She seemed to have overcome, or at least concealed, her mislike and fear of riding. When he leaned forward to speak into her ear, she straightened as if startled. “Tell me, Lady Madelyne, how did you come to the abbey, and leave your father to believe you and your mother drowned?” She was quiet for a moment, in a silence he had come to expect from her—as if she took the time to carefully measure her words in response to certain questions. Her hands, stained from the boiled rose petals, clutched the pommel in front of her, and the corner of her veil flapped in his face as they jounced along at a brisk trot. “I do not know how that particular story came about—I was only ten summers, and there was much my mother did not tell me. ’Tis likely the man-at-arms who helped us to escape created the tale of our drowning.” “Escape?” “Aye, ’twas an escape from my father.” He felt her move against him as she drew in a deep breath. “My father would fly into obscene rages when he prayed, and when he did, he oft beat and whipped my mother.
