The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (33 page)

Saturday arrived on snowy wings, and along with it, my first riding lesson.

Hawk insisted I go alone, worried that his presence would spook the horses. I was so proud of his bravery, going to his purgatory even knowing his corpse awaited him. I chose to hide the locket in my trunk so that if I fell, I wouldn’t risk breaking the chain. But as I walked with Enya to the stables, I found myself yearning to run back up to my chamber and put the necklace on again, just so I could see him … assure he was all right.

Over the past two days, amidst the busy preparation of the boutique for the guests who were arriving tonight, I had witnessed a change in my ghost. The only way I could define it was growth.

He no longer questioned his brother’s good intentions. Somewhere between the reading of the entry and our summation that Lord Thornton held a strong loyalty to his lost twin, Hawk had made peace with Nicolas … even liked him. Though he still struggled with jealousy when the viscount lingered too long with a glance in my direction, or touched my hand in passing.

Despite those insecurities, Hawk had forged new depths of amenability, proven by his willingness to send me off today with Enya to chaperone. But I needed time alone with the viscount. To work out the confusion in my own heart. For every moment I spent with him fueled my hunger to know him more, inasmuch as he baffled and mystified me.

He was a conundrum: a master of the Manor, a friend to butterflies and birds, a study of thoughtful and quiet patience when dealing with his father, despite all I’d heard of his violent and selfish past.

So unbeknownst to Hawk, I had sweet-talked my lady’s maid into making herself scarce when the opportunity might surface.

Enya was a very adept equestrienne with an excellent sense of direction. She agreed to go off alone once we reached our destination, so I might have time with the viscount. She asked no details, only that I vowed to remain chaste.

Upon our arrival at the stable, the viscount hand-picked our mounts. Enya received a dappled mare named Dancer. For me, Lord Thornton chose a gelding with a gentle nature. At thirteen hands, the Hanoverian Cream stood shorter than most horses.

“Miss Emerline, meet Little Napoleon.” Lord Thornton patted the horse’s shimmery neck and I couldn’t suppress a giggle.

“Is that a barb against his stature?” I asked, smirking.

Grinning back, Lord Thornton placed a finger at his lip as if to shush me. “Now, you don’t wish to offend royalty, do you? This fellow is descended from one of the very Hanoverian Creams responsible for drawing Napoleon’s coach upon his coronation in 1804, during a cold December day much like this one.”

“Ah.” I performed a regal curtsy. “Please forgive my insolence, your majesty.”

There was a lively twinkle in the viscount’s eyes that I had never seen as he took my hand and urged me to pet the horse’s sleek neck. “Hanoverians are bred to hold balance in slickness and snow. It’s why I chose him for you.”

Winter had settled at the Manor to stay. A foot of snow covered the grounds and wilted plants in a glittery, velvet blanket. Barren trees sparkled with icicles frozen mid-drip. A beautiful but less than ideal environ for a riding lesson. To know my mount was bred to be sure-footed put a feather in my cap of relief.

A stable hand kept Enya and me company while the viscount prepared Little Napoleon and Dancer for riding. The boy showed us a map on the wall of the one-hundred-and-twelve mines once located on the land. I searched out the one significant to me and Hawk, #34, remembering it from Larson’s accident interview. I’d just found it when I was distracted by the boy stepping in front of me, his lips flapping through the condensation.

“Six years I’ve worked here,” he said, ears and nose as red as his bushy hair, chafed from the cold. “Ne’er once have I met an animal—horse or otherwise—that the master cannot befriend.” The lad gestured toward a magnificent black Arabian with a white mane, already saddled and tied to a post. “Lord Thornton tamed that stallion three summers ago. He’d just mounted the wild beast when a thunderstorm hit out of nowhere. A streak of lightning sliced the sky and struck the horse, sending him a-gallop through trees and brush, yet still the master stayed astride and rode him back, both of them unharmed.” The stable boy pointed to a white streak in the stallion’s muzzle where the lightning had left its mark. “After that stormy ride, he named the stallion
Draba
. It means ‘magic charm.’”

