“Your men are at least twenty minutes away, and unprepared besides. It will be nearly an hour before they make it back here if we go to fetch them. Do you really intend to let your cow die rather than permitting me a little blood on my hands?”
“You cannot know what you are doing!”
But, in fact, she did seem to know. He watched in horrified amazement as she did the unspeakable—reaching inside the cow to search for the calf’s front hooves. She grimaced, her dark eyes looking in his direction but not focused upon him. “Mr Darcy, I can feel it, but my hand is not large enough to grasp. Can you try?”
Revulsion shuddered through him, but his pride would not suffer for a woman and a guest to best him at such an endeavour. He stripped off his coat and tossed it over his saddle, then rolled up his shirt sleeves to kneel beside her.
The rest passed in something of a daze for Darcy. Above the gritty brutality of the scene, a piercing awareness left him reeling. Her shoulders were pressed into his chest as she tried to turn the calf, then they were pulling together. His mind must have closed itself down to everything it found repulsive, for the only senses he was aware of was the touch of her hand beside his, the warm life stirring beneath his fingertips, and the fresh, clean fragrance of her hair when the calf lurched at last, and she fell into him. She was laughing, her weight toppling him backwards. Though he still held his soiled hands apart, his arms unconsciously closed around her body until the soft flesh of her neck bumped his chin.
She wriggled, trying to sit upright again and accidentally delivering a few rather sharp blows to his ribs in the process. “A bull! It is a bull calf, sir! I—” She stopped mid-sentence as she turned to him and found his face only inches away. She cleared her throat, blinked, then looked down at her hands. “I suppose I need some water.”
He lurched unsteadily to his feet and offered his hand to help her up, then considered withdrawing it when he saw the filth covering his palm. “Uhm…”
But before he could step back, she grasped his hand, and a moment later they stood facing one another—both the worse for their labours. “I…” He stared stupidly at their hands, their clothes, and still could not help but admire the sweat-streaked tendrils of hair that had worked loose from her bun.
She was still holding his hand, but with a few rapid blinks and a gasp, dropped it suddenly. “Mr Darcy, sir, I beg you would forgive me for asking that of you.”
“Asking what? That I would care for my own animals? Who should have done it but I? You were quite right, for both would have died if we had tried to send for help.”
“But to direct you to do as I did… to order you to… you must have found it offensive. I expect now you know me to be far less a lady than I had managed to convince you before.”
He laughed quietly. “I had already settled it with myself that you were no proper lady.Thatwas no surprise to me, but do you always fling yourself headlong into trial and danger?”
“Frequently, I am afraid.”
“Indeed! Perhaps I am beginning to understand why my cousin carried you off, after all.”
Her expression at once took on a haunted, broken look, and she stepped back.Idiot, Darcy scolded himself. What a foolish thing to say to a woman mourning the absence of her husband!
She was looking uncomfortably around, avoiding his face. Darcy gestured beyond her, fumbling for some way of helping her forget his careless words. “There is a stream just there. We can wash a little, and I will escort you through the secret passageways into the house.”
Mrs Fitzwilliam tilted her head, those eyes twinkling in curiosity. “Secret passageways? Why?”
“I… thought it might go better for you if you were not seen… that is, before you dressed.”
“Oh. Miss Darcy would find it vulgar. Of course, you are right. I had not thought of that.”
Darcy pinched his lips together and turned about, rather than meeting her gaze. The young cow was already standing and cleaning her calf, her mortal peril now entirely forgotten. The calf, too, thrashed lustily and then struggled to his feet. Mrs Fitzwilliam was beaming proudly as they watched the youngster, then turned as if to share her infectious joy but she sobered instantly when she met his eyes. He tipped his head in the direction of the stream, trickling only a few yards away, and began to walk. She followed, then they knelt together on the marshy bank.
Darcy’s eyes strayed from his own hands to the delicate lines of hers as the cool water sparkled over them. Her hands were formed… differently than he was accustomed to. Her fingers were not long and tapered like most ladies he knew, but rather short, and not entirely straight. The flexor muscles at the base of her thumb were well-defined and curved almost voluptuously down to delicate wrists. Her forearms were sculpted, shapely and lean, and a fine network of veins crossed their inner surface… no. No, they were not veins, but a light web of scars.
He looked curiously to her face, but she had apparently sensed his notice. Her mouth was set grimly, and she even seemed to be turning faintly away as she finished the task of cleaning her hands. Darcy settled back to his own concerns, briskly scrubbing his forearms, and then shaking the cold droplets from his skin. He returned to the horses before she did, and retrieved both of their hats from the ground, dusting hers off before offering it again to her. She accepted it as if uncertain what to do with it, turning it over with a furrowed brow before she settled it on her head, the veil slightly askew.
“Mrs Fitzwilliam, if I may?” He gently turned the hat on her head, and enjoyed her embarrassed giggle more than he cared to admit. He then offered his hand to assist her into the saddle. Her face softened, and she looked for a moment as if she would accept with pleasure, but then her features seemed to cool.
“Thank you, Mr Darcy, but it is not necessary. I can manage.” She gave the horse a cue, and Darcy watched in astonishment as his own mare—a champion polo pony purchased for her fire and quickness—gave a low groan and dropped herself down on the grass for her rider to mount. Mrs Fitzwilliam settled herself in the saddle, and even spread her skirts with little trouble, and then she gave the horse another signal to stand up.
She grinned proudly back at Darcy. “I have grown quite fond of your horse, sir.”
He coughed. “Yes, well… not many can manage a horse of her sensitivity, but I see you are getting on with her well enough.”
She laughed and patted the mare’s neck, but when she took up the reins, she looked all abashed, then started twisting in the saddle and looking at the ground. “Drat!”
“Something amiss?”
“I, ah… I believe I have lost my gloves again. I forgot all about them—not used to them, you see. I think it is the third pair I have lost.”
“And I am certain they will not be the last. Come, I believe we can manage to find another pair for you.”
