hurdle was perhaps three feet high. I can’t do this! Nell told herself, taking a firm grip on the reins and pulling. Nothing happened. Firefly, nice manners or no, had obviously decided that her rider did not know what she was about and was taking over. Her ears pricked up, she adjusted her stride. Nell had a sidelong glimpse of a startled gatekeeper and then they were in the air.
‘Ough!’ The landing was neat on the mare’s part, totally inelegant on Nell’s. She grabbed the pommel, lurched violently, her hat slid down to her nose and for several stomach-lurching seconds she was convinced she was going to fall off.
It was a surprise to find she was still in place when she shoved her hat painfully back on her head and collected the reins together in some sort of order. Firefly was cantering steadily, and ahead the elegant figure of Marcus was still visible, although receding down the meadow towards what Nell had a horrid suspicion was a river. There was no sign of the decorous trot now, the hunter was galloping flat out.
Firefly lengthened her pace while Nell considered her options. Hauling on the reins was not working, falling off was highly dangerous. That left staying in the saddle and enjoying herself. Ahead, the hunter rose in a long, low jump over what must be water, his rider apparently welded to his back, and took the slight rise on the other side in ground-eating strides.
‘You are not going to jump that!’ Nell ordered, reining in as hard as she could. The mare’s ears flicked back, she fought the bit and did not slow, but at least she could not jump either. They went through the wide, shallow stream at the gallop, muddy ice-slush, water and watercress flying everywhere.
‘Now, go and catch him up.’ Nell dropped her hands, tightened her grip and gave the mare her head. She would never match the big hunter, seventeen hands if he was an inch, to her fourteen, but the little mare threw her heart into it with Nell, thrilled and terrified in equal measure, staying put by a miracle of balance, luck and desperation.
They swung out of a gap in the hedge and on to what Nell recognised as a well-made-up toll road. Far ahead, Marcus had the grey galloping along the wide grass verge, and the mare had no objection to following Nell’s tug on the rein—or maybe, she decided, risking one hand to pull back the hat from over her ear, Firefly preferred the grass anyway.
And then she saw buildings and the hunter was slowing, turning under a swinging inn sign, and she realized this must be the receiving office and the nearest stop for the mail coach.
Firefly seemed to know where she was, or perhaps without the horse ahead to chase she was prepared to slow down. Whichever it was, she dropped to a trot as they turned into the yard and allowed Nell to rein her in at last.
Nell slumped in the saddle, breathless, and shoved the wretched hat back on her head. Her hair was coming down. The occupants of the yard turned and regarded her in silence as she got her skirts into some kind of order. An ostler paused in mid-stride, bucket in hand, mouth open, the straw he had been chewing dangling. A pair of small boys stopped chasing the chickens and gawped. Marcus turned in the saddle to see what was entertaining them, took a long, hard look and closed his eyes as though in pain.
‘I came for a ride,’ Nell said, a strange, unfamiliar feeling building painfully in her chest, threatening to bubble up, overcome her. Then she realized, as the hat finally won over the hat pin and slid off, bouncing from her mud-spattered skirts to the cobbles, what it was. Laughter.
She wanted to laugh. How long had it been since she had felt like doing that? Giving way to unrestrained, joyous laughter? Not a polite smile, not a social gesture, but real laughter?
Too long, Nell thought, her lips twitching as she watched Marcus open his eyes. He sat there on the raking hunter, immaculate, elegant even in country buckskins and plain coat, and there she was, panting, dishevelled, muddy and unrepentant—and the masterful Lord Stanegate had not a clue what to do with her.
She doubled up over the pommel, gasping, her eyes blurring with tears of sheer amusement and laughed until her stomach ached.
Chapter Eleven
‘Nell?’
‘Yes?’ she managed.
His lordship had dismounted and was standing by her side, hand on the reins, lips compressed. ‘Why are you having hysterics on that horse?’
‘Because it is funny?’ she ventured, hiccupping faintly. ‘You looking so—’ She waved a hand about, searching for the right word and failed, so wiped her eyes with it instead. ‘And me so—’
‘Quite. I certainly cannot find the mot juste for your appearance,’ he remarked severely. And then she saw the sparkle in his eyes and the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, despite his struggle to repress it. ‘I am afraid Verity’s mare has got away from you. I had no idea it was such a spirited animal.’
‘Or I such a poor rider,’ she said ruefully, lifting her leg over the pommel and allowing herself to be helped to the ground. Marcus seemed to find her no weight at all, which either meant he was as strong as he appeared or that she was thinner than she should be.
Somehow, he acquired a private parlour and got her into it before they both gave way to their mirth. ‘Oh, Nell.’ Marcus sank down in the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands and choked with laughter. ‘You look as though you have been through a hedge backwards. And that ridiculous hat!’
‘That is Honoria’s,’ Nell said in alarm, looking round for it.
‘Beyond help, I fear.’ Marcus looked up at her and she could not help smiling back. ‘I will buy her another, don’t worry. But what on earth possessed you to think you could ride? And how did you get that horse out of the stables?’
‘I can ride,’ Nell said with dignity. ‘Only I haven’t for a very long time. And Verity and Honoria thought I should ride with you. It has certainly cleared my headache,’ she discovered in surprise, pressing the sore lump above her ear with caution.
Marcus came and hitched one hip onto the table beside her. ‘And how does a milliner learn to ride?’
‘It was a long time ago, when we had a little money. We all rode, dreadful job horses, of course.’ She hesitated. ‘I did not always have to work for my living, Mama had a few savings.’
‘I have not asked you about your father.’ Marcus’s voice was gentle, still husky from the laughter.
‘Oh, he died some time ago.’ Her stomach swooped down sickeningly. ‘Before…before things got so bad.’ There was no reason to suppose he would question it; such stories were commonplace. ‘He managed land,’ she added, grasping for something near the truth.
Sometimes she thought she could recall the broad parkland, the groves of trees, the fallow deer. Sometimes she was certain the scent of roses on a hot June day was a memory and not a dream of a paradise lost.
‘I am sorry, Nell.’
She looked up, wondering how those hard grey eyes could look so kind, how that strong, sensual mouth be so gentle. ‘I—’ Somehow she was holding out her hand to him, somehow he had pulled her into his arms, to stand between his thighs.
‘Sweet Nell.’ And the huskiness in his voice was no longer from the laughter as he bent his head and found her lips. Slow, oh so slow, the caress of his mouth on hers. And so fast the shock of sensual longing that made
