as if he were of no more import than a tick in his shaggy coat.
By the time they reached High Street, Badgemagus had stretched out into a full rolling canter.
“Oh, no,” Lucinda said. “What are we to do?”
“Why we nip up to the roof so as to get a better view of the show, o’ course,” Mr. Gow said.
“But—” Since the hostler had already disappeared back into the tack shop abutting the stable, Lucinda had no choice but to follow.
“Dinna fret, lassie,” Gow said. “Yer young man’ll take no hurt . . . provided he knows how to fall. Come with me now and step lively.”
Mr. Gow no doubt meant his words to be a comfort but Lucinda took none from them. She followed him to the rear of his shop, up three rickety flights and into the cobweb-festooned attic. Then they climbed a ladder to a narrow parapet perched along the spine of the steeply sloping roof.
“Och, there they are, lassie.” Mr. Gow pointed into the distance.
Lucinda squinted in that direction. The streets of Edinburgh were laid out below her in a bird’s-eye view. Alex and the gelding barreled down the main street, swerving wildly from side to side. Foot traffic and mounted travelers alike skittered out of their path.
“Watch now. Old Badgemagus will try to peel him off.”
The horse hugged the left side of the street in order to bash Alex into the low-hanging signs that graced the shops’ entrances. Alex leaned on one stirrup and flattened himself onto the plunging animal’s side.
If he fell now, Alexander might roll beneath those huge hooves. Lucinda pressed a hand against her chest. Her heart threatened to pound right out of it.
“Are ye afeared yon laddie will kill himself afore he makes ye his Lady Bonniebroch?” Mr. Gow asked.
She hadn’t been until that moment. Wounded pride or a sore head was as far as she’d allowed herself to imagine. Now she visualized the worst. Not only would Alexander Mallory’s untimely demise ruin what her family hoped for in the match, she couldn’t bear the thought of his fine strong body being trampled to a bloody pulp.
A sob escaped her lips.
“Och, I’ll warrant he’ll be all right yet. A lad as stubborn as your Lord Bonniebroch would take a heap o’ killin’.”
Then the horse streaked beneath the last of the overhead obstacles. Once they were past, Alexander righted himself and swung back up into the saddle.
“He’s a bonny rider, Englishman or no’. I’ll give him that,” Mr. Gow said. “Your young man has kept his seat longer than any of the others. Most of ’em panic as soon as they realize they canna turn him. If not, that trick with the signs usually works.”
“If you knew what the horse would do, why didna ye warn him?”
Mr. Gow bared his yellowed teeth in a frightful grin. “Where’s the sport in that? But dinna fret. Yon laddie has an excellent seat on a horse.”
“The excellent seat of his trousers is not to be lightly dismissed either,” she quoted the Ladies’ Guide to herself as she leaned on the wrought-iron rail that framed the parapet. When Alex and the horse flew over an apple cart and landed on the other side without breaking stride, a thrill coursed through her. “The man’s a veritable centaur.”
“We’ll see,” Mr. Gow said. “Badgemagus has more one trick up his—och! Here ’tis and there he goes.”
The horse bolted up to the edge of a hedged garden, then stopped dead at the last possible moment. Alex had evidently been gathering himself for a leap over the hedgerow, as he’d done when they jumped the apple cart, but this time, he made the leap alone. Momentum threw him over the horse’s head and tail-over-teakettle into the garden.
The horse’s whickering laugh floated all the way up to Lucinda on her perch above the tack shop. Fortunately, Alex’s head popped back up from behind the hedge almost immediately. Thank heaven, he didn’t seem much damaged. He only looked a bit ridiculous with several sprigs of juniper
By the time they reached High Street, Badgemagus had stretched out into a full rolling canter.
“Oh, no,” Lucinda said. “What are we to do?”
“Why we nip up to the roof so as to get a better view of the show, o’ course,” Mr. Gow said.
“But—” Since the hostler had already disappeared back into the tack shop abutting the stable, Lucinda had no choice but to follow.
“Dinna fret, lassie,” Gow said. “Yer young man’ll take no hurt . . . provided he knows how to fall. Come with me now and step lively.”
Mr. Gow no doubt meant his words to be a comfort but Lucinda took none from them. She followed him to the rear of his shop, up three rickety flights and into the cobweb-festooned attic. Then they climbed a ladder to a narrow parapet perched along the spine of the steeply sloping roof.
“Och, there they are, lassie.” Mr. Gow pointed into the distance.
Lucinda squinted in that direction. The streets of Edinburgh were laid out below her in a bird’s-eye view. Alex and the gelding barreled down the main street, swerving wildly from side to side. Foot traffic and mounted travelers alike skittered out of their path.
“Watch now. Old Badgemagus will try to peel him off.”
The horse hugged the left side of the street in order to bash Alex into the low-hanging signs that graced the shops’ entrances. Alex leaned on one stirrup and flattened himself onto the plunging animal’s side.
If he fell now, Alexander might roll beneath those huge hooves. Lucinda pressed a hand against her chest. Her heart threatened to pound right out of it.
“Are ye afeared yon laddie will kill himself afore he makes ye his Lady Bonniebroch?” Mr. Gow asked.
She hadn’t been until that moment. Wounded pride or a sore head was as far as she’d allowed herself to imagine. Now she visualized the worst. Not only would Alexander Mallory’s untimely demise ruin what her family hoped for in the match, she couldn’t bear the thought of his fine strong body being trampled to a bloody pulp.
A sob escaped her lips.
“Och, I’ll warrant he’ll be all right yet. A lad as stubborn as your Lord Bonniebroch would take a heap o’ killin’.”
Then the horse streaked beneath the last of the overhead obstacles. Once they were past, Alexander righted himself and swung back up into the saddle.
“He’s a bonny rider, Englishman or no’. I’ll give him that,” Mr. Gow said. “Your young man has kept his seat longer than any of the others. Most of ’em panic as soon as they realize they canna turn him. If not, that trick with the signs usually works.”
“If you knew what the horse would do, why didna ye warn him?”
Mr. Gow bared his yellowed teeth in a frightful grin. “Where’s the sport in that? But dinna fret. Yon laddie has an excellent seat on a horse.”
“The excellent seat of his trousers is not to be lightly dismissed either,” she quoted the Ladies’ Guide to herself as she leaned on the wrought-iron rail that framed the parapet. When Alex and the horse flew over an apple cart and landed on the other side without breaking stride, a thrill coursed through her. “The man’s a veritable centaur.”
“We’ll see,” Mr. Gow said. “Badgemagus has more one trick up his—och! Here ’tis and there he goes.”
The horse bolted up to the edge of a hedged garden, then stopped dead at the last possible moment. Alex had evidently been gathering himself for a leap over the hedgerow, as he’d done when they jumped the apple cart, but this time, he made the leap alone. Momentum threw him over the horse’s head and tail-over-teakettle into the garden.
The horse’s whickering laugh floated all the way up to Lucinda on her perch above the tack shop. Fortunately, Alex’s head popped back up from behind the hedge almost immediately. Thank heaven, he didn’t seem much damaged. He only looked a bit ridiculous with several sprigs of juniper
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