Shades of Truth (The Summerlynn Secrets) (7 page)

Upon reaching the stables, Colton walked in as though he owned it. A stable boy rushed to get Brutus’ tack. Hearing Colton’s voice, Brutus’ head came out of a stall toward the middle of the stable and he neighed in greeting.

“At least someone likes him,” I muttered, watching as Colton slipped inside the stall with the tall stallion. Brutus appeared awake, alert and eager to be on our way.

Either Colton didn’t hear me or chose not to comment. In any case, he had the horse saddled and ready within minutes.

“Front or back?” Colton drew the reins over the horse’s head, and waited for my response. I must have looked blank, because he specified, “Would you prefer to ride in front of me or in back?”

Did it really make much of a difference?

Growing impatient, he said, “I’ll have more control if I ride in front.”

“Then I’ll ride in back.”

“Good.” Mounting smoothly, he extended a hand to me. Using the stable boy’s leg up, I found myself half on and half off the saddle. My skirt needed to be yanked high, as I was sitting astride, and most of my legs were bare.

The logistics of riding behind Colton were rapidly becoming clear. I’d never enjoyed rug burn, but it appeared I was about to get a major case, as my legs pressed behind Colton’s from thigh to heel. Oh, and perhaps I should mention that sitting on top of the back of the saddle was hardly comfortable. I suppose I could adjust my seat and slide off the saddle completely.

Gritting my teeth, I wound my arms tightly around his waist, knowing to do so would only increase my awareness of him. Did his stomach have to be so flat, I thought, gripping one hand in front of the other in front of him. Taking my actions for assent to move forward, Colton spurred Brutus into a trot.

It wasn’t until we reached the road that I remembered we hadn’t paid Mrs. Whitlock.

“We didn’t pay!” I’d never stolen anything in my life, and wasn’t about to start now, even if doing so averted a potential disaster in case we’d picked up unwanted companions from the bakery.

“We hardly had the time.” His tone was exceedingly dry.

“We should have made time. Don’t you feel dishonest?” Feeling myself slipping behind the saddle, I tightened my arms around Colton and yanked myself higher against his hips.

“Things happen. Mrs. Whitlock will understand.”

“What if we have to come back to Lisbon? We can’t just cheat her!” Again, being jarred by Brutus’ trot, I grabbed a handful of Colton’s shirt and tugged myself back into the saddle.

“If you feel so strongly about it, I’ll see she gets paid.” Colton pulled Brutus to a walk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Why do you ask?” This time, I palmed his hip as I adjusted my seat.

“You are grabbing parts of my anatomy that have never before been grabbed.”

“Do not get any ideas. I am simply attempting to avoid sliding off Brutus’ hindquarters.” My tone was waspish. The heat of a blush was coloring my face because his words were true. I was displaying a lack of care for which piece of him I grabbed.

“I’m not complaining, sweetheart. If you are uncomfortable, we can change positions.” Brutus stopped.

“That might be best.” Relieved, I slid off the saddle, not caring we were stopped in the middle of the street. Only after guiding the horse to the side, did Colton dismount. “Where are we going anyway?”

“Mantle.” He named a town a few miles northeast of Lisbon. We would easily make it before nightfall.

I decided I had more leverage in an argument if I remained on the ground and not in the saddle. “I don’t want to go to Mantle.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then why are we going?”

“Because I will be able to catch a decent night’s rest there.” He gestured at the saddle. I ignored him.

“You can do that in Currington.” I named a port town a few miles north of us. From there, I should be able to catch a boat to Bolien.

“Why would I go to Currington?” Still not understanding I had no intention of mounting, he nudged me closer to Brutus.

“So I can take a ship to Bolien.”

“Absolutely not.”

“The agreement was to take me to Lisbon. You have.” I made continuing motions with my hands, trying to get him to make the connection.

“I hate guessing games. Tell me what the problem is.”

“You’re treating me like a child! I am an adult, perfectly able to see myself to Currington safely. Let me go.”

“I may have agreed to do so before your little meeting, but the moment you met with the man at the bakery, you changed the rules. It’s not safe.” Around us, people were becoming aware we were having an argument. That meant somebody would probably lose and look foolish. They began to watch.

Noticing, Colton impatiently regarded me. “Get on the horse.”

“No.”

“This is not open for discussion. Either get on the horse willingly or I’ll throw you on.”

“I will not.” Putting my hands on my hips, I faced him head on. I would not be pushed around any longer.

Before I really knew what was happening, his hands were at my waist and he backed me against Brutus’s flank. Surprisingly, the horse didn’t shy or move away. Though he didn’t exert any pressure on my waist, I felt each separate indentation of his fingers. How easily he could force me to do what he wished.

Leaning close, his words were spoken almost directly into my ear, “I am not discussing this. You are going to get on the horse and we are going to continue to Mantle. Do you understand?”

It was the tone that straightened my spine. I did not belong to him and it was time he knew it.

Though I didn’t want to, I looked him right in the eye. “No.”

This time he stepped directly into me, increasing our contact. His shoulders blocked out my view of anything but him and I had the sudden thought he could do almost anything right now and I could not stop him.

His fingers tightened “You have no choice in the matter. Get on the horse.”

“I said no.”

I felt the expansion of his ribs around the breath he sucked in. “Why must you be so difficult?”

“Why is it so important we go to Mantle?” His smell, the feel of his chest against mine and the sounds of his breathing spun my senses. If we stood this close much longer, I would be a gibbering idiot.

