“No,” she capitulated. “I’ll move.”
She inched back until Colin nodded. Keeping a hand on the trunk, he leaned to scoop up Kendra’s basket. “Here, you’ll have to carry this.”
She gazed at him dubiously, but took it and wisely kept quiet.
Still balancing the trunk with one hand, he managed to mount the horse without kicking her in the face, a feat he felt deserved her undying admiration.
She didn’t even seem to notice.
“Hold on to me,” he said.
“I cannot see ahead,” she complained. “I can only see down. It-it’s a long way down.”
“If you’d rather ride in front, we can leave the trunk here,” he suggested in the most pleasant tone he could muster.
“No, no…I’ll be fine. Wait a minute, though.” She pushed the handle of the basket up to her elbow so she could place both arms around him. “I’m ready,” she announced.
“Wonders will never cease,” Colin muttered. He urged the horse forward, torn between going slowly and freezing, or moving quickly and frightening Amy half to death.
Mercifully, he chose to freeze.
He would swear he felt Amy’s heart pounding against his back, even though he was insulated by his cloak, her blanket, and both their layers of clothing. Her hands, clasped together about his waist, were white knuckled with strain.
“You have me in a death grip,” he complained. “The basket handle is digging into my side.”
“Sorry.” Her arms loosened an entire half inch, then tightened again when the horse gave a snort.
“Are you all right back there?” he asked with a sigh.
He hadn’t the slightest idea what he’d do if she weren’t.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’M FINE,” Amy ground out between gritted teeth. She wondered how long it would take to ride a mile and a half. It felt like forever already. “But snowflakes are tickling my nose.”
“Feel free to let go of me long enough to brush them off.”
She shook her head violently, though of course Colin couldn’t see her.
“Does it still seem a long way down?”
“My eyes are closed.”
That was the only way she could bear it. Even pressed against Colin’s wide, warm back, she felt unsafe. Her heart skittered, and her legs were getting numb from squeezing tight around the beast’s prickly body. It was ridiculous, and she knew it—even country bumpkins were comfortable sitting a horse.
But telling herself that didn’t keep her from trembling.
“Cold?” Colin asked, apparently feeling her body quake.
“Yes.” Better to let him think that was the reason.
“I warned you we needed to go quickly.”
When the horse sped up, she yelped, and Colin scrambled to right the trunk, swearing under his breath. If she’d needed any more confirmation that she fit poorly in his world, she had it now.
Resolved to stay calm until this torture was over, she squeezed her eyes shut tighter and began singing to herself. Perhaps by the time her song was finished, they’d be at Greystone.
“‘I tell thee, Dick, where I have been; Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found; In any place on English ground; Be it at wake or fair.’”
“You’ve a sweet voice,” Colin called back, amusement lacing his words.
He was laughing at her. If she could only get past her fear and let go of him, she might be tempted to shove him off the horse.
Instead, she continued singing.
“‘At Charing Cross, hard by the way; Where we, thou know’st, do sell our hay; There is a house with stairs. And there did I see coming down; Such folk as are not in our town; Forty at least, in pairs.’”
“Ballad Upon a Wedding,” Colin remarked. “The man who wrote it—Sir John Suckling—fought beside my father in the war.”
“’Amongst the rest, one pest’lent fine; His beard no bigger though than thine; Walk’d on before the rest. Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The king, God bless him, ‘twould undo him; Should he go still so dress’d.’”
“That’s the groom, who is said to be Lord Broyhill. And the bride was Lady Margaret—”
“If you know the song,” she interrupted, irritated into finally addressing him, “the least you could do is sing along with me.”
But he didn’t. There were fifteen verses to Ballad Upon a Wedding, and Amy sang them five times through before the horse finally stopped.
“We’re here,” Colin said with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I believe the basket handle has impressed a permanent indentation between my ribs.”
“Thank heavens.” Amy’s eyes flew open, and she blinked against the daylight. “I meant thank heavens we’re here, not about your ribs.”
A snort floated back, making Amy jump—but the sound had come from Colin this time, not the horse. He unwound her arms from his waist and reached back a hand. “Here, let me help you down.”
When she landed on solid ground, her knees nearly buckled under her. Taking a deep breath, she looked around. She found herself on a circular drive in a modest courtyard, enclosed on three sides by a crenelated curtain wall. The living quarters of the small castle made up the fourth side. The entire structure would fit into a corner of Cainewood.
She was enchanted.
Colin hopped down from the horse and slid her trunk to the snowy ground. He gestured at his home. “It’s not like Cainewood, is it?”
“No, not at all,” she said seriously. “It’s much nicer.”
“Nicer?” he asked in apparent disbelief.
She watched his gaze wander over the ruined portions of the wall and a huge roofless chamber that dominated the edifice. She followed along, seeing ancient weathered stones with stories to tell and a building the perfect size for one happy family.
“Yes, it’s much cozier. Cainewood is beautiful, but I cannot imagine why anyone would actually want to live there.”
“Try explaining that to the girl I’m marrying,” Colin muttered, leading the horse to one of the posts set around the drive.
Still carrying
