usually did when speaking of my deformity. Usually it was enough to quash any further inquiries.
Roger, however, evidently did not concern himself with niceties.
“Yes? Your foot? Did you injure it in an accident?” He clapped his gloved hands together; his horse raised its head and ambled over. “Did your nursemaid fall asleep before the fire and let you hurt yourself?”
His manners were abominable, just as Lady Penwyth said.
“I was born with it,” I answered coldly. “It is a clubfoot.”
“Ah.”
I looked up quickly. I thought I heard triumph in his voice, but found instead grave sympathy schooling his features.
“Come then, don’t be afraid,” he growled as I continued to stare at him suspiciously. “Avallen won’t let you fall, and I’ll walk beside you.”
The thought of another two hours in Roger Penwyth’s company did not make me feel any better. I dithered; impatiently he grasped my waist and threw me atop the butter-smooth saddle.
Within minutes of setting off I began to tremble in a delayed reaction to my climb up Tol-Pedn-Penwith. I swayed precariously over the mare’s crest when she stumbled, but this time there was no hesitation in Roger’s action. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung easily up in an uncurling ripple of muscle to settle behind me on the horse’s rump.
His body loomed over mine like a mountain. I inched forward as far as I could, resisting another fleeting thought about how delirious with joy I would be if this were Damon coming to my rescue, but the sudden plunge of the horse breaking into a canter made me think of nothing but clutching its mane.
“Be easy,” Roger said, and his breath warmed my temple. “I won’t let you fall either.”
Avallen blew gustily as she carried us over a hillock, bringing up puffs of dust under her hooves. I uncracked my eyes, and when I did, saw a glint flickering over the top of the mound ahead of us.
“There it is!” I exclaimed, prizing my fingers from the horse’s mane to point. “The light!”
Roger drew Avallen up. “I don’t see anything.”
The wind giggled as I peered at the scoured edge of the mound. Roger urged the horse forward. Broken rock littered the surface, and among the debris I saw the ruined outlines of a carved cross, like the fallen ornament of a graveshead.
Roger caught his breath.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hush. Stay still.”
He swung down from the horse, and intently studied a cluster of towan weeds writhing about another broken boulder, triumphant in its destruction.
Suddenly I saw what had seized his attention.
A graceful crane perched upon the rock. Its color was cloudy gray, like the mist-saturated sky above it, allowing it a disguise. I would never have noticed the bird but for Roger.
With measured excitement he dug inside the saddlebag. For one horrifying moment I thought that he would pull out a pistol.
I flinched as he drew his hand forth. But instead of a firearm, he brought out a sketching pad and a charcoal.
With a furtive glance at me that was half guilt, half defiance, he stalked as close to the bird as he dared before crouching down to scribble away on the pad resting upon his knee.
I don’t know how long we remained in the odd tableau, me shivering on the back of the patient horse, Roger intent upon his work, and the crane disdainfully ignoring us all. I was just about to slide down from Avallen to give my thighs a rest when suddenly the bird stretched its head and took flight.
Roger made a sound of frustrated regret as he stood from his crouch to watch the flapping crane disappear toward the sea.
“Were you able to capture it?” I asked.
He looked startled. “What do you mean?”
“On paper. Were you able to capture its likeness in your sketch?”
“Not as thoroughly as I would have liked.” He snapped shut the cover of his sketchbook, threading the pencil through the loop without offering to show me the work that kept us idling for at least two
Roger, however, evidently did not concern himself with niceties.
“Yes? Your foot? Did you injure it in an accident?” He clapped his gloved hands together; his horse raised its head and ambled over. “Did your nursemaid fall asleep before the fire and let you hurt yourself?”
His manners were abominable, just as Lady Penwyth said.
“I was born with it,” I answered coldly. “It is a clubfoot.”
“Ah.”
I looked up quickly. I thought I heard triumph in his voice, but found instead grave sympathy schooling his features.
“Come then, don’t be afraid,” he growled as I continued to stare at him suspiciously. “Avallen won’t let you fall, and I’ll walk beside you.”
The thought of another two hours in Roger Penwyth’s company did not make me feel any better. I dithered; impatiently he grasped my waist and threw me atop the butter-smooth saddle.
Within minutes of setting off I began to tremble in a delayed reaction to my climb up Tol-Pedn-Penwith. I swayed precariously over the mare’s crest when she stumbled, but this time there was no hesitation in Roger’s action. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung easily up in an uncurling ripple of muscle to settle behind me on the horse’s rump.
His body loomed over mine like a mountain. I inched forward as far as I could, resisting another fleeting thought about how delirious with joy I would be if this were Damon coming to my rescue, but the sudden plunge of the horse breaking into a canter made me think of nothing but clutching its mane.
“Be easy,” Roger said, and his breath warmed my temple. “I won’t let you fall either.”
Avallen blew gustily as she carried us over a hillock, bringing up puffs of dust under her hooves. I uncracked my eyes, and when I did, saw a glint flickering over the top of the mound ahead of us.
“There it is!” I exclaimed, prizing my fingers from the horse’s mane to point. “The light!”
Roger drew Avallen up. “I don’t see anything.”
The wind giggled as I peered at the scoured edge of the mound. Roger urged the horse forward. Broken rock littered the surface, and among the debris I saw the ruined outlines of a carved cross, like the fallen ornament of a graveshead.
Roger caught his breath.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hush. Stay still.”
He swung down from the horse, and intently studied a cluster of towan weeds writhing about another broken boulder, triumphant in its destruction.
Suddenly I saw what had seized his attention.
A graceful crane perched upon the rock. Its color was cloudy gray, like the mist-saturated sky above it, allowing it a disguise. I would never have noticed the bird but for Roger.
With measured excitement he dug inside the saddlebag. For one horrifying moment I thought that he would pull out a pistol.
I flinched as he drew his hand forth. But instead of a firearm, he brought out a sketching pad and a charcoal.
With a furtive glance at me that was half guilt, half defiance, he stalked as close to the bird as he dared before crouching down to scribble away on the pad resting upon his knee.
I don’t know how long we remained in the odd tableau, me shivering on the back of the patient horse, Roger intent upon his work, and the crane disdainfully ignoring us all. I was just about to slide down from Avallen to give my thighs a rest when suddenly the bird stretched its head and took flight.
Roger made a sound of frustrated regret as he stood from his crouch to watch the flapping crane disappear toward the sea.
“Were you able to capture it?” I asked.
He looked startled. “What do you mean?”
“On paper. Were you able to capture its likeness in your sketch?”
“Not as thoroughly as I would have liked.” He snapped shut the cover of his sketchbook, threading the pencil through the loop without offering to show me the work that kept us idling for at least two
Similar Books