“Because.”

“That answer didn’t work when I was two. Try again.”

He lowered his head, touching his forehead to mine. “Sweetheart, the only thing standing between myself and a good night’s sleep is you. Please get on the horse.”

“Not without answers.” I spread my palm over his chest, giving him a push. “Now step back. I cannot breathe when you insist on hovering.”

“Then I will not hover.” His sudden step back surprised me.

I scanned his face, noting the darkened skin beneath his eyes, the pull of gravity on his normally straight posture. The man was exhausted. Perhaps I should get on the horse and save this argument for another day.

“Very well.” I waited for him to cup his hands for a leg up into the saddle. I waited until he’d mounted behind me before saying, “It was worth a try.”

The breath he blew out brushed against my earlobe, raising goose bumps along my skin. “If you say so.”

I settled against his chest, my elbow nudging his arm out of the way. After a moment or so of adjustment, we both reached a comfortable position. The warmth of his body and the play of his muscles against me were fast leading my thoughts down a very inappropriate road.

Lisbon faded behind us, but I barely noticed, occupied with my own thoughts. The entire episode with the man back in Lisbon unsettled me. Before now, I had this image of my father as a rather mild mannered businessman who stopped work precisely at six for dinner and always kissed my mother hello, goodbye and good night.

Now, having met with the man I had been sent to Lisbon for, my opinion was fast revising. Taking that with the attempts on his life and Colton telling me I was in danger, it was very possible my father was involved in some not so upright or honest work.

I’d never paid much attention to my father’s work. I knew he did something with money and cloth, but didn’t know, and didn’t care to know the details. As long as a roof remained over my head, I was perfectly happy. I regretted that fact now.

And what about my pendant? I tried to remember what my father told me when he gave it to me. Something about it being in the family for generations and when I was older, he would explain more. Only he hadn’t.
He had been very specific that I meet with his contact and give him what my father had given me. So while I had followed my father's instructions, I'd refused to do the most important part. It hadn't felt right, handing over the pendant.

Honestly, if my father wanted me to do something, he should know by now that I required reasons for doing anything. He couldn't just send me to Lisbon and demand I give an object to a stranger.
He knew me better than that.

I wasn’t certain how long we rode, but Colton suddenly stopped the horse. I didn’t have to speak the question hovering between us before he answered it, “I thought you might want to walk a while.”

Anything that allowed me to feel like a single person instead of a two-headed monster was agreeable. “I do.”

In another moment, we were on the ground. I took a moment to stretch, and watched Colton out the corner of my eye as he did the same. My eyes scanned the skin revealed at his waist when he extended his
arms over his head. Men built like Colton were not part of my everyday existence and I could be forgiven for appreciating him while I could.

I might actually grow to like him if he didn’t speak. Every time he opened his mouth, the urge to scream intensified. One day soon, he would comment on the color of the sky and I would immediately begin shrieking.

We began walking side by side down the road, Brutus trailing a few steps behind. “Why did you take me to Lisbon?”

“Because your father asked me to.”

“So you’ve said. Tell me the real reason you agreed to escort me to Lisbon.” If I started with easy questions, perhaps I could lull him into revealing clues to my bigger ones.

“Not relevant.” A shadow from the trees above lazily drifted over his face as the sun peeked from behind its cloud cover.

“How can that not be relevant?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” was his noncommittal response.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know.” Really, this conversation was much harder than it should be. He was being difficult.

“You won’t want to know this.” His stride never faltered as he dismissed my question.

“Don’t tell me what I do and do not want to know.” Indignation crept into my voice. I quickened my own stride in an attempt to remain even with him.

“Ask the correct questions and I will be happy to answer them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you are missing the key fact that makes everything else extremely simple.”

“Oh? And what is that fact?”

“Your father is a spy.”

“He is not a spy,” I automatically answered, my mind racing with the implications of the accusation. Was it true?

Only he couldn’t be a spy. Spies ran around doing suspicious stuff, attending top-secret meetings and befriending menacing people. (Well, I had met one of my father’s associates, and he had been menacing but I was positive there was a mix-up). This was the first suspicious thing my father had done.

That taken care of, I focused on the second part of the sentence. Colton must be working for either Bolien or Goran and been sent to meet with my father and perhaps learn more about this alleged spying. The attack of the mob was certainly propitious in that it allowed my father to wiggle off the hook and dispatch me, an innocent bystander, with the delivery of a potentially explosive letter.

I could understand why that would look suspicious to an outsider, but simply because I accepted the letter and dutifully went to Lisbon did not make me an accomplice, nor did it automatically mean my father was involved in something nefarious. Men corresponded with people in Lisbon all the time. That was hardly a hanging offense.

Colton was watching me closely. He probably expected me to suddenly say, “Eureka! Now I remember! My father was a spy and I will tell you all about it!” or something along those lines.

“Do you have any evidence?” Even travel stained and unkempt as I was, I straightened to my full height and looked down my nose at my companion. Or attempted to. Staring down a companion was difficult to do while walking and when said companion was taller.

“Nothing you can see.” His eyes became steely, his features tight.

“Convenient.”

“Yes.”

“If my father’s spying, he never told me,” I lied. “Why would he spy?”

“You tell me.” He looked up as we stepped into a clearing. After a steady diet of trees, the sunlight fell directly onto our shoulders, a familiar touch upon my skin.

“I don’t know. I am not convinced he is spying.”