Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(24)

“What do you say we try one of the older mares? Like the white one there, on the right?” Sylas gestured to a solid white horse, but Signa’s eyes wandered instead to the magnificent golden mare beside it. This horse was a little taller, and her eyes far livelier. She snorted and stomped a hoof in a pleasant greeting, as if inviting Signa to step over and greet her.

“What about her?” she asked, obliging the horse by offering her palm for it to smell and lip at.

Sylas dipped his chin. “She’s… a friendly horse, but she hasn’t been out in a while. Maybe pick another—Miss Farrow, what are you doing?”

“I want this one.” Signa was already undoing the locks on the stall and stepping inside to claim her horse, pulled to the golden mare in a way none of the others inspired. The mare blinked her chocolate eyes at Signa and huffed, dipping her head as if in an offering. Signa took the offer and ran her fingers over the horse’s velvety neck, scratching her behind the ears.

“Is there something wrong with this one?” Signa asked, and the mare looked to Sylas, as if demanding a polite answer.

“Of course not.” Sylas sighed and grabbed equipment from the side of the stall before following Signa into it to get the horse saddled up. “It’s just that Mitra was Lillian’s horse. Though it’s about time you got a solid ride, isn’t it, girl?” He stroked the mare’s neck more gently than Signa expected. She found herself staring, the lightness in his tone warming her skin.

“Wait outside.” Sylas’s voice held none of that same gentleness when he spoke to Signa, who flinched. “I’ll get her ready.”





ELEVEN





WHEN SYLAS VENTURED OUT OF THE STABLES FIFTEEN MINUTES later, he wore a thick navy cloak and led not one horse but two and a hound that panted at his side. Next to her golden beauty stood Balwin, the pesky chestnut stallion that was fixated on trying to eat Sylas’s hair.

“Have you brought me options?” was all Signa could think to ask.

Sylas was not too busy swatting Balwin away to snort. “I’m coming with you. Lillian’s garden is in the woods. You’ve clearly not ridden in a while, and if I were to let you ride there without an escort, Mr. Hawthorne would have my head.”

Signa fought her clenching jaw. As if sensing her annoyance, Mitra closed the space between them and nudged Signa with her shoulder. Signa, in turn, wrapped her fingers around the horse’s neck, stroking her soft hair. She could feel its fierce pulse of life beneath her fingertips. The quickness of the mare’s heart and her impatient, uneven breaths.

They were a well-suited match, each of them as eager to break free and roam as the other. But when Signa went to mount the horse, she faltered. Tall though she was, the stirrups were out of her reach. She wrapped her arms around Mitra’s neck and tried to haul herself up, but the horse whinnied and shook her off.

Behind her, Sylas asked with mirth in his voice, “Do you need assistance?”

Head held high, Signa ignored him and tried again, hanging on to the horse for dear life while trying to swing one foot into the stirrup. Mitra scuffed at the ground as Signa hung from her, slipping, refusing to admit defeat.

“My God, you are a stubborn one.” This time, Sylas didn’t ask before he set his hands upon her waist and lifted Signa onto the mare. He did it with a single sweeping motion, as though she were as light as a feather. Though Signa’s own heart fluttered, Sylas appeared to think nothing of such an intimate touch as he patted Mitra’s rump, ensured Signa’s feet were fully secure, and hauled himself up and onto Balwin.

Beneath Signa, Mitra shuddered with anticipation. She didn’t wait for a command before starting off in a trot so jarring that Signa began to slip from the saddle. She fisted the reins, bending forward at the waist to steady herself. Then Sylas was next to her, slapping a stick on Mitra’s rump. Signa wanted to snarl at him as his swat made the horse whinny and move faster, though the jarring subsided within seconds.

Signa sat up straighter, casting a glance at Sylas, whose eyes danced with mischief as he and Signa raced across the moors, over rolling hills of wildflowers and through wetlands that slowed their steeds. Closer and closer to the woods they traveled, until Signa’s chest burned with the desire to reach it.

Come to my garden. Lillian’s spirit pulled her, guiding her.

Come to my garden.

Goose bumps rose along the flesh of Signa’s arms and legs. She had never seen a spirit so angry, and the last thing she wanted was to be terrorized by Lillian Hawthorne. Even more than that—though she had no desire to admit it aloud—Signa could feel the curiosity sinking its claws into her. An unsorted mess of puzzle pieces she wished to make whole.

She had to know what the spirit wanted with her, and how a woman so young, so beautiful, had died in a secret garden tucked into the woods far behind Thorn Grove.

Signa gave Mitra a gentle nudge in the side, and the horse responded at once. She’d been Lillian’s horse after all; perhaps she felt the pull, too.

Sylas fell behind them in their haste, calling out, trying to stop them from rushing headlong into the woods. Though Mitra handled the moors expertly, never faltering from her path, Sylas struggled to urge the unruly Balwin forward. His voice sounded hollow in her ears, his protests fading with distance. Signa didn’t wait—couldn’t wait. The woods beckoned her, and she dove into the belly of the beast, letting its jaws clamp shut and swallow her whole.