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His black eyes flash wickedness under his glossy hair. He clicks his tongue and I’m still trying to harden my heart as we trot briskly out of the stable yard and straight up a bank into the dense forest.
‘Wait for me!’ I call, but he ignores me, pressing his horse into a gallop up a well-worn path and disappearing round a corner.
When the horse’s tail flicks out of sight I squeeze my chestnut mare into a gallop to follow them. The man in black on his black horse flashes in and out of the trees, in and out of the shadows, into brief oases of daylight, hooves muffled on the pine needles. I have to concentrate at first to get into my horse’s rhythm, thighs screaming to grip the saddle, bottom tensed up into a half standing position, but then I catch up, I’m right up behind Gustav as he crouches over his horse, his hair streaming in a similarly glossy mane, his hard, muscular, squeezable butt held up in the air like a jockey.
And then we are neck and neck, very dangerous on the rock-strewn pathways, so close I could flick at him with my whip if I had one. I laugh out loud at that. Whips in London, whips in art galleries and echoing mansions, but not here, in the great outdoors, when you’re actually riding.
His long fingers in tight black gloves are curled on the reins, controlling his horse as we race. The blood is pounding through me now, beating in time to the drum of hooves. I am determined to overtake him, but he keeps pace with me. On and on we race, the going getting tougher because it’s steeper, and stony. We’re on the mountain, now, but the peaks recede as if laughing at us.
Up high in this forest the trees press together, cramped as a crowd of people straining to watch a street performance, pushing at us as we gallop neck and neck, twigs grasping at my arms, swiping with their spiky, thorny branches as if to drag us off our saddles.
All at once the light opens up, the tunnel of trees becomes sparser, they fall back as if to make way, and then we burst onto a rocky plateau flat and bright as an arc-lit stage. The horses clatter to a halt just as I realise that there’s a mere few yards of shiny granite between us and a sheer drop. It’s not the ravine I was thinking about earlier. There is simply a void of air between us and the mountains on the other side of the lake. The ground seems to have been sliced away by a giant pair of shears.
Gustav walks his horse a few feet closer to the edge, just as Polly and I used to do on the cliffs. The hoofs clatter noisily, slipping on the frosty surface.
‘For God’s sake stop pissing about, Gustav!’
‘I’m flattered you’re concerned for my safety, Serena, but I know this terrain like the back of my hand, and so do the horses.’ He laughs, settling his hands on his saddle. His legs are so long in those black jodhpurs. So relaxed as the toes rest in the stirrups.
‘Just feast your eyes on all this splendour, Serena. This is one of my favourite vantage points. I used to walk or run or ride up here to get away. To think. To plan. You see? We’re almost on top of the world.’
The peaks are that much closer, it’s true. The illusion is that they’re at eye level, that I could reach out and tap their outline. It’s as if the earth was in a rage when it forged this landscape, punching its way as high as it could out of the plains, aiming for the heavens, fighting itself into these muscular fists of jagged rock to separate territories and make a statement.
We mere humans and horses can only stand and admire and grip the ground. The clouds of our mammal breath are wispy imitations of the weighty clouds up in the massive bowl of sky, but for now we are part of the landscape too.
‘See, there’s snow on the high points above us.’ He is turned sideways. He points over the deadly drop. He looks like a Sioux chief surveying his prairie. ‘It’ll be coming further down by nightfall tomorrow. You can tell from the light. We won’t be stranded at the house but we won’t be going out on horseback again. To ski we’d have to go over to St Moritz or Como.’
‘You know I’m a beginner at skiing?’
‘You’d give it a go, though, wouldn’t you, my gutsy girl?’
I shrug to distract him from my reddening cheeks. If he’s a big chief, does that make me his squaw? ‘Maybe. But I don’t know you well enough to risk making a clown of myself.’
‘Anyone less like a clown I can’t imagine. And you do know me, Serena. Better than you think. Certainly well enough to let me teach you to ski.’