I marveled again at my host’s innate ken with nature.

As the stable hand helped Enya onto the mounting block so she could climb into her sidesaddle, the viscount took my gloved hand to catch my attention.

“Two rules I want you to remember above all else. One, never walk up behind a horse. Two, never stoop beneath them. They must always be able to see where you are so they won’t be spooked.”

I nodded.

He propped his cane against a post and instructed me on how to mount. “You don’t wish to hold the saddle. It will wobble and slide. Hold the withers, here.” Lord Thornton towered over me, one gloved hand a warm pressure on my waist, the other resting atop my own as he centered my palm above Little Napoleon’s shoulders where the white mane ended and the creamy-gold hide began.

Patiently, the viscount steadied the horse by his bridle until I was in place. He checked my stirrups to ensure they hung at my ankles.

“Are you settled in?” he asked upon tightening the saddle’s girth.

I nodded. For the first time since we’d met, I was taller than my host. I felt shy with my legs straddled over the animal’s broad back—thrilled to be wearing the split skirt, but at the same time unaccustomed to how seductive such a pose seemed. Lord Thornton resituated my cloak over my legs for modesty, as if reading my mind. He took Little Napoleon’s bridle and led us the full length of the corral and back, acclimating me to the feel of the horse’s gait.

Enya followed astride her mount, looking rather bored. After my short lesson, Lord Thornton stopped next to Draba and swung gracefully into the saddle. As he slipped his cane through a loop behind the stirrup bar, nervousness burbled within my chest and my fingers clenched the reins.

Draba’s elegant head lifted as mist puffed from his nostrils. Lord Thornton took control of the stallion and turned him onto a heavily powdered trail to the left woven through some ash trees. The viscount, with his black coat and hat, blended into his horse’s movements—a singular impression against the white backdrop—like a charcoal painting come to life. I squeezed my knees into Little Napoleon’s ribs, as the viscount had warned that kicking with my heels would numb the horse to my commands.

My ride lurched forward and Enya nudged Dancer to take up behind me. Once I mastered steering with my knees and the reins, we accelerated to a trot. I settled into the rocking rhythm, chill wind rushing around my riding hat.

The trees thickened and branches twined overhead. We ducked through a curtain of withered ivy. The dried leaves raked my shoulders and tugged bits of hair loose from my braid.

A gazebo came into view beneath an archway of ash trees, sizeable enough to house twenty people or more. White wrought iron formed the frame along with a roof evolving to a pattern of ivy and flowers. On both sides of the entrance, two Cherubic water fountains spouted steaming water. Within the structure, curved benches squatted at the north and south ends.

Following Lord Thornton’s lead, I stopped my horse and looked over my shoulder to find Enya gone. The viscount turned Draba to search for her, but I grasped his arm as he started around me. He pulled back on the reins.

“I asked my lady’s maid to grant me some time alone with you.”

He studied me, his whiskered chin twitching. My heart stuttered, worried he might misinterpret my reason for seeking solitude.

Before I had time to clarify, he stood beneath me, helping me dismount. With my hand in his, he led me to the steaming fountains and the shadowy depths of the gazebo.

I stopped at the gazebo’s entrance beneath a cloud of steam, intent on the symbol etched within the archway’s frame: the self-same symbol that was on the Manor’s gate, and the one upon the portrait in my room.

I pointed to it, glancing up at the viscount with a question tugging my brows.

His gloved finger reached out to trace it. “It represents a mystical portal. An entrance to a secret world.”

That explained its presence on the gate and here on the gazebo’s opening. But why would such a symbol be on a portrait of his dead mother? The viscount’s fingers laced through mine and lured me through the archway.

He turned me to face him. “You owe me something, Miss Emerline. Shall we tally up here in the gazebo?”

