Circe had been eager to begin her riding lessons. She hadn't said so outright, but it was evident in the way Ragnar always caught her staring off toward the stables whenever she was in the flower gardens. From the window of his study, he often found himself watching her, when he should have been reviewing the week's ledgers that sat untouched on his desk.
Instead of columns of numbers, it was the soft, delicate curve of her face that occupied his mind. His gaze traced the dips and contours of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the delicate line of her jaw. He was like a fool, wishing to trace it again, this time with his fingers rather than his eyes.
But he wouldn't dare. Not only because he suspected that Circe would carve him open with a butter knife if he tried, but because he knew it would be a recipe for disaster.