I stare at him. Where are the words when I need them? He has this way of taking coherent thought and rubbing it out before I can articulate it. Do I know him? I know his face. I think I could reproduce every line, every eyelash, every shadow now, if you gave me a pencil and paper. But can I interpret the commentary behind those black eyes? I’m not so sure.
When I don’t reply he sighs. ‘Well, we may not have the time. My priorities for this visit are to get the house cleared and sold and off my hands.’
I can hear the harsh chord of bitterness as he speaks.
I clear my throat. ‘So tough for you, when you so love this place.’
‘This particular spot, yes. She’s killed my affection for the house and the land. Oh, I’ll still manage my investments from here. And maybe I’ll buy another property over the border in Italy. A ski lodge, maybe. What do you think? Or a house on one of the other lakes.’ He squeezes his knees to urge his horse a couple of paces nearer the edge. I stifle my squeal of horror. ‘But this is the last time we’ll ever set foot or hoof on this part of the mountain.’
‘We?’
He is turned from me now, his hair hiding his face, and doesn’t respond. I decide it was a slip of the tongue. This setting just proves how far removed his life really is from mine. There can’t possibly be a ‘we’. Can there?
I follow his glance. Far below us the lake is a smooth looking glass. I can see one or two of the slim ferry boats spitting their white triangular wake over the water. The tiled Lombardy roof tops glow red as the sun retreats. The mountains become shadowy silhouettes as it drags its train of fire behind them, leaving embers of shredded pink cloud.
I am sharing Gustav’s love of this amazing vista. We are sharing it.
I turn my horse across the plateau, hoping he’ll follow me. The mountain rears above us. I tip my head back dizzily to see the summit. It’s been obliterated while we’ve been up here, the dark grey clouds anxious to dump their load of snow. I’m just about to aim my camera at the sunset when I see, tucked in a little grove and surrounded by an incongruously twee picket fence, a little white Bavarian-style chapel, its elegant spire adorned with an iron cross. The one Dickson pointed out to me earlier.
That’s the chapel where they were wed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I try to halt my horse, cursing under my breath but even though I tug on the reins she ploughs on. The chapel is closed, the high doors bolted, the arched painted windows shuttered. But I can just picture them, Gustav and Margot Levi, newly married, emerging from the wooden interior to a shower of confetti and well-connected applause, he dark and victorious in his morning suit or perhaps a traditional Swiss jacket, she with features and colouring I can’t decipher, but nevertheless stunning and smug and dancing along the path in a beautiful white dress, one hand holding his and the other clutching a sweet bunch of white edelweiss into which she mock-shyly dips her nose.
The pain of the image winds me sharply as if someone has kneed me in the stomach.
‘No wonder this is your favourite location, Gustav. But I’ve suddenly gone off it.’
He turns from his reverie. I see his face like the sky transforming from thoughtful to thunderous. He kicks his horse over and grabs the reins of my horse.
‘Forgive me, Serena. Of course it’s not the church that draws me up here. I barely give it a thought, and nor should you.’
‘You married her in there, Gustav. How can I ignore that?’
‘Ten long years ago. I was a different person then. Blind, clueless. Now I’m seeing clearly and that’s thanks to you. Five years ago I was divorced. Serena, don’t look at me as if I’m gabbling in a foreign language. Everything was different then!’ He shakes the reins, and my horse stamps her foot, jolting my balance. ‘None of it applies any more. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘I don’t have to do anything! It still happened. You still married her. It all feels horribly real to me!’ I can’t help it. I’m shouting, and angry. ‘Oh, let’s just get back.’
He drops the reins and backs his horse away, lowering his eyes. I can see the muscle working in his jaw as his face goes tight. But I’m too upset to forgive him. I’m too furious with myself for giving myself away, for being gripped by this fresh fist of jealousy just when I thought it was safe to go back into the water. Or up the mountain.
