She laughs too. “Oh, right. That’s an American thing. It means I choose not to incriminate myself.”
“Isn’t refusing to answer a question incriminating in a way?”
“True, but by not verbalizing it, it can’t be held against me.”
I turn my head to take her in fully. Christ, she’s gorgeous, all tall and proud on top of the horse. She keeps her gaze resolutely ahead, but I don’t miss the smirk on her lips.
Finally, she sighs. “I am, and it’s all Margaret’s fault.”
I raise a fist in triumph. “Yes! I knew it. There’s a saucy side to the sweet, pure Nanny Sumner.”
She snorts a laugh. “I would think you, of all people, would know how not pure I am.”
“Oh, you sweet summer child. A man puts his hand in your pants a few times, and suddenly your purity is a thing of the past.”
Something like a hiccup sounds in her throat, and her face drops. Even her shoulders curl in a bit.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe. “Christ, Aurelia. I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s fine.”
She straightens her back again, but her mouth is still curved down, her brow tight.
We ride in silence for a little while, and I kick myself for triggering something in her. I was just continuing the joke, but something touched a nerve,and I don’t think I’ve earned the right to ask about a topic so obviously upsetting. Someone hurt this woman badly. And, Christ, I want to know how to help. I want to know who so I can strangle them. But a finger banging and a few heavy kisses do not a trusting relationship make, and fuck me, but I want to know everything about her. The good and the bad.
“I love the winter,” Aurelia says after long minutes of silence. Normally, silence with her is comfortable, easy.
I take the olive branch she’s offering. “Me too. The whole season just feels like quiet and stillness.”
Dead leaves crunch under the horses’ hooves, fallen from the baren branches that tangle overhead.
“People think it’s a sad time because all the trees are bare and nothing grows, and it’s always gloomy.” She tilts her face to the grey sky where the sun is trying to peek through the haze. “I think the bareness and decay are beautiful.”
“It’s the world preparing for the rebirth of spring. Not dead. Just resting.”
She nods, at last turning back to me, and though her smile isn’t back in full force, it’s better than the pinched frown from moments before. “Resting,” she agrees.
We ride over several stone bridges crossing the small stream that runs through the woods and eventually meets up with the Ardsmure in the foothills. There are the occasional sounds of winter birds rustling in the trees and skittered steps of squirrels orsome other small creature scurrying across the frozen ground.
We go silent again, and it feels lighter, more like our usual quiet together. When we’re together like this, I don’t feel the need to fill the void with constant conversation. With Aurelia, it’s easy. Like, just being in each other’s presence is enough.
We’d been on the trail for over an hour when I hear the distinct rumble of a protesting stomach.
She lets out a nervous chuckle. “Sorry. I was too anxious to eat breakfast this morning.”
I laugh. “I guess it’s a good thing it’s nearly lunchtime, then.”
We come upon a small clearing in the trees. In the middle is a tiny stone hut. I dismount, and she does the same, giving her horse another pat on the neck. I tie both horses to a tree on the edge of the clearing, then gesture to the little round building.
“Luncheon is served, mi’ lady,” I say with a bow.
“What is this?” she asks, her face lit up in wonder.
I lead her through the opening that serves as the door. The only windows are small slits with no coverings, allowing in a little natural light. I asked one of the staff to come out and get a fire going in the small hearth and deliver a basket for our lunch.
“This is a hermitage,” I explain as I lay a blanket over the beaten earth floor. “It was built around the same time as the house. There was a big religious revival going on in the country, a turning back to the old ways when our people followed ancient traditionsand lived and died by the elements. Many religious men took to the mountains to escape the distractions of the world and immerse themselves in nature and creation. There used to be hundreds of these huts dotting the mountains and hills around here to serve as shelter for the wanderers.”
We sit on the gingham facing each other with the food spread out before us. The chef supplied us with a decent picnic, plenty of sandwiches, a selection of crisps, a plate of brownies and biscuits, and a huge thermos of hot chocolate.