Steam from the fountains warmed my right side. Was he referring to the journal? Or perhaps he’d discovered that I’d taken the entries from his room the other day … that I dug through his things and, like a demented pack rat, hoarded my findings with everything else I had stolen from him and his kin.

His hat’s brim shaded his eyes, and his handsome face was poised between amusement and insistence. Removing his glove, he lifted a roughened finger to my chin. “Well, what say you?”

His touch warmed my chin, neck and cheeks. I had always prided myself on reading other’s thoughts through their expressions. But now I felt emotionally deaf—so much more unsettling than the physical equivalent. “I-I am unsure to what you refer, my lord.”

Replacing his glove, he paused as if rethinking his strategy. “The dance you owe me. Is this not why you wished to be alone? So we might practice privately before Monday’s ball?”

Relief coaxed my lips to a smile. “Yes. I am nervous for the ball.”

His answering half-smile made me wonder if he had just given me a reprieve. Perhaps he knew all of my secrets … perhaps I was the one being read. I wasn’t sure I liked being sprawled upon the slide of a microscope, after spending so many years bent over the lens.

The iron vines overhead drew shadows in tender blue relief upon the snow beneath my feet. I traced one with my toe. After laying his cane on a bench, the viscount led me toward the center of the platform. He positioned me to stand in front of him.

Taking two paces back, he scored a square in the white powder between us with his boot heel. “We will only partake in the waltzes. Do you know the box step?”

I once knew it … but eleven years had blurred the memory. “As I said. I no longer have any scope for rhythm.”

The viscount took off his hat, his dark hair tied at his nape. He cast the hat onto the bench, sending snow flying until it stopped next to his cane. “Bah. Rhythm. They try to write it on paper for the maestro. But any instrumentalist knows. Rhythm cannot be captured in ink any more than silence can. And it has nothing to do with your ears. It is something you feel and see all around you.”

I frowned. “Easy for you to philosophize.”

He laughed. “Oh, believe me, you make nothing easy.” His chin cocked to one side, teasing. “When you are outside and it begins to rain, how do you know it’s raining? You cannot hear the patter on the leaves overhead.”

My jaw clenched. “Are you poking fun at me?”

Any trace of amusement faded from his expression. “Never. But you can feel the droplets, yes? They have a rhythm. You can see the spread of them on the ground, darkening the dirt to mud. Rhythm. Have you ever been to a pond in summer, and watched the frogs sing?”

In my mind, I envisioned bulbous chins swelling with air then deflating, keeping time with one another. “Ah, rhythm.” I smirked.

He grinned back. “Yes. So, when we dance, if you never take your eyes off me, I’ll not let you falter. I shall provide the rhythm.” Palm on my waist, he lined me up at one corner of the square and pointed to his sensuous lips. “Watch here.” My hands in his, he guided our footsteps with his counting. “One … two … three … one … two … three …” Together, we traced the square’s lines until our footprints erased them, until we broke loose and twirled around the gazebo from one end to the other—his coat and my cloak spinning fans around our feet. Soon, we were laughing with the thrill of it.

I fell into his flow—easier than I had imagined. Similar to riding the horse, a grace so natural it became my own, transforming me from the inside out until I was no longer a separate entity but joined with another. Two becoming one in the matrimony of movement.

My partner amazed me, his ability to waltz even with a damaged foot—as if he lost his limp when he danced. And me? I could
feel
the music. Both physically and mentally. For the first time since I’d gone deaf, I didn’t need to hear the chords to know the song. This architect, in his wisdom, had built a bridge so I could dance—uninhibited and completely at ease.

So intent on the freedom of our fusion, I didn’t notice the change in my partner’s mood until his counting slowed and he stopped dancing altogether.

Finishing out the step I’d started, I tripped over his boot and slipped in the snow. He reached to catch me but my momentum dragged him down, and we ended up seated on the ground together.