Gustav clicks his teeth and the horses’ ears prick up. So no apology then. With no sign from me my horse quickens into a trot. Their hooves ring out smartly on the hard plateau as we turn our backs on the little chapel and the fading sunset. We barrel back into the darkness of the forest, and then Gustav lowers himself over his horse’s neck and kicks her into a gallop. My horse copies. There’s nothing for it but to adjust my seat, grip with my knees and press myself down low into the saddle as we swerve and rush break-neck through the trees, through the tunnels of spiny trees, slithering down the vertiginous narrow paths, leaping over fallen branches.
Gustav’s steed is faster, and soon he’s several corners ahead of me. Sobs of panic escape me as my horse stampedes after him. It’s getting dark, and now the ground is descending ever more steeply. I am just beginning to tire of gripping on for dear life when far ahead Gustav swerves through a curtain of ivy and vines and vanishes.
‘Hey! Gustav! Wait!’
I gallop through the curtain. My horse rears up and whinnies as she trips over a huge twining root. We are in a coppice overhung with branches like a tent. All sounds, including hooves, are extinguished in here. It is curiously warm and sheltered. The fading light can’t penetrate.
I think I see Gustav’s horse flickering through the stark winter shadows up ahead, obviously knowing perfectly well which way to go. They disappear from view. I try to kick my horse to go after them, but she wheels round and stops dead, lowering her head so suddenly that without warning I shoot down her neck, over her ears, and onto the hard cold ground. My ankle is twisted awkwardly underneath me.
It hurts like hell. I didn’t hear a snap, but I remove one boot carefully, knowing I must do that in case the ankle swells.
‘This is all I bloody need!’ I yell to the elements as I roll my sock down and see the blooming palette of blue and purple, the flesh bulging already around the ankle bone. I burst into tears.
There is only the strange, dry creaking of the trees accompanying my furious weeping. That same church bell tolls the next evening hour, and my naughty horse stamps and snorts. At least she hasn’t run away. She is investigating some bright green shoots over on the far side of the copse. The wind has died down completely which sheds an eerie silence over everything. The twilight has nearly closed in.
I hold myself very still, hugging the ground. Logic tells me that I’m not totally lost. That only happens in nightmares, or horror films. The horse will know her way home. But then again, she might only understand German instructions, or Italian. She might take me further into the forest. Or bolt with me down to the lake and gallivant with me in front of all the sophisticated Swiss residents sipping Glühwein in the cafes.
The first time I was lost like this I must have been about five years old. Why they brought me up on Dartmoor, climbing the craggy outcrops around Hay Tor when it was threatening snow, I have no idea. The adults were always too far away. I remember running and tripping to keep up. I was wearing wellies with no socks. Why no socks? Did they expect me to put them on myself? Did they give me a few seconds to do so, sitting on the bottom step of the steep dark stairs, then get impatient with waiting and bundle me into the car anyway?
The wellies were too big, and rubbed the skin on my feet into blisters. I fell over, into some kind of bog. I was knee-deep in mud. I knew I’d be in trouble for messing up my clothes. And when I got back to my feet everyone had gone. There was nothing to be seen but the looming crags, like broken bones sticking up out of the bruised skin of the purple moor, and a couple of bad-tempered-looking wild ponies.
‘Wait for me!’ I wailed, but my childish voice was a kitten’s mew in the huge open space. Like I’m doing now, I held myself very still. I crouched underneath a huge stone with my knees up to my chin. If I sat still enough, nothing bad would happen because nothing bad would see me. On the other hand, no-one would find me either.
There was no relieved crying out and comforting arms when they found me. Only furious voices, accusations of being slow like a little worm, and a smack on the back of my legs.
After that I learned to do it deliberately. Run away and hide from them, and wherever possible find my own way home. Eventually they stopped taking me out anywhere, even if it was for a day, sometimes a night. I preferred the empty house.
I am doing it now. Sitting very still. Not hiding exactly, but weighing up the relative safety of dying out here of cold and starvation, or being found and bawled out for injuring the horse.
I’m not sure I can put weight on this foot, either. I try to move it and it twinges.
