Lucas shows no sign of tiredness from riding through the night. I don't expect him to. Not with what's at stake.
By now his hair is wild, messy from the wind rushing at him from his speed. His eyes are cold and alert, gaze fixed on the road ahead. His mare is flagging, but he won't give her any rest or pause.
At the moment he has the tenacity of a hunter chasing his prey, relentless and unforgiving. I suspect, if his horse could survive it, he'd go another day without pause as well.
I have a feeling he'd do it even if his horse couldn't.
There's nothing in his bearing to remind me of the laid-back and carefree man I met that first night I saw him, and all the evenings that followed.
At the moment, there's absolutely no time for me to think about how I should feel about that.
It's not quite sunset by the time we arrive at his manor.
