Shrieking, I panic, and instead of grabbing the reins I sink my fingers into her mane, holding on for dear life, my entire world becoming a panicked blur of barking, whinnying, my own shrill cries, and the vision of headlines reading, “FUTURE PRINCESS’S SISTER KILLED IN FREAK HORSEBACK ACCIDENT WHILE ON FAKE DATE!”
And then Livingston lowers her hooves back to the ground, still pawing and shuddering, and I see a long-fingered hand shoot out and grab her reins.
Miles.
His horse is right next to mine, our knees bumping as he tries to bring Livingston under control, and I manage to release my death grip on the horse’s mane, my hands fumbling to hold on to the reins, the saddle, anything.
I want off this horse now.
And suddenly, I am off.
A strong arm wraps around my waist, and I’m pulled onto Miles’s horse, my backside colliding painfully with the saddle.
Startled, I stare up at him, my hands landing on his shoulders. I’m basically sprawled in front of him, the saddle horn pressing into my hip, and holy crap, did he just yank me off my horse and onto his?
He did.
Which is some real next-level romance novel stuff, and I have no idea how to feel about it.
Miles still has one arm around me, his hand holding his own horse’s reins, and then he leans over to take up Livingston’s reins.
“All right, then?” he asks, like he didn’t just pull some major pirate maneuver, and I can only nod.
I guess that’s enough for him, because he turns both horses and leads us back toward the palace stables.
I’m still holding on to his shoulders—clutching, really—and behind him, I can see the photographers, can practically hear the clicks as they snap shot after shot of me perched on the front of Miles’s horse, my arms wrapped around him.
Looking up at his chin, I study the little glints of golden stubble there and try to think of something to say. My heart is still hammering against my ribs from Livingston’s freak-out, but if I’m honest, it might be a little more than that.
“Glynnis is going to implode with joy,” I finally say, and Miles huffs out something close to a laugh.
“One down,” he mutters, and I have to admit, as far as first—or fourth—dates go, this one is certainly memorable.
Chapter 25
“No one is going to expect me to shoot things, right?” I ask for what is probably the third time.
El, sitting across from me in the back of the car, sighs and crosses her legs at the ankle. Ever since the car pulled away from Holyrood Palace, carrying us north up into the Highlands, Ellie has been giving me The Sigh, and also The Side-Eye, and just a hint of The Chin Tilt.
All of which is ridiculous given that I am pretending to date a boy for her, so you’d think she could be a little less irritated with me. Especially since I was right—those pictures of Miles carrying me off on his horse like we were in a Regency romance had gone over really, really well. I’d seen at least five different angles of that shot, and even I had to admit they were swoony. The fakest thing ever to fake, but still.
“No shooting, Daisy,” Alex assures me now, giving El’s knee a pat. “Season doesn’t start until August, and not even I can break that rule.”
“What would happen if you did?” I ask, leaning forward a little. “Could they arrest you? Is there some kind of royal immunity? If—”
“Daisy!” El snaps suddenly, turning her head to glare at me. “It’s a four-hour drive, and if you ask inane questions the entire way, I’m going to lose my mind.”
Lifting my hands, I settle back into my seat. “Sorry,” I mutter, and Alex frowns slightly, looking back and forth between me and my sister. He must have had these kinds of little blowups with Seb and Flora growing up, and I almost ask him that before I remember that I’m not supposed to ask questions. All El wanted was for me to show an interest in all of this, and now that I am, she wants me to be quiet.
Typical.
Also, to be honest, I’d thought that engaging in a little friendly chatter would help dispel some of the tension that had been brewing. I’d thought going along with “the palace’s” plan would make Ellie happy, but clearly it wasn’t enough, and I have to fight the urge to start an argument with her over it. It’s just . . . I gave up the Winchester Mystery House for her, I gave up Key Con, I gave up my personal dignity after the Horse Incident, and she’s still acting like it’s all my fault somehow.
But fighting in front of Alex would be bad, so I decide to take the high road.
My shoulder bag is sitting on the seat next to me, and I pull it closer, still enjoying how soft the leather is underneath my fingers. This had been one of Glynnis’s things, that I needed to stop carrying my ratty backpack and have something nicer, just in case there were photographers. I’d wanted to object on principle, but then she gave me this lovely bag, all supple and expensive, lined with a gorgeous green-and-purple tartan, a thistle emblem embroidered on the front, and oh man, I’d been a goner.
I take The Portrait of a Lady out of my bag, and Alex smiles, nodding at the paperback in my hands. “Henry James? I approve.”
It’s for summer reading, and I would much prefer to be reading something with dragons, but I give Alex a smile in return, wiggling the book in his general direction.
“You know we Winters fam, always seeking to better ourselves.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ellie is sitting up in her seat now, hair falling over her shoulders, which are so tense you could probably crack rocks on them.
“I was making a joke,” I fire back at El, and I can sense Alex steeling himself for sisterly drama. But he’s a born diplomat, which I guess is a useful skill for him, because he just clears his throat and says, “Has Eleanor told you anything about where we’re going, Daisy?”
“North,” I reply, waving a hand. “Hinterlands. Mountains. Kilts. Special cows.”
El is still looking out the window, but one corner of her mouth lifts, and Alex chuckles. “Those are the highlights, yes. But the actual house we’re going to is rather special to our family, mostly because it’s ours.”
I lower my book, raising my eyebrows at him. “Unlike Holyroodhouse, right?”
Alex nods. “Exactly. Things like Holyrood and Edinburgh Castle belong to the people of Scotland. We live in them, of course, but we’re only stewards. Baird House is private property. My great-grandfather Alexander bought it back in the thirties so that he’d have a retreat for his family—somewhere they could go and feel like regular people.”
“The Petit Trianon,” I blurt out, and now it’s Alex’s turn to raise his eyebrows.