Chapter Ten #2
Lord Graham managed to lift her off of him and sit upright before his brother reached them. The younger Graham quickly dismounted and rushed over to assist his brother to his feet.
“Did you injure your leg again?” the younger brother asked.
“No,” Lord Graham assured. “Over the years I have learned how to fall.” His Lordship knocked the leaves and dust from his clothing. He reached a hand to her, and they stood up side by side. “The fall was actually safer for both of us than if we attempted not to fall.”
His voiced sounded so calm that for a moment Freya questioned if the kiss—brief as it was—meant nothing to him.
That is, until they made eye contact. She had viewed him with his family and with others in Parliament, and, though she did not yet know all of his emotions, he was as shaken by their brief kiss as was she.
Truly, the kiss had been more monumental than the fall.
The idea pleased her. “I should return to the vicarage,” she managed.
“Are you confident you are well, my lord?”
“I am, my lady, though likely this evening, we will both require liniment.” The smile she admired had returned. She knew Lord Graham was considering the intimacy of their knowledge of each other and approving of it.
“I hold no doubt,” she said. “Thank you for the rescue, my lord.” To the younger Lord Graham, she said, “I apologize for being on Lord Rayland’s property without permission.
My aunt had suggested the area for me to examine and perhaps sketch, but I shall tell her it is not permissible and beg your forgiveness in her name. ”
“It was my fault,” the younger Graham said with a frown. “I should have asked questions before I made my accusation. Forgive me, my lady. I had other more disagreeable matters on my mind. If you are friends with my elder brother, I am glad for the acquaintance.”
“Actually,” Freya said smartly, “we have met previously, though we were only around ten or eleven years of age at the time.”
Lord Graham said, “How could one forget such a fetching Scottish lass, Boyde? I am ashamed of you.”
The younger Lord Graham frowned. “Then I must apologize twice for my behavior.”
Before the conversation could go further, Lord Graham said, “I should call upon your mother, Boyde. Do you wish to return to the manor or…”
The younger Graham said something neither of them expected.
“I should call upon Rayland’s vicar and introduce myself.
Moreover, I would not wish for Lady Freya’s family to be angry with her for something caused by my stepfather’s prized bull.
” He dismounted and bowed to her. “Permit me to see you safely to your home, my lady.” Then he asked without preamble, “Should I lift you to my horse’s back or would you prefer to walk? ”
However, before any of them could move, a gun shot rang out.
A bullet ricocheted off the nearby bench.
Lord Graham instinctively moved before either of his two companions.
He took Freya down to the ground again. He covered her with his own body, while a second shot, from what had to be another gun, hit the ground some five feet from where they were cocooned together in the brown winter grass.
Aaran waited until Boyde called out, “What the devil?” before he even considered climbing off Lady Freya’s body.
It was one thing when she was on top of him, as she had been only a few minutes earlier, but quite another when he was on top of her, his manhood nuzzled in the crevice of her womanhood, and, like any man, he wished to remain there for an eternity.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked Lady Freya when he raised his head to look down upon her lovely features, memorizing her sweet expression.
He thought for the briefest of moments, with her at his side, he could finally leave behind the gutted feeling he had known since childhood.
That he could forget the necessity of burying all his emotions in order to manage the details of each day of his life.
He could stop second-guessing every decision, for there would be another in his life who would look out for him and want him to know happiness.
In many ways, Aaran did not want such a connection—did not want something so visceral and private with anyone. Nor would he choose the sexual awareness skittering through his system, at this very moment, or wish to know the emotional empathy her presence brought to his life.
Boyde shook his shoulder. “Are you well, Aaran?”
Regrettably, Aaran was made to lift himself off the luscious body of Lady Freya Cunningham. He rose and held a hand down to her. “I pray you will not be heavily bruised tomorrow.”
Her fingers grasped his, and Aaran tugged her to her feet while he asked Boyde, “Did you view the shooter? Was it purposeful or a mistake?”
“Cannot say with confidence,” Boyde admitted, as he also stood. “I did not see him until the second shot, and, even then, not clearly.”
“Describe him,” Aaran ordered as he briefly watched Lady Freya knock the dust, grass, and leaves from her clothes.
“Medium build,” Boyde began, his eyes closed in remembrance. “A bit heavy around the middle.”
“How was he dressed? Like a farmer? A gentleman?” Aaran demanded.
“Neither,” Boyde said with a frown. “All in black. Hat. Coat. Gloves.”
“Did you see his face?” Aaran questioned in hopeful urgency.