Page 11 of A Portrait of Love

The sorrel stallion with its flaxen mane was not only beautiful, but he was also as enamored of speed as his master. Bacchus was his name but Simon would have done better to name him Mercury he was so fleet.

Simon gave Bacchus his head when they approached the end of the path that opened onto the long and somewhat hilly drive leading down to Whitcomb. Bacchus knew the road well and his powerful muscles exploded. The wind was so fierce Simon swore he could hear it whistling past the scarred remnants of his deaf ear.

His muscles bunched and stretched like that of his mount, the damaged skin of his face, throat, and torso burning. The pain was almost cathartic and it reminded him that he was alive, something he needed to tell himself at least a dozen times a day.

“I’m alive,” he whispered.

The wind ripped away his words but they pounded through his mind and body. He was alive.

Thundering hooves and blurring trees cocooned him.

Alive.

He crested the ridge—and almost collided with a post chaise that was ambling down the center of the road.

“Holy hell!” His voice was so loud it caused the big stallion between his thighs to startle.

Life shrank to a fraction of a second as Simon shifted his weight and flexed his legs, sending Bacchus charging toward the slight gap to the right of the carriage.

He was vaguely aware of the postilion using his entire body to wrench his team to the left. The carriage skittered sideways and the wheels rolled into the soft, damp soil beside the drive.

Simon thundered past without slowing, his heart pounding louder than the wind. He laughed, the sound mad to his own ears.

He was alive.

***

Honey looked out the window just in time to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

And then the chaise lurched to the side, throwing her, her book, and her cloak to the floor. Luckily, the cloak went before Honey did and softened her fall so she was more startled than hurt when she landed on her knees.

She held onto the seat as the carriage bounced over rough ground, waiting until the vehicle began to slow before pushing herself up until she could grasp the leather strap beside the door.

The pounding of her heart thundered in her ears, and not just because of the scare.

He was here.

Honey closed her eyes and relived the lighting-fast image of a Norse god on a magnificent mount. The image—no matter how fleeting—had shown him to be just as beautiful as before.

Simon was here.

The chaise shuddered to a halt and shook her out of her stunned reverie.

So what if he was here? What difference did that make? She’d known it might be the case. She’d prepared herself for seeing him again. Or at least she’d thought she had.

Honey grimaced at her pitiful dithering and released the strap, collapsing back against the squabs as the chaise shifted on its springs.

The door opened and the burly groom appeared in the opening. “You all right, Miss?” His homely face was creased with concern.

“Just a little shaken up. What happened?”

His expression shifted from concern to disgust. “Naught but a lunatic, riding hell-bent for leather. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss.” He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. “He came out of nowhere and went past in a blur—riding the damned finest piece of horseflesh I’ve ever seen,” he said with grudging admiration, and then grimaced, “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,” he added, again.

Honey wanted to roll her eyes; men and their horses. “Are we close to Whitcomb House?”

“Aye, naught but ten minutes away.”

She smoothed her navy blue traveling dress over her lap with shaking hands.