After two wonderful, invigorating miles, the animal slowed, and William led it to a stream for a refreshing drink. He swung down from the saddle and stooped to splash a cupped handful of the icy water onto his face.
“Ribbit,” said a frog, disturbed by his presence.
“And a good afternoon to you too, my fine fellow,” William replied, tipping his hat to the amphibian. “Shouldn’t you be off taking your winter’s rest?”
As if reminded of this very idea by his visitor, the frog slowly hopped toward a patch of damp, fallen leaves.
The horse nickered. William looked up briefly, saw all was well, and returned his focus to the patch of leaves. The frog was gone.
Or was it?
William stared hard. The tiniest shifting motion alerted him that the little creature was exactly where he had last seen it, its outline barely visible against the shading of the background that masked it. Mottled browns and greens blended perfectly with the decaying vegetation.
“Well, aren’t you clever!” he marveled. “I’m certain Miss Lockhart would love to paint you.”
He pulled up, scowling. Now why had he thought of her? He had seen any number of frogs in his life. They had certainly never made him think of a woman before. And he particularlydid not want to think ofher. But there she was, edging in on his subconscious.
This would not do. Already, Ellena haunted him. He did not need another piece of his heart twisted with regret.
A nagging voice reminded him that Miss Lockhart could still be his, if he but persisted. He pushed it away. He did not want her. She was too strange. Too hard to figure out. Those piercing-blue eyes saw too much, demanded too much.
Even now, he felt them reaching, reaching, into his soul. They called to him. He could see her, dripping from the pond, not a care in the world, blue eyes focused on a tansy beetle. She had shared her most secret self with him, cried with joy to have someone truly know her.
But he didn’t, did he? He had missed some critical element that made all the difference. No, she was better off turning her deep gaze upon someone else. That gaze that cut right through him, peeled back the layers, made him feel exposed. And yet at the same time, it was oddly comforting to be seen like that. No pretense. No games.
No, no. It was too hard. He needed the games, the chase. Her honesty was too brutal. He needed masking, like the frog. He wasn’t ready to be vulnerable again.
Time. He needed time.
With a surge of irritability, he leaped onto his horse, urging it once more into a canter, then a gallop. It was a frenzied flight. Away from her. Away from Ellena. Away from himself. But he outran none of his accusers. And when he returned to the stables, it was without the triumph and satisfaction he had known when he had left.
He ate his dinner without enthusiasm, retiring early to his room. The bed held no hope of relief, and he imagined himself tossing about, the sheets wrapping about his legs like weeds in a pond.
He sat, trying to read, then stood and paced and sat again. Eventually, he donned his coat and hat and strode agitatedly to the stables, where he saddled his horse himself. Within minutes, he was riding down the lane in the deepening night.
Within the heart of the village, music filtered from the carriage inn. There would be several men willing for a game of cards, ready to drink and laugh and not talk of feelings. Or failures. Already, William felt the pressure lift from his chest.
Ah, this is more like it.
He handed his horse to the ready hands of a servant boy and stepped inside the bright room. The door closed behind him. It shut out all thoughts of hair like moonlight, or clever hands that painted frogs.
The noise of laughter and conversation was deafening compared to the silent night beyond the doors. The numbness of his ears spread to his heart.
William pulled up a chair. And exhaled.
