“So you’re not in the mood for writing letters—what about reading?” His voice was deep, almost accusative.
She stiffened, thinking her secret had been discovered. “N-no.”
He put his pen down, rose and prowled toward her with a menacing expression. “Then I think, young lady, you need to be banished to your bed where you will contemplate the sin of idleness.” He tossed her over his shoulder and carried her, shrieking and laughing, up to her bed.
It wasn’t the sin of idleness she contemplated, either; he kept her very busy until dinnertime. Which they ate, again, in bed.
• • •
Friends by day, lovers by night—or whenever the mood struck. It was more difficult than Lily expected, keeping her feelings in check. They wanted to spill from her, to bubble up like a fountain. But all he wanted from her was friendship.
He made love to her almost every night. And if not at night, then he came to her in the morning. That was Lily’s favorite, coming slowly awake to the feel of Edward’s mouth and hands caressing her, feeling ripples of pleasure coil through her.
And then his possession, sometimes slow and dreamy, as sweet a thing as Lily had ever experienced, sometimes swift and fast and . . . glorious.
Of course it engendered emotion, and she refused to deny it. If he wanted to, he could, but Lily knew what she felt. She learned not to speak of it, for anytime she so much as hinted at an emotion, he withdrew, like the sea anemone he’d shown her in a rock pool, closing up at the slightest touch.
She was loving the seaside in all its variations. Most mornings they rode down to the beach before breakfast, long, leisurely rides together, sometimes racing—he nearly always won—sometimes just walking the horses quietly. And occasionally talking.
At least Lily talked. Getting information out of Edward was like talking to an oyster. He was a hard man to know. It was as if he’d built walls around certain aspects of his life and placed Keep Out signs all over them. Even with the things he was prepared to talk about, any details or feelings were sparse; he stuck to a few bare facts and left her to fill in the gaps.
“My father and I didn’t get on,” he’d told her one time. “Never did. I went to live with Grandpapa when I was six. The old man raised me.”
“And your father and mother?”
“Dead.” That was it—his life in a nutshell. With no embellishments. It was quite frustrating.
She knew better than to probe him about his wartime experiences—his grandfather had warned her about that—but even on the subject of his years with his grandfather and the things he’d done as a child, up came that wall with its big Keep Out signs.
Questions she thought would be harmless, about boyhood mischief, or playing Robin Hood that he’d once mentioned, made him clam right up, as chatty as a doorpost. He’d change the subject, or make some excuse, remembering something he needed to be doing.
It was a mystery. She had her own secrets and that kept her cautious, but she kept trying.
“How old were you when you went away to school?” she asked him one morning as they walked their horses in the shallow waves. Up to now, the conversation on his side had been a series of one-word answers.
“Twelve.”
“Did you like it or hate it?”
He shrugged. “Neither.”
“Didn’t you resent being sent away?” She’d had an impression that he’d enjoyed living with his grandfather.
“Not really. I didn’t want to go, but schooling is necessary for boys. I was lucky. Most boys are sent away much younger.”
With a little smile she edged her horse closer, reached out and placed a hand on his forehead.
He jerked his head back. “What are you doing?”
“That was four sentences in a row. I thought you might be delirious.”
His mouth twitched. “You little—”
“Catch me if you can!” Laughing, she urged her horse into a gallop. The sand was firm and they flew across it, her horse’s hooves splashing in the shallows. She could hear his horse coming up fast behind her. “First one past that stump is the winner,” she called back, and pointed to a tree stump lying high up on the sand past the tide line. It was low and smooth, about two feet high.
She raced toward it and readied herself for the jump. But at the last instant her horse balked, and Lily found herself flying through the air.
She landed with a thud. And lay still. Unmoving.
“Lily!” Ned, just seconds behind her, flung himself off his horse and knelt down in the sand beside her. Her eyes were closed. She lay still and pale, not breathing.
“Lily, oh, God—” He grabbed her hand.
Her eyes flew open and she dragged in a long ragged breath. “Winded,” she gasped, and Ned’s own heart began to beat again. She gasped painfully for air and he could do nothing to help her.
She was alive, that was all he knew.
“Where are you hurt?” He ran his hands feverishly over her body.
“Not hurt, winded,” she wheezed. She sat up, still gulping in air.
Ned sat back on his heels and watched her. His heart was thudding crazily. He’d thought he’d lost her, thought she’d killed herself.
“That was a stupid thing to do. Never do that again!”
She shrugged. “Most horses refuse a jump at some stage.”
“You shouldn’t be jumping at all!”
She frowned. “Why not?” Her breathing was smoother now. His pulse was still wildly erratic.
“It’s too dangerous.”
She looked at the fallen stump. “It’s barely two feet high. My first pony could have jumped it in his sleep.”
“I don’t care.” Ned drew in a slow, deep breath, seeking to present a calmer, more controlled appearance. “You are not to jump again.”
“Because I fell? I’m not hurt.”
He stood and put out a
