Chapter 13
“Great results can be achieved with small forces.”
I urged my horse to run faster, painfully aware of each second ticking closer to danger.
Mr. Hawke was struggling to regain control as his horse fought beneath him. He pulled at the bit like a panicked child. If he would just loosen his hold and trust the horse’s motion, she would calm in kind. But every erratic tug was making things worse, and—
Oh no. I was still too far away when I spotted a long stretch of slick mud ahead of Mr. Hawke.
“Stop!” I cried out. But the words barely left my lips when the inevitable happened.
The horse slipped, her front foot giving way. She tumbled forward, and Mr. Hawke’s eyes went wide. He tugged too tightly on the bit in a desperate attempt to right the horse’s footing, and she reared up in frustration, nostrils flaring. All the blood drained from Mr. Hawke’s face.
Then the horse bolted into the forest.
I didn’t think, didn’t have time to. I urged my stallion off the path, but he hesitated. The stubborn beast wanted to win the race. Clearly the riding crop wasn’t enough to persuade him to give up the victory. A horse after my own heart.
With a grunt, I pulled up my riding skirt and threw my right leg over the saddle.
“Hyah!” I shouted, spurring the stallion forward. This time, he obeyed.
I called after Mr. Hawke, but the pounding of hooves and the deafening sound of snapping branches drowned out my voice.
I pressed my horse to go faster, his sure feet cutting through mud and fern as we wove between the trees. Ahead of me, Mr. Hawke was holding on for dear life as his horse sprinted recklessly through the moist undergrowth, deeper and deeper into the woods.
A broken branch scraped against the horse’s shoulder.
She gave a violent flick of her tail, and her hooves skidded in the underbrush.
I guided my stallion toward a fallen tree for a shortcut, hoping to cut him off.
Dirt and leaves kicked up behind as my horse jumped over the log.
We landed hard, but I set my jaw and led my horse to intercept Mr. Hawke’s.
The stallion’s broad chest blocked the way, forcing the panicked mare to halt at last.
“Hold firm but don’t pull!” I called out. “She’ll calm down if you keep her steady.”
Mr. Hawke’s wild gaze caught mine, but panic won out over reason, and when the horse moved beneath him, Mr. Hawke jerked the reins back hard. The mare tossed her head, let out a shrill cry, and reared—
And threw her rider off.
Mr. Hawke tumbled to the ground with a heavy thud.
My heart leapt into my throat. I quickly dismounted and took the reins of his horse, wanting to protect Mr. Hawke from her rear hooves.
“Easy now,” I said in a low but steady voice, stroking her neck. “That’s quite enough of that, don’t you think?”
The horse shuddered, then let out a heavy breath and licked her snout. Good. She was starting to settle. I looped the reins of both horses around a nearby tree, then rushed to Mr. Hawke’s side, the wet ground sucking at my boots.
“Miss Weston, are you all right?” Mr. Hawke groaned, clutching his shoulder as he tried to sit up.
“I’m perfectly fine. You, however, are injured.” I knelt beside him. “Don’t move.”
His jacket was covered in mud, but a bloom of red had already soaked through the sleeve of his upper arm.
“Would you believe me if I said I meant for this to happen?” Mr. Hawke tried to grin, but it came out more like a grimace.
“If you mean to say you purposefully yanked at the reins like a child barely out of the nursery, then yes, I believe you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve never ridden a horse a day in your life.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “You’re right, I’ve only had two lessons. This is my fault.”
“Of course I’m right—” I pulled back, blinking. “Wait, you’ve only had two lessons? Truly?”
His ears turned a bright shade of red. “That’s usually all it takes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Would you mind keeping that fact to yourself? I don’t want word getting out that Edmond Hawke can be outridden by a child.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Do you think you can stand?”
He made the attempt with grunts and groans, but wasn’t even able to sit up.
“Enough of that.” I motioned to his shoulder, where the red stain was growing alarmingly larger by the minute. “May I take a look?”
He glanced at the wound, then clenched his jaw and swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s superficial.”
I glared at him. “Don’t be tragically stoic, Mr. Hawke. Let me see your wound before you bleed out and I have to haul your corpse back and ruin everyone’s lovely afternoon.”
He relented with a grunt.
I poked at the fabric, but there was too much mud mixed in with the blood to reveal anything.
Again, I hesitated. I could leave now and call for help.
I probably should have done that to begin with, considering I’d promised myself that I would be perfectly proper for the rest of the day.
