Page 22 of The Beast of Beswick
Wide crystalline eyes met his as Astrid stared at him for a prolonged minute, but she did not respond. Thane appreciated the fact that she did not feel compelled to fill the air with unnecessary platitudes…about him being alive for a reason or some such.
“War is a terrible thing,” she said eventually.
He nodded, his scars pulling tight on his scalp and along his rib cage. The tug of lust faded away, only to be replaced by ghosts. Phantom pain fired along his nerve endings, the cuts of a thousand bayonets blooming, his lifeblood seeping away, the burn of a blade and the agonizing tug of thread. He acknowledged the pain, felt each one of his scars, but for the first time since he’d returned to England, he did not feel like burying himself six feet deep.
It was…strange.
They stared at the rolling countryside in a quiet, companionable silence.
“Is this all yours?” she asked after a while.
“Yes,” he said. “Beswick Park encompasses thousands of acres and has hundreds of tenants. You are one of many in my employ.”
It was an intended barb.
The small smile of wonder dropped from her face as she turned to him with a stony calm once more, that faithful composure battling every other emotion into line.
He wondered what—or who—had made her that way. A stone queen, constantly on guard. He didn’t know much about her past, but he’d tasked Fletcher with finding out whatever he could…knowing one’s enemy and all that.
Thane only knew from her own lips that she’d spent just the one Season in London. It made him also wonder why she’d remained unmarried even if she’d told him it was by choice. He simply couldn’t fathom some gentleman not snatching her up. She’d admitted that she was an innocent. Though she didn’t look like one at present. Now, on that horse, dressed in partial men’s clothing, she looked like a defiant warrior goddess. One who had blatantly disregarded him.
“Do you disobey every command?” he asked.
She stared down the length of her nose at him. “You are not my uncle or my husband, Your Grace. I do not have to obey you.”
“But Iamyour employer,” he said.
Her mouth flattened with mutiny. “That does not include dictating which of my horses I should or should not ride.”
As if listening, her stallion reared, his feet pawing empty air in a fit of mischief. Raising herself slightly in the saddle, she hauled him under control with a firm click of her tongue and an expert touch on the reins. The skirts of her dress had parted when the horse had risen upward, baring her breeches-clad legs for a moment before she smoothed them into place. It brought Thane’s attention back to her odd if intriguing ensemble.
“That doesn’t look like any women’s riding habit I’ve ever seen.”
Astrid glowered at him. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but I needed the extra mobility to manage my horses, and, well, it’s not the acceptable thing for a woman to wear trousers. The combination is of my own design, not unlike the harem pants of women in the east.”
Thane’s mouth opened and closed—an act that was becoming common in her presence, it seemed. The image of her wearing the clothing of such women invaded his brain. The fabric she wore was not transparent, but it well could have been with the illicit direction of his thoughts. Her fitted breeches gave enough fodder for his imagination to sketch out a pair of trim legs, finely molded buttocks, and shapely hips draped in voluminous yards of gossamer, and Thane went instantly hard.
Christ. He set his jaw, furious at his body’s response. “Regardless, when I give an order, I expect it to be followed.”
Her eyes flashed. “While you may control all of this, Your Grace, you do not controlme.”
“Would you rather I send you and your sister packing back to your uncle?” Thane asked silkily. “Or to Beaumont?”
He regretted it the minute he said it when her entire body reared back as if she’d been struck, but it was a matter of pride. He could not give in. Astrid stared at him, fists going white-knuckled on the reins and eyes teeming with furious emotion. He could feel the heat of them from where he sat, all fire and brimstone. But then suddenly, the anger drained from her face. It was as though the light—along with all her fight—had been leached out of her.
He’d been the one to take it from her by threatening her sister, and suddenly, guilt daggered him. It was the only reason for his next words.
“You will take a groom with you,” he said through his teeth. “Whenever you ride him on the estate.”
Her eyes met his, and resentment, not gratitude, shone in them for a long moment before her eyelashes lowered with demure, if false, obeisance. As high-spirited as her stallion, she was not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, even though it was her place in life to do so. She would have been raised to be an aristocratic,biddablewife, but clearly, Lady Astrid did not fit that mold by a long shot.
Thane bit back a smile. What he wouldn’t have given to have seen her in her first Season, putting all those society matrons in their place and offering crisp set-downs to the dandies who ventured too close.
“Why didn’t you have more than one Season?” he asked abruptly.
She kept her face trained on the hills in the distance. “My parents died.”
“And after mourning?”
