Kindred Hearts Read Online Free PDF

naked,” Tristan said absently. “Just as I would.”
     
    “Your wife’ll like that,” Berks said.
     
    “I assume you mean me, since Gibs hasn’t a wife. As to that, I daresay she’ll have many things not to like about me,” Tristan said. A barmaid came out of the inn with a brimming pitcher; he intercepted her and held out his own mug. “Fill ’er up, luv; I’m off to Hammersmith in a moment,” he said, giving her a noisy buss on the cheek. “Will you long for me when I’m wed, sweetheart?”
     
    “From wot I ’ear of you, luv, that won’t change your life none,” she retorted pertly.
     
    He laughed and gave her a gentle pinch on her round arse before letting her go. She flirted her skirts at him as she walked away. “I should marry that one,” he said, and he took a drink.
     
    “I say,” Berks said, horrified, “you can’t !”
     
    “Of course not,” Tristan replied. “I’m already betrothed.” He stood up, raising his mug high. “To my blushing bride!”
     
    A roar of approval rumbled through the yard, and he tossed back the ale, pleased with himself. “There. As proper a toast as you’ll ever see.”
     
    “I hope it don’t,” Gibs said.
     
    “Don’t what?”
     
    “Change your life none.”
     
    “I don’t see where it should. She’s just a woman.”
     
    “Well,” Gibs sighed, “right now, it’s just a woman. But later there will be children; I mean, didn’t your pa say that was the whole point?”
     
    Tristan shrugged. “I don’t know anything about children. That’s her area of exper, experzeet. Ex-per-tease.” He grinned in triumph. “Expertise. At least, I assume so—she’s a woman, after all. It’s what they’re good for.”
     
    “Not all they’re good for,” Berks said.
     
    Tristan laughed and held up his tankard in silent salute, then handed it to Berks. “Hold that for me,” he said. “I’ll need it when I come back. Assuming I haven’t broken my neck on the way.”
     
    “You won’t,” Gibson said. “Charmed life.”
     
    Tristan gave him a brief, bitter smile, then vaulted into the seat of his curricle and gave Gibson the nod to let go of the horse’s head. Hapwell followed suit, his tiger jumping up behind, and they trotted out of the innyard to where a string lay across the Hammersmith road. “Ready, then?” Hapwell called, and Tris called back, “Readier than you, Hap!” with a laugh.
     
    Someone dropped a Belcher handkerchief and they were off.
     
    It was a beautiful morning for a drive, the road dry, the sky lightening and bright with the promise of sun later. Tris took an easy lead, his heavier carriage holding the rutted road better than Hap’s, which had a tendency to slide. He grinned, enjoying the rush of excitement he’d always felt when racing: the chill breeze in his face, the rumble of the hooves and the wheels and the road, the thrill of those moments when the carriage shot up a rut and hung for a moment in midair before striking the road again…. It was like the hunt, when one felt the horse’s muscles bunch beneath one and suddenly one was flying. Moments like these he could forget his past, his future, time, and life, and his father’s disapproval. Moments like these he was no one, nothing, a leaf in the wind, the wind itself, an echo of his own voice. He laughed aloud, and his horses, used to the sound, picked up the pace until he no longer heard Hapwell’s wheels behind him.
     
    He made the turn just past Hammersmith, and passed Hapwell on the way back to Kensington, overtaking a wagonload of turnips and slowing his pair to a cooling trot as he wended through the arch to the still-dark innyard. There were cheers and groans of disappointment, and he waved his whip in salute as he drew up, tossed a coin to the ostler’s boy, and jumped down from the seat. The boy took the pair off to walk them, and Tristan went back to join his friends.
     
    “I trust you both made a profit?” Tristan asked, drawing