thing. When it is time to jump fences—’ He saw the alarm on her face. ‘Well, that may never be needed, so there is no point in worrying about it.’
Polly was able to cobble together bits of the late dowager’s riding apparel to leave her suitably, although not fashionably covered. Miranda limped down the stairs in too-tight boots, cursing the need to force her unnaturally tall frame into the clothing of yet another petite woman. The dowager had been several inches shorter than she, with delicate feet and a trim figure. Once again, she was showing too much wrist and ankle, immobilised in a jacket that lacked room for her shoulders, but had plenty of space for the bosom that she did not possess.
She met St John in the entry hall; if he found anything unusual in her appearance, he was too polite to say so. He led her to the stables, where he chose a docile mare and helped her up, before mounting the magnificent black stallion beside it.
Horses were taller than she remembered. Certainly taller than they looked from the ground, where she wished she still was. She felt the horse twitch under her and forced the thought from her mind. If it realised that she wanted to be back on solid earth, it might decide to throw her and grant the wish without warning. She did not wish for the ground, she reminded herself. She wished to remain in the saddle.
St John set off at a walk and her own horse followed his with a minimum of direction on her part. She relaxed a little. He was right; this was not so bad. She called on what little she could remember of her childhood rides and manoeuvred her horse to walk beside St John’s so they could converse.
‘See?’ he encouraged. ‘It is not so bad as all that, is it?’
‘No. Not so bad,’ she lied.
‘We will ride down the main road and into the farm land, towards that little copse of trees yonder—’ he pointed towards the horizon ‘—then back to the house. And you will find the fresh air and exercise will do you good.’
He led her on and kept a running commentary on the local landscape. That farm held the oldest tenant. There lay the berry bushes that he and Marcus had raided as boys. That tree was the rumoured hanging spot of a notorious highwayman.
As he did so he encouraged his horse to a trot, and she did likewise. Her seat was not good and she jolted on the horse, wishing that they could return to the walking pace.
‘You are managing quite well. I was sure it would only take a short while to bring you back up to snuff.’ His voice was full of encouragement.
‘St John, I am not sure—’
‘It is only a little further. We will stop to rest in the woods and then walk the horses home.’
She gritted her teeth. If it was only a little further, she could manage. And, perhaps it was her imagination, but his pace seemed faster still, and her horse speeded up without encouragement to follow St John’s stallion. She glanced to the side, then quickly ahead to fight down the churning in her stomach. It was better to focus on the approaching woods. When they arrived there, she could stop and rest.
She looked with worry at the path before her. It appeared to be narrowing. And her horse was still abreast with St John’s and too close to the edge of the road. She tugged at the reins, but her mount ignored her, refusing to give way. She tugged more firmly, but the horse showed no sign of interest.
They were almost to the trees and there was no path left. St John realised her dilemma and spurred his horse forward and then pulled up short at the side of the path.
She pulled too hard on the reins and her own horse at last realised what she expected of it and stopped without warning, lowering its head to graze.
And, in the way of all objects in motion, she continued forward, and over the horse’s head. One minute she had an excellent, if alarming, view of the rapidly approaching trees. And then everything spun around and she had landed in a heap and was looking into the face of her own horse as it tried to nudge her out of the way to get to the tender grass that had broken the worst of her fall.
St John’s face appeared in her field of vision, horrified. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Miranda. I never thought …’
‘Perhaps,’ she managed, ‘a ride was not the best idea, St John.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, his light tone at odds with the worry in his eyes. ‘Are you injured?’
‘I do not believe so.’ She tried to stand, then sat down again as her ankle collapsed beneath her. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘Stay right where you are,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move. If there is a break in the bone, moving will make things worse.’
She lay back on the grass and stared up at the trees above her. What a fool her husband would think her if he returned to find her bedridden, unable to manage even a simple horseback ride. ‘It is not broken,’ she insisted. It simply could not be. She would not permit it.
She felt St John lift her skirts and realised with shock that he was removing her boots. She sat up, and then collapsed again as the blood rushed to her head. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What must be done if we are to establish the extent of your injuries. Now lie still and I will try not to hurt you.’
There was a firm tug and she bit back a cry as the boot came free. He reached for the other foot and she pulled it away. ‘I am sure that that one is not injured.’
‘But it is better to be safe than sorry in these things.’ He tugged the other boot free.
She felt his touch against her stocking as he probed first one ankle and then the other. Now that the offending boots were gone, the pain was not so severe. Perhaps it was only loss of circulation that had caused her to stumble. The pins and needles were subsiding and she could feel his hands on her feet.
It was good there was no groom along to see this, for it would seem highly improper. He was taking his time, touching each bone to make sure it was in place. Through the roughness of her stocking, the sensation tingled and she involuntarily twitched her toes.
His hand tightened on her foot. ‘You have feeling there?’
She nodded and bit her lip.
‘Then the fall could not have been too severe.’
‘I am glad to know that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll put my shoes back myself.’
‘It is better to leave them off, lest there be swelling.’
She reached for them. ‘I cannot ride back to the house stocking footed.’
‘And you cannot ride if your boots are so tight that you cannot feel your feet in the stirrups.’ He tossed the offending boots into the bushes.
‘St John! Those belonged to your mother.’
‘She has no plans to use them again. Nor should you, if they do not fit. When we go riding in the future, we will find another solution.’
When hell freezes and your mother needs her boots back, she thought, but kept her face placid and co-operative. ‘Very well. Now, if you will help me back to my horse, we can return home.’ His hand was still resting on her ankle, and she gave a shudder of pleasure and tried to pull away.
