“These flowers are so beautiful,” she breathed. “What are they called?”
“Mohnblumen. You’ve never seen wild poppies before?” His voice conveyed surprise.
He let the horse amble slowly. She breathed in the warm air, thanking God for the sun, for the warmth, for this moment of exquisite freedom. Then she stared down at the flowers below them, so close and yet too far to reach.
“Would you like to stop and pick some?” he asked gently.
He helped her dismount, and she knelt reverently toward a flower and placed her fingers on the surprisingly tiny stem. She picked it, then held it up to her face. The petals were almost transparent. How wonderful that such a delicate thing could provide such vivid color. Sophie studied it, breathing deeply, and reveling in the manifestation of her dream. She closed her eyes and let her mind empty itself of all thought except for this beautiful meadow, her dream come true.
When she opened her eyes, Gabe was standing a few feet away, his fist full of the red flowers. Her gaze met his and she read understanding in his face. But how could he understand how she felt? He’d experienced freedom his entire life. He’d known what it was like to ride out on his horse and discover meadows and wildflowers and feel the sun on his face. But he knew the things she had gone through, even knew of her hopes and dreams. His expression was sympathetic, and it made her heart ache with some new emotion, pleasant and painful at the same time. It became hard to breathe, and she both wished he would close the gap between them, and feared it at the same time.
A feeling of guilt hit her. She turned away from Gabe’s eyes and started for the horse, who had dropped his head to graze.
“We’d better go. I don’t want to delay us with my foolishness.” She reached up and grabbed the pommel of the saddle, and suddenly Gabe was standing beside her.
He held the flowers out to her.
The air felt thick between them. She was afraid to look him in the eye but couldn’t resist. His look was serious and compelling, as if he wanted to tell her something. Her heart was beating so hard it seemed to vibrate her chest.
Why was she being so foolish? It was very unlikely that Gabe was feeling anything like what she was feeling. And she wouldn’t want him to. She was betrothed to Valten.
She took the flowers from his hand and he lifted her by her waist to set her in the saddle.
Gabe took the reins and hoisted himself up, then set Gingerbread in motion. “There are a lot more meadows like this.”
Sophie stared down at the flowers Gabe had picked for her. Gradually, her heart slowed. She kept herself from looking up at Gabe. The motion of the horse, the warmth of the sun, the sight of the beautiful flowers in her hand, and the brush of his arms around her, holding on to the reins, comforted her into a sense of peace and contentment.
Her brother. Gabe was her brother. He was taking her to Hagenheim and safety. That’s all.
They continued through the meadow and Gabe picked up the pace, now that they were on more level ground. They could hear the river to their west but couldn’t see it, as it was surrounded by trees. Sophie looked all around her at the beautiful trees — such variety compared to Hohendorf — the green grass, and more wildflowers of purple, pink, and yellow.
“Let me know if you need to stop,” Gabe said.
“I am well,” she murmured.
“I’m thinking of hunting a hare for our dinner.”
Sophie was glad. They had precious little left of the bundle Petra had supplied.
Sophie fingered the bouquet and regretted the feelings she’d had for Gabe when he’d picked it for her. Those feelings were only foolishness brought on by her gratitude to Gabe for saving her from the duchess, and because they were alone together. “We haven’t seen any houses or people. Aren’t there any villages or towns around here?”
“Not many. We’ll see more when we get closer to Hagenheim.”
She asked more questions about his siblings. His family was always a safe subject, and he always seemed to have more to tell her. Soon they were laughing companionably. She even grew comfortable enough to ask about Brittola. “What does Brittola look like?”
“She has blonde hair and green eyes.”
“Is she tall?”
“About your height, I suppose. Although she may have grown since I saw her.”
“Does she write letters to you?”
“Rarely. She wrote a few times after our visit a year ago, but I haven’t heard from her in months.”
If you were my betrothed, I’d write to you every day. Sophie was glad she hadn’t said that aloud. What an awkward silence that would have resulted in.
“Perhaps she doesn’t like to write.”
“She told me as much.”
“Do you write to her?”
“Whenever she writes to me, I always answer. I’m afraid I haven’t been any better a correspondent than she has.”