The Flight of Swallows Read Online Free Page A

age. They set off along the edge of Seven Cows Wood, the bare trees to his right, going at full speed through the knee-high grass which in spring and summer would be carpeted with poppy, clover, meadowsweet. Going flat out, or at least what Max could manage at his age, Brooke’s nose almost on the grey’s neck, he was on the girl who ran out of the belt of woodland before he had time to shout a warning and when she went down his heart came to a shuddering stop before restarting and beating so fast he could hardly breathe. Max whinnied in distress, rearing up on to his hind legs as he did his best to avoid the prone figure so that Brooke almost slid from the saddle but scarcely had the horse’s forelegs touched the ground again than he was off his back and bending over the figure of the girl. She lay flat on her belly, her arms stretched out, her face pressed into last year’s rotting leaf mould. She rolled over as he reached out a trembling hand to her, for she had frightened the bloody life out of him, and though he could see she was dazed she seemed to be uninjured. At once he was furious, like a mother whose naughty child has just run into danger and survived; he wanted to lash out at her but her expression cleared and he found himself looking into the most amazing eyes he had ever seen. They were a vivid aquamarine blue surrounded by thick lashes the same shade as her hair and eyebrows. She was not exactly beautiful for none of her features was perfect. Her mouth was wide, a bright poppy red, her cheekbones high and flushed with a delicate wild rose, her jaw square with an obstinate set to it and her hair was what he could only call tawny-coloured. Neither brown, nor ginger, nor chestnut but perhaps a mixture of them all.
    ‘You bloody fool,’ he snarled, reaching down a hand to help her up but she ignored it, getting to her feet unaided. ‘What the hell were you doing, dashing from the tree-line like that without even stopping to see if—’
    ‘This is not a high street, sir, where one can expect traffic. I was running . . .’
    ‘I could see that, woman, but surely you must have heard my horse’s approach. Or are you deaf as well as half-witted? Besides which you are trespassing. This is private land.’
    ‘I am not here to poach your game or snare your rabbits. I was merely walking.’
    ‘ Walking! You were doing no such thing and you can count yourself lucky that Max here is old and has the sense that a younger animal might not have.’
    ‘You are extremely rude and your language is quite offensive. It is not the language of a gentleman and I would be obliged if you would get out of my way and allow me to continue my . . . my walk. I was not aware that I was trespassing, and for that I apologise. Your land must run beside my father’s. I shall make sure in future that I stay where . . .’
    The three dogs ran back and began to nose at the hand of the girl and at once she turned to them, smiling, then squatted down to pet them in turn. She seemed to wince a little as she knelt and Brooke’s expression of indignation turned to one of concern. ‘You’re hurt,’ he said, but she shook her head and as she did so a glorious mass of hair became unpinned, falling about her shoulders and down her back in a bright, gleaming cloak. At the sight of it, and combined with her incredible eyes, something in his chest moved painfully. He studied her, wondering where on earth she had come from though she had spoken of his estate running beside that of her father’s. She had the well-bred voice of the gentry so he deduced she was not a farm girl, nor a maidservant out for a walk, if maidservants had time for such exercise, and her outfit seemed to prove that. She wore a well-made tweed skirt that reached her ankle bone in shades of coffee and chocolate-brown fleck with a short fitted jacket to match, brown lace-up boots, sturdy for walking. On her head, clinging for dear life by a hatpin, was a woollen beret