifted, seemingly picking up on the sudden shot of tension pulsing through him.
“No. The last entry I read was Forrest’s. He was twelve. I think Lady Cecilia was about to die. It doesn’t say from what. I’m guessing we could research it, but I don’t think that information is crucial to our current most pressing task.” Her brows furrowed. “There was one thing I found interesting.”
Alistar’s senses heightened. The wind kicked up dust. They were on the right path. He halted them at the edge of a copse of trees that had grown into a forest over the years. Peyton was right—Forrest was an appropriate name for Winslow and Cecilia’s son. “What was that?”
“She said something about turning the diary over to Forrest for safekeeping. To keep it out of the hands of the dowager Griston. Would that be Forrest’s great grandmother?”
“I believe so. Why should the dowager care about the journal?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one with all the history,” she told him pertly. “Mine is so long forgotten it doesn’t exist.”
He considered that a moment. She was right.
“The wind is almost violent. Look how that tree branch is swaying. It looks like it might break.”
He could barely hear her over the chanting.
“The language sounds like Portuguese or… or, I don’t know, Catalonian.”
His gaze shot to her. “You know Portuguese and Catalonian?”
She bristled. “They have museums in Lisbon and Barcelona. I’m well-traveled, thank you very much.”
He swung down off of Warrior.
“What are you doing?” Paladia danced under Peyton.
Alistar grabbed the base of the bit. “Don’t pull so tight on the reins,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. He still spoke loudly. He had to in order to be heard. He ran his hand over the mare’s sleek neck, calming her.
