Madeline remained silent—with an effort—until they reached the stables. Thomas was saddling Rhys’ dappled gray destrier. A chestnut palfrey stood beside the large stallion, its bright eye and tendency to fidget showing that it was ready to run. Rhys offered Madeline a hand to lift her into the palfrey’s saddle but she stepped away from him.
“This is not Tarascon.”
“Nay, it is not,” Rhys said, speaking through gritted teeth. “Nor is this steed injured.” He offered his hand again, with greater insistence, and his eyes snapped with impatience.
“But I cannot leave without my horse!”
“And you cannot thwart her healing by riding her hard so soon after that injury.”
“Then I will not ride hard this day.”
Rhys made an exasperated noise. Before he could argue, Madeline anxiously looked around
