Chapter 9
Everything was completely mad. Matilda had eloped with Ashford. Margo was lost in Derbyshire. She had slept with Henry, who cursed now and also was a virgin. Or—no, he was no longer a virgin, because she had in fact deflowered him the night before.
She, a despoiler of virgins! She’d never felt more like a Halifax Hellion in her life.
Moreover, though Henry no longer seemed interested in finding his pleasure with her—which was fine and certainly not a good explanation for the tears that kept filling her eyes—she’d evidently corrupted him in other ways.
Henry had stolen a horse. Henry! Who had probably never broken a rule in his life.
He sat now atop the chestnut gelding, gazing down in the vicinity of her boots. She followed his gaze. She was a disheveled mess. She probably smelled. Her traveling dress was not divided for riding.
“Do you want to ride in front or behind?” Henry asked, his fingers gripping the gelding’s bridle.
“In front.” She was not about to cling to his back like a limpet. Let him do the clinging.
He looked down at her, and his ears went pink, and she refused to be charmed. “I’ve reconsidered. You should ride behind.”
She gritted her teeth. “Did you not just ask me my preference moments ago? Whyever would you ask if you did not mean to—”
“Fine,” Henry snapped, and, bending, he half-boosted, half-flung her onto the horse’s back in front of him.
She was fairly certain he had not groped her backside, and she found herself absurdly disappointed.
She shifted, trying to arrange her skirts in a way that did not completely restrict her range of motion while also protecting her skin from rubbing raw on the horse’s back.
Wherever Henry had managed to find a horse, he’d inexplicably secured a bridle but no saddle.
They were bareback and astride, which was perfectly fine with her.
She and Matilda had been doing both since childhood, though usually while wearing men’s breeches.
She attempted to lean back against Henry as she adjusted the crumpled fabric, and he shifted backward away from her.
She pinched her lips together. So he wanted to act as though she were repellent now, did he?
It was absurd, insulting. He had been just as willing as she!
But perhaps—well. She had not known he was not experienced. She should have taken things more slowly, been more gentle. Perhaps she had rushed him—she often rushed things, smashed things with her carelessness.
Somehow she had smashed their comfort, the ease of long-held friendship between them.
He reached around her body to grip the reins, his arms coming around either side of her. They rode in silence for several minutes, Henry leading them back out to the road and up the way they had come the day before.
“Henry?”
“Hmm?” He sounded abstracted, his voice and body both stiff.
“Where did you find this horse?”
“I told you.” His voice still sounded strained. The horse missed a step and she rocked against Henry’s body behind her. He made an almost inaudible sound. “It—I went looking for more firewood this morning and found it bridled in the woods.”
“And you simply brought it with you?” She shifted in her seat.
“Yes. I mean to send it back with some coin eventually. I—would you stop doing that?”
She craned her head around to look at him, which brought her face startlingly close to his. She could see the faint line of dried blood where he’d cut himself with his razor. Her eyes fell on the curve of his lower lip, which was less a serious slash at this juncture and more of a pout.
“Doing what?”
“Wiggling like that! I am trying to find civilization, and I can’t—I can’t—”
It dawned on her then precisely why it was so difficult to make herself comfortable in Henry’s lap. He was—er. Goodness. She hadn’t imagined a man could achieve that state while on horseback, although she supposed she’d never thought about it.
She turned back around, though not before noticing that he was red as a currant.
He blew out a breath, and she felt it stir her hair. “Forgive me. It’s not your fault that I cannot seem to keep my mind off of—”
He stopped. She waited with what was, for her, extraordinary patience, but he did not go on.
“Off of…?”
He made a sounded that resembled ggrmph. “Use your imagination, Margo.”
“I don’t want to use my imagination. I want to hear yours.”
Now he definitely groaned.
“I will forgive you,” she added, “if you tell me.”
He leaned forward. “Lifting your skirts.” His lips were almost at her ear, his voice a growl. “Putting my hand between your thighs. Making you beg.”
Margo felt lightheaded. She hoped she did not fall off the horse. “I—see.”
Henry’s teeth closed over the rim of her ear. A fine tremor ran through her body. Her lips had parted—she could hear herself panting.
Henry sat back. His voice was a trifle grim. “Let’s find the nearest village. Then we can talk.”
Margo hoped talk was a euphemism for something else entirely.
It took hours for them to find Darley Dale, the small coaching town. Margo’s legs were jellied from riding astride for so long, and when she slid down from the gelding, she nearly crumpled to the ground.
Henry cursed and caught her, his large hands banded to her waist.
His hands—Margo felt quite warm and shivery all over just thinking about them.
But he pulled back once more. “We should find a public house. You’ll need sustenance. It’s been quite a while since you broke your fast.”
He hauled her across the street like a man possessed, and together they ducked into a small, low-ceilinged tavern.
The place seemed clean and well-kept, the early afternoon light spilling clearly through new-glazed glass.
When they settled themselves at a table, a round-faced woman in an apron hurried over, placing two tankards of ale on the waxed wooden surface before them.
“What do ye fancy, ma’am, sir?” she asked. “We’ve game pie today and—”
She stopped abruptly and looked more closely at Margo, who emerged rather breathlessly from her beer. The woman’s brows drew together for a moment, and then her face cleared. “Begging your pardon, mum! I didn’t know ye at first, since ye’ve changed your dress. Were the buns to your liking?”
Henry looked up, puzzled. Very slowly, Margo set down the ale glass. “The buns?”
“To be sure,” said the tavern keeper. “The caraway buns I sent with ye this morning. After ye broke your fast in the dining room.”
“Me?” Margo said, her voice coming out faint. “You saw me this morning?”
“Of course I did,” the woman said. She looked to Henry with an expression of concern. “Is the lass overset?”
“No.” Henry reached out and caught Margo’s hand, and she gripped hard, steadying herself. “You say she was wearing a different gown? But she looked like this woman here?”
“Just exactly,” said the tavern keeper. “A blue striped dress, but other than that, it could have been her twin. Same hair. Same freckles, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“No,” Henry said. “Not the same freckles at all.”
“Matilda,” Margo managed. Her fingers were still locked with Henry’s.
“We found her!” Relief stabbed through her, painful in its intensity.
They had started a day after Matilda and Ashford, then had lost another night with the carriage accident and the rainstorm.
But somehow they had ended up here, at the coaching village. At the very same public house.
Guilt and alarm made her stomach hurt. Matilda had been here this morning—but where was she now?
She looked up at the tavern keeper. “How long ago did she leave? Do you know where she went? Was she alone?”
The woman’s thick gray brows drew together. “A few hours perhaps. But it shouldn’t be so hard to find her. She left with a great, silent, bearded fellow. On foot. They can’t have gone far.”