Free Mary's Christmas Knight by Moriah Densley

it grew dark. On his way to the stables, he passed Mary, wearing a purple hat and cloak.
    “Will you go for a ride with me?” He nodded toward the stables, expecting her to take his arm and follow.
    “No, thank you. I don’t like to ride.”
    “You don’t? Truly?” How could anyone not love the rush of speed and wind and the thrill of partnership between steed and rider?
    “Truly. And I’d like some time alone to think. Surely even you can understand that.”
    A little smile meant she was teasing — progress, since the previous day her barbs had all been intended. “As my lady wishes.” He made a low, formal bow then went to the stables. He couldn’t help keeping an eye on her as he followed the trail, making sure her purple cloak stayed in sight along the crest of the hill she walked.
    His horse kicked a cobble, stumbled, then limped. Wesley reined to a halt and dismounted. Tapping the gelding’s left flank, he prompted the animal to lift its hoof, revealing what he suspected: the shoe knocked loose and hanging by a couple of nails. Levering the hoof against his thigh, Wes pried free the remaining loose nails, pocketed them, then dropped the horseshoe into the saddlebag. Guiding the reins over the gelding’s head, he led the animal carefully down the hill, gingerly avoiding rocks.
    Mary sat a top the rock wall dividing Rougemont from the easterly tenant farm, her face to the wind and her hat removed. Hopeful that she’d had enough time alone, Wes made his way toward her. She turned as he approached, her expression unreadable. Glad to see him, perhaps, but a haunted look warned him not to be jovial.
    Wordlessly he brushed away the snow on the wall and sat next to her. He switched the reins to his right hand to give his injured arm a rest.
    Their shoulders touched, as did their legs from flank to knee. He liked the feel of her next to him. His other shoulder burned, an irritating, nerve-drilling fire. Occasionally the wind blew one of her curls across his neck, which made him close his eyes and focus on the silky, tickling sensation.
    He remembered the bunch of grapes in his pocket and offered them to her. A small victory that she took them and ate them, even if he ’d rather watch her eat something substantial.
    Content to say nothing for a while, before long he decided to take a leap. “You brother tells me you rejected no fewer than six heart-broken suitors last Season.”
    “Yes, I carved a path of destruction through the Beau Monde.”
    Saucy remarks like that made him want to kiss her. “I’m curious what you found lacking.”
    She tilted her head one way then the other in a thoughtful gesture. “Mercenary. Political aspirations.” She counted on her fingers. “Another fortune-hunter, a below-the-chin-looker—”
    Wesley huffed and gestured, sweeping a hand in her direction as though unveiling a painting. “Badly done, of course, but can you blame him?”
    She shook her head in scolding, but her cheeks blushed again, on top of the color from the wind.
    “Two more,” he prompted, afraid his interruption had put her off.
    “Not well-read and too slight of frame.”
    “I read bo oks without pictures. I have no interest whatsoever in politics, and I’m a large fellow.” He counted on his fingers. “And I promise not to look below your lovely chin until I have the right. But once you’re mine, I intend to look. A lot.”
    She laughed, flashing beautiful, clean teeth, which made him aware of not having seen her smile much before. He hadn’t noticed she had a pair of dimples in her cheeks.
    “Don’t prac tice your proposals on me, Sir Wesley. Though I daresay it needs a great deal of work.”
    “What if I’m in earnest?
    “Don’t worry, you’re not.”
    He pressed his lips together, trying to discern if she was teasing. “What if you’ve enchanted me? Stopped time so that two days feels longer. Long enough to recognize a sympathetic soul. Long enough to know I don’t want to leave