PENETRATE (The Portals of Time Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

pulling against the rein Rory held, more than once showing the whites of his eyes. Neal didn’t know much about horses –buying stock in living things was a waste of money unless it was edible – but that horse didn’t look remotely mollified. Or calm. Or anything other than ready to bolt. Neal made a face. He liked his horsepower condensed into the cc kind. Apparently riding a motorcycle just became a nice memory. Motorized craft weren’t due for some decades yet.
    Unless he started the industry.
    Hmm. That was a thought with a lot of potential.
    “Will you be needin’ an assist, your grace?”
    “You could say that,” Neal replied.
    “Do you need an assist, your grace?”
    “What? Why did you re-ask that?”
    “Because you said I could.”
    Neal gave a heavy sigh. Being a duke in the early nineteenth century might be a bit taxing. He’d have to keep his own counsel about everything. He waved off Rory’s hand and stood, noting instantly that he wore trousers. They were fashioned strangely, with a bit more room in the seat than he liked, and a lot less negotiating room everywhere else, but familiar-feeling. He had a cloth cinched about his throat to the choking level. The jacket didn’t have much breathing room to it, either. He might as well have a girdle about his waist. Neal pulled at his throat covering until it gapped open and then started unfastening jacket buttons, starting at the bottom of the garment.
    Well .
    Appeared as if finding a decent tailor was going to be a prime objective in his new life. He decided to make a mental listing of what he needed to do. Draw it up on a chart later. He could jumpstart modern menswear, too.
    That was before he discovered that the boots were even worse.
    Some idiot had crafted them both identically, as if the left and right foot were alike. A shoemaker was going high on his list of requirements, too. He wore socks that were obviously woolen. He could feel the familiar itch of that fiber, but they were the only cushioning he could feel. There wasn’t any insole support. The boots were outsized to top it off, and they slanted downward due to the heels. He might as well be standing on slick boards atop a ski slope. His toes slid forward as he stood there, regarding his mount with the same expression of distaste the horse appeared to exhibit.
    “What is my horse’s name, again?” he asked.
    “Thundercloud.”
    “Well. That’s apt.”
    The horse’s head was level with Neal. Thundercloud didn’t look quite as intimidating from this angle, but he was still an animal that outweighed Neal by hundreds of pounds, possessed an agenda that differed from that of his owner, and he had the ability to put it into play. But things could be worse.
    Neal could be wearing a kilt.
    The groom sprang onto his own mount without much hint of effort, showing a lot of leg as his attire flapped about him. He settled into a section of leather that barely resembled a saddle, simultaneously shoving his boots into the stirrups. The kid hadn’t even used one. Neal considered his groom’s leg for a moment. It hadn’t looked hard, but he wasn’t trying it that way. He wasn’t entirely naïve of this. He’d seen this done more than once. Usually on film. By accomplished riders.
    “You want the reins, your grace?”
    “Uh. No. You better keep them. For now.”
    “You certain-sure?”
    “Oh. Yes.”
    He’d seen horses mounted. He’d never tried it. Horses were mounted from the left. Neal moved a few paces to his right and faced the animal’s side. He put his left hand on the front part of his saddle. It had a raised area that lifted a lot higher than Rory’s saddle. That leather bit had a name, too...if he could just think...
    Oh. Yes. It was a pommel.
    His right hand gripped to the hunk of leather at the back of his saddle. Neal lifted his left foot toward the stirrup, but then had to use his left hand in order to wedge his boot into the damn thing. It was a tight fit. Completely