And yet, my fear for Mr. Hawke’s safety had driven me to bolt after him without a second thought, regardless of the awkwardness between us.
Yes, there was a time and place for propriety. But this was not one of them.
“Unbutton your shirt,” I ordered. His jaw hung open, but I waved him off. “Would you rather bleed out?”
He acquiesced, wincing as he attempted to lift his hand to undo the buttons. But he jerked back, gritting his teeth.
“I—I don’t think I can lift my arm,” he said, not quite meeting my gaze.
“You must have dislocated your shoulder.” The same thing had happened to my cousin when he fell off his horse as a child.
Of course, that had been just outside the stables, and the doctor came to tend to him within the hour.
But I was alone with Mr. Hawke in the woods, and I wasn’t confident the other members of the party would find us once they realized we were missing.
I rolled up my sleeves. “I’ll do it myself.”
The damp fabric clung stubbornly to his neck, but my fingers worked with a quiet concentration. The first button slipped free with a soft release. Mr. Hawke’s breath caught, and I worried that the movement had caused the fabric to tug over his wound.
“Just a few more,” I assured him. He nodded as I undid the second button, then the third, exposing the skin of his collarbone and sternum. My hold slipped on the stubborn fourth button, and my fingers grazed his chest. He tensed at my touch.
I pulled my hand back. Was he still so offended by me that an accidental touch flared his indignation? One would think saving a man’s life would make up for a simple slip of the tongue. But apparently not.
My lips pressed flat as I undid the final button, gingerly easing the bloodied fabric aside to reveal the wound that ran along his upper arm and disappeared beneath his shoulder blade.
It was deeper than I’d anticipated—a jagged cut, welling with dark, thick blood.
My stomach curdled at the sight. Although I fancied myself a soldier, I certainly had no real experience with blood.
“Will I live, doctor?” he asked.
I didn’t appreciate him recalling my words from the shed. So, instead of playing along, I simply said, “Don’t be dense. Of course you will.”
The humor fell from his face. But I was more concerned with the fact that his wound was spilling vast amounts of blood by the second. Mr. Hawke looked dangerously pale. I had to do something. And fast.
I looked around, as if a bandage would appear from thin air. If I were wearing my own riding skirt, I’d tear off a piece from the hem. But since I was borrowing one, I didn’t want to damage it. All I needed was a small strip of fabric to—
Oh, dash it.
The scarlet ribbon.
I didn’t allow myself to think of the consequences of revealing that I carried the ribbon with me. If I did, I’d likely freeze on the spot, and Mr. Hawke would bleed out.
Besides, maybe he was in too much pain to notice.
I pulled the ribbon from my pocket and covertly slid it around Mr. Hawke’s arm. But his head jerked to the side, and he immediately said, “Is that the ribbon I gave you?”
I closed my eyes and prayed for a sudden and early death.
“This might hurt,” I said, wrapping the ribbon around his shoulder.
“It is, isn’t it?” His smile was annoyingly bright for someone so injured. “Were you carrying it around with you?”
“This might hurt a lot,” I growled, pulling the knot harder than I should have. He bit his smile down, but thankfully said nothing as I pressed down firmly on the wound. His jaw clenched tight, but to his credit, he didn’t cry out.
“Next time,” he said, wincing, “let’s just stay inside with the pianoforte. Less blood that way.”
Before I knew it, words that I thought would never escape my mouth barreled out. “I love the pianoforte.”
“You do?” Mr. Hawke said, his eyes focusing on me with a clarity he hadn’t had before.
I realized then why I had said it. I’d wanted to distract him from the pain, and it was working.
“A few weeks ago, you asked me which of my pursuits I enjoy the most. The answer is the pianoforte.” I pressed down on his bandage harder.
He didn’t seem to notice it in the slightest, for he was transfixed on me, so I continued.
“My mother played. She was a brilliant composer too. She could have been famous if—” My words trailed off.
If Father had let her play outside the house.
But he hadn’t. He was too worried she would distract from the Weston family name.
“She started teaching me when I was eight years old,” I continued, “and playing her music makes me feel like she’s sitting next to me on the bench. It’s what makes me happiest in this world.”
A soft expression warmed his pale face. “I’d like to hear you play someday.”
I stifled my snort. There would be no occasion ever in which I would allow Mr. Hawke to hear my wailing on the pianoforte.
I stood. “You’ll need to ride home. I don’t think you can walk.”