Page 87 of The Moorwitch
“Sylvie ... I am only a guest for a short time. I must soon leave, you know.”
“Youcan’tleave us,” she says, dragging me to a stop and planting her small frame in front of me. “Don’t you see you make us better?”
“Better?”
“You gave me magic, and you make Connie laugh. Anyway, I knowhe’sin love withyou.”
My stomach lurches; it’s as though I canhearLachlan’s insidious laughter in the back of my mind. “You—you do?”
“Oh, aye. He’s played his pipes more in the past week than in the last year altogether.” She smiles with satisfaction. “He’s justbustingwith feelings. What other explanation could there be?”
“I—I’d better go on out there,” I say, rattled. “Before he rides off without me. Sylvie, don’t talk of this again. Please. I’m not ... I’m not what you think I am, all right? And I cannot be what you wish me to be.”
I rush past her before she can say another word, pressing a hand to my twisting belly.
In the drive, Conrad holds the reins of two horses, Bell and a white gelding with a proud head. He’s beautiful, more sculpture than horse, with a white mane and a tail raised like a banner, his gleaming coat specked with gray flecks.
Conrad is checking the horse over obsessively, making sure all the straps and buckles are in the right places and tight enough. For a moment, I must catch my breath, struck by the smile on his face as he laughs, pushing Bell’s head away when the horse tries to nibble his windswept hair. It is one of his rare smiles, reserved only for animals or Sylvie, with no hint of reserve or sardonicism. It brings out not just his left dimple, but the more elusive one on the right. He’s changed too, wearing only a loose linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the hem tucked into the high-waisted riding trousers that hug the hard muscle of his thighs and backside.
And ... Fates, here I am, ogling a man’s arse, no better than a wanton maid in a public house.
“Connie!” Sylvie calls out, and he turns, his smile dimming slightly. The spell is broken, and I manage to finally breathe again.
When I come down the steps with Sylvie, Conrad takes in my attire. At first, I think he disapproves. His face pales a shade, and he drags a hand over his mouth and chin, where a shadow of stubble gives him a somewhat disheveled look. I suppose between serving wicked faerie queens and interrogating innocent maidens in the forest, he didn’t find time to shave.
“You, ah, found the clothes, then.” He clears his throat. “Well. Shall we?”
Conrad locks his hands together to help me into the saddle, but he must see the apprehension in my face.
“Roman’s a good horse,” he says. “I made sure of that. Even-tempered and obedient, and easier to handle than Ariadne. He’ll stick with Bell.”
I put my boot in his hand, and he lifts me into the saddle, only for my other boot to be left planted on the ground.
“Ah.” He bends down and picks it up.
“They’re a bit large,” I admit, flushing a little.
“May I?”
I swallow, then extend my stockinged foot. He takes my ankle gently and slides the boot on, then ties it more securely. I wait in silence, watching the top of his bowed head, as my heart flutters up my throat.
“Better?” he asks, stepping back.
Not trusting my voice, I nod in thanks.
Conrad gives Sylvie a hug and a kiss on the top of her head, tells her to mind Mrs. MacDougal, and then he swings easily into his own saddle and clicks his tongue. At this, both horses start forward, and Captain takes the lead, barking happily. I pointedly avoid Sylvie’s gaze; she watches us from the steps, her hands on her hips.
It takes a few minutes to get accustomed to the rolling pitch of Roman’s gait, but before long, I find myself exhilarated. The horses trot side by side over narrow paths cut into the heather, leading us south. The land turns stony, boulders jutting up from the ground. Moss androots hang scraggly about them, and in their cool, damp shadows bright ferns have begun to unfurl their leaves.
We ride along the scorched perimeter of the moorland that Tarkin’s enchanted fire had ravaged, and Conrad grimly surveys the damage without a word.
After an hour, we come to a silver cascade. The water tumbles away, bright and quick. Musical birds dart through the sky like arrows. Both land and sky seem on the verge of bursting into life, spring building up like water behind a dam. Captain sniffs out rabbits and then gleefully pursues them over the heather.
To the east, fields of dark soil blanket the hills, and I spot a few small figures driving mule-drawn plows, gouging furrows into the earth, preparing them for spring planting. Conrad rides nearer, stopping to chat with a few of the farmers. They seem surprised to see me, but Conrad doesn’t mention me at all, focusing instead on the plans he has for the fields, whether they will plant rye, barley, or potatoes. I sit by and try to unknit the coil of impatience in my belly, my fingers idly Weaving warming knots into Roman’s mane. When Conrad glances at me, I still my fingers and pretend I was simply combing the horse’s coarse hairs.
Finally, Conrad leads me to a high hill overlooking the field, where he takes out a small notebook and begins jotting down numbers and lists, taking stock of the crofters’ progress.
“I do love these hills,” I sigh, the words slipping free before I can catch them. “They unfurl like a tapestry, as if you could gather them up in your hand and wrap them about you.”