“Oh, right. S-sorry.”
He stepped to the left side of her mount and held up his arms. “Come down.”
She hesitated so long he thought she would refuse. She finally relented then reached for him. Her body slid down alongside his until her feet reached the ground, the reins slipping from her hands.
A gust whipped through the trees, which sent Paladia prancing then circling about. Another gust erupted, though, and she was off. Peyton jumped back, stepping on his foot. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Warrior stood in place. His ears twitched, and he remained watchful, but ever the warrior was Warrior, remaining true to his cause. Looking out for Alistar.
“I want a closer look at that tree,” he said.
Peyton’s eyes cut in that direction. “I don’t know, Alistar. It looks dangerous. If something happens to you, I’ll never be able to get up on that monster you ride to find my way back.”
He grinned, a surprising lightness filling him. “You won’t need to know how to get back. He will take care of you, should anything happen.” It was a strange way to feel with his thirty-third birthday on the morrow. If one was destined for insanity, he supposed, one should enjoy one’s last day of coherency. How blessed he was compared to the previous six generations. He, at least, knew what was coming, giving him the opportunity of this moment. With Peyton. With lucidity.
She moved closer to him.
He squeezed her hand, reassuring her, as he surveyed the surrounding landscape. The old tree shed the leaves like rain. Across the meadow was another copse of trees, land that did not belong to Griston. Another vision slithered to the edge. Willing it back stole Alistar’s breath. His heart pounded in erratic pumps. He’d made light of her getting on Warrior, but Warrior would not leave his side if something happened.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, counted to ten, and slowly released, then repeated until the edges cleared and he could safely look about. The tree drew his gaze, and he felt a manacle grip his chest. Only one branch of the old elm flailed violently—as if declaring war. On Mother Nature? Or something more sinister? “What happened?”
“Whatever it was, it happened here, didn’t it?” Peyton shivered next to him, despite the balmy morning temperature. “Can we go now?”
He dropped her hand and wrapped an arm around her, kissing the crown of her head. “Of course. We’ll have breakfast and then pick up where we left off with the journal. I fear it’s our only hope at this juncture.”
“Sounds like a plan.” But Paladia had taken off. “Er…” Peyton spun in a slow circle. “Where’d she go?”
“Home, I suspect.”
“But—”
He tipped her chin and kissed her lightly. “We’ll be fine. When I get in the saddle, you’ll give me your hand. Warrior can handle both our weight. It’s not that far a ride.”
Alistar leapt up and held out his hand. Peyton’s reach for his was tentative. Once she was firmly seated at his back, her hold secure around his waist, he kicked Warrior into a canter. The move elicited a startled shriek that hit his back with a shot of heated breath.
A laugh rumbled up his chest, exploding out in a burst of exhilaration. He felt good. Great, even.The calm before the storm.
There was no storm. The path of his destiny had been mapped in permanent ink. He had fifteen hours of sanity left.
Nine
A
stable hand met them at the corral. Alistar handed Peyton down to a shaking ground. Or was it her knees?
In Peyton’s mind, a stable hand was a kid. Maybe she’d read too many historical romance novels. This man looked to be in his fifties, his skin leathered by the sun. “Paladia showed up twenty minutes ago, milord. We were about to go on the hunt.” There might have been teeth missing too. The older man held her arm until she was stable, turning her over to Alistar then taking Warrior’s reins.
“No need, Vics. As you can see, we are fine.”
Peyton rubbed her hip, concerned her knees would give out and land her in the dirt. “You maybe,” she muttered.
“Ah. It’s a normal sensation when you first ride. You need help.” He swung her up in his arms.
Screeching laughter, hers, filled the air. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Now this was more like it. He took her in the house via a side or back entrance through unlocked French doors. Her legs dangled above the ground, their bodies connecting from chest to thigh as he set her to her feet.
He dropped a kiss on her nose and stepped back. He took her hand and pulled her into a delightfully cheerful sunroom. “Reinold! Breakfast for two.” His deep voice bounded past her.
“What eese theese?” The responder sounded French. Very French. A short, stocky man stepped into view. His shock of black hair fell over thick brows and brilliant blue eyes, displaying a prominent bulbous nose and a mustache that if groomed properly would win contests in the World Beard and Moustache Championship. She’d reviewed such an event at the American Mustache Institute when said event had been movedto Pittsburgh in 2013. She could name several of the categories for mustaches off the top of her head. Reinold’s fell into the Hungarian category. She wondered how he could eat with that monstrosity dipping past his full upper lip.
“Chef Reinold Fabien, meet Ms. Peyton McKenzie. She will be joining me for breakfast in the morning room.”
