“If you so much as touch my Daisy, I’ll break your fingers,” Georgie hissed. With an ironic bow, he held the saddle out to her and dropped it into her arms. She received the heavy piece of tack with a muted “Oof!” Juggled it, staggered, then straightened. Murderous darts flew from those magnificent eyes. “Thank you,” she said witheringly, and stalked off, and he lost a few seconds in reluctant admiration of the way she moved. She readied her steed in record time; he was faster. They left the stable yard together, but on reaching open country, Georgie let the mare have her head. Damn, the woman could ride. She wore a severe habit in funereal black with only the smallest concession to femininity in the soft plume of a feather that curled over its brim. On another lady, the costume would have been somber. On Georgie, it was stunning. The black only served to contrast with that bright hair, her flawless white skin, so delicate as to appear more translucent than the filmy gauze cravat she wore at her throat.