Now fear is replaced by anger, and I force myself upright, holding onto the nearest tree for support. The horse glances up at me. She is fine. And there are no bones sticking out of my bruised skin. It’s not broken after all. But it’s badly twisted.
I click my teeth at the horse. She chews disdainfully, her eyes pitying over her working jaws. Rage surges through me in a tidal wave. What is Gustav playing at?
I’m about to scream for help when I sense rather than hear hooves drumming nearer. Twigs crack, leaves rustle, and at last Gustav hurtles back into the copse, stopping with a dramatic rear up on the hind legs like Clint Eastwood galloping into a dusty town.
‘Serena! What happened to you? We’d gone miles before I realised.’ His hair swings rebelliously across his face. He looks even more like a rampaging bandit.
‘No you hadn’t. You left me behind on purpose.’
He jumps off the horse, sweeping his hair back off his face. He looks as if he’s fighting back a smile. A few moments away from me seems to have restored his spirits.
‘Well, I could have noticed sooner, admittedly. I mean, if you got lost in these mountains you would never get out alive. But you looked so strong and sure I forgot that I was supposed to be looking after you.’
‘I am strong and sure if I know where I’m going. I can outride you any day. Just don’t disappear and make fun of me when it’s getting so dark.’
‘Take it as a compliment, Serena. I don’t treat you as my guest any more.’ He takes out some more sugar lumps and feeds his horse. I watch her thick black lips nibble at his gloved fingers. I know that his eyes are on me. ‘I thought we could work up a sweat. I wanted to put clear water between us and that awkward reminder.’
‘Awkward reminder?’ I snap. ‘You were rubbing my nose in it. Come and look at the cutesy chapel where I married my wonderful wife.’
I fuss with my sore ankle. He walks across the gloaming. There’s that insouciant swagger again, the slight sway of his slim hips, the macho yet gymnastic control of his walk which is totally different from the reined-in stride of the man back in London. The tight breeches and boots make him move in that sinuous way. My eyes are drawn again to the muscled contours of his thighs in the black fabric, my gaze dragged towards his enclosed crotch. Is the bulge there bigger than before?
Am I ever going to wind my tongue in?
Gustav steps over me, apparently unaware of how close his groin is to my gawping face. He gives my horse some sugar lumps, too. His long fingers in their black gloves move over her nose to stroke it thoughtfully.
‘Not cutesy. Not wonderful. Not rubbing your nose in anything. But I should have been more sensitive.’
‘So much for seeing clearly at last.’
‘I wanted to share my favourite view with you, that’s all. If I’m honest I wanted you by my side when I drank it all in for the last time.’ He closes his eyes and leans against the horse’s forehead, his black hair mingling with her chestnut forelock. Her huge eyes blink down at me as if asking, you any idea what he’s banging on about? ‘I’m glad you were there.’
‘Well, I’m not glad,’ I snap. ‘It is a stunning view. But it’s your view. Your history. Your house. Your past. Your wife. Not mine.’
The horses chomp on their sugar. Mine pushes cheekily at Gustav, so unexpectedly that I hear his teeth bite together as her bony forehead knocks him. He rubs his cheek, already coming up a livid red, but he barely flinches.
‘Should I be flattered? I mean, that you feel hurt? Jealous, even, or am I wide of the mark?’ His voice is low, almost as if he hardly dares ask the question. A spot of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth where he must have bitten his tongue. ‘Do you really care about me that much?’
My insides churn, sharing the anxiety I can see burning in his eyes. The furrowed emphasis of his thick eyebrows casts a shadow over his face. He’s still unaware of the blood smeared on his lip. I so want to wipe it off for him. I’m so afraid of all this. I’m so afraid of what he’s doing to me.
I take a breath, wonder if my eyes are reading his correctly. Wondering if he can read mine.
‘You brought me to Switzerland to help you. But seeing that chapel, feeling like a tiny dot on this vast landscape, I can’t be any use to you.’ I struggle to wring the words dry of emotion. ‘And I feel a long way from home.’
