She managed it for at least a quarter of an hour, only allowing herself glances at the stoic man beside her every few minutes. When a row of trees cropped up on the horizon, she practically jumped out of her seat. Standing, she pointed at the small green dots. “Is that Mr. Johnson’s farm?”
“Yes.”
She sighed in relief.
“You’d best sit back down.”
“Because Bessy up there is such a dangerous beast?”
Finally Mr. Harrison looked her in the eye. “Her name is Marge, andsheisn’t dangerous, but the road can be.”
His back, which had been hunched over as he drove, became ramrod straight, and his words were firm. Here was the gentleman she had expected to marry. Proud and unnerved. She hadn’t thought she would want a proud man, but being looked in the eye was much more preferential to being ignored.
She wasn’t about to sit down so he could go back to ignoring her. “How dangerous, exactly, when we are goin’ at such a pace?”
Mr. Harrison’s eyes narrowed. “Marge may be slow, but she gets me where I need to go. Every day, without fail.”
Proud, unnerved, and surprisingly loyal to the old nag pulling the cart. She glanced ahead at the carthorse. Perhaps her hooves weren’t so low to the ground after all. She turned back to Mr. Harrison and gave him a smile. “Eventually.”
His mouth, which had been set in a hard line when she’d disparaged his steed, curved up on one side. “Yes.” His blue eyes sparked in a way that justified his mother’s pride and all those deliveries in the back of the cart. “Eventually.”
She tipped her head to one side, making a mental note to talk more about Marge. She was one topic on which he seemed happy to speak. “I suppose, for some things, slow is better than fast.”
At that, he snorted. “That’s for certain.” He turned back to the road ahead of them. Mr. Harrison’s eyes immediately widened and he jerked his hand on the reins. “Blast.”
“Wha—