He senses the wetness on his lip at last and wipes the blood, staring at it gleaming red on his upheld finger. ‘While you were working yourself into a froth about some stupid chapel, I was thinking how ready I am to find a new view, Serena. A new horizon. One that we can enjoy together. I was just about to say so when – I’m sorry. Yet again I’ve handled this episode badly.’
My horse swings her head up at the same time as I do. She is obviously equally astonished at this unheard-of apology.
‘And what’s more you should discipline your horses better!’ I yank off my helmet and let it bounce across the ground as I brush mud and leaves off me. ‘She threw me off. Admittedly I’m out of practice, but she bucked. There was nothing I could do. I’m bloody livid with you, Gustav. And to cap it all I think I’ve twisted my ankle.’
‘Mea culpa.Let me take a look. Let’s see if you can put weight on it.’
He offers his hand. I hesitate, then let him pull me to my feet. Our hands are sexless in the riding gloves, but they still conduct the heat between us. I’m level with his darkly stubbled chin, his mouth, half open, tiny spotlets of blood on his lower lip.
He takes his red scarf off and wraps it round my neck and shoulders to warm me. I’m stunned afresh by the tenderness in his eyes, in the gesture. I also realise I’m shivering with shock and pain.
‘Another apology, even if it is in Latin!’ I mutter. ‘Why can’t you just act like a normal person for once in a blue moon?’
There are red flashes in his cheeks, and not just where the horse bashed him. Anger, remorse, or the bite of the wind? He leans back against the tree and folds his arms.
‘Ah, that’s more like it. The rude girl I know and – the stroppy girl I met on Halloween night who thinks nothing of hurling the odd insult at her master.’ He lifts up my gloves. ‘The master who holds her future in his hands.’
‘We both signed that agreement, remember?’ I exchange sulky looks with my bemused horse. ‘I’ve delivered my work. I’ve let you tie me with that silver chain. I’ve given you as much pleasure as you’ll let me. You’re still bound to honour your part of the bargain.’
He turns my face towards his serious, pale features. So close, so close. His dark eyes are blurring as he tugs me closer, a coal-like gleam. That mouth, oh, that sexy, half-open, mocking mouth. ‘What am I going to do with you, Serena?’
We half-stumble against the tree trunk. Our bodies are pressed against each other now, the smooth fabric of our jodhpurs such a flimsy barrier against the fierce heat. I can feel every stretch of muscle in his rangy limbs. Every push of his male response against my stomach.
The closeness of him stops me thinking straight. I push my mouth up against his.
‘You could take me, right here, al fresco against this tree. How about that? Show me you’re a real man,’ I murmur dirtily, coiling my arms around his neck. I remember my conversation with Crystal, when I asked her if there was something wrong with him. What was her answer?
‘Ravish you in the open air?’
I am reflected in the black depths of Gustav’s eyes, the desire flaming into life as he takes hold of my hips, fans his fingers over my bottom to yank me, grind me against him. Our lips are practically touching, breath panting. The kiss of life.
‘Yes. Your droit de seigneur.’
He chuckles deeply. ‘I like it. My wicked wench. Have you any idea how savagely adorable you are right now?’
‘That’s because you’ve made me so angry!’
‘No. It’s because you want me, Serena. You can’t back-pedal when you’ve just made such an outrageous suggestion. I love that you’re an open book. A volume of stubborn sexiness. And what did Oscar Wilde say? I can resist anything but temptation.’
‘So why resist?’
‘My woodland nymph. Look at you!’ His voice is rough now. ‘I knew it would suit you. A vigorous bout of riding. Still so touchy, but you’re in your element out here. You’re on fire, if that makes sense in sub-zero temperatures.’ His body is pressed so hard against mine that I can hardly breathe. My legs part slightly to invite him in. ‘Why don’t you try lording, or ladying it, over me?’
‘If you would only stop talking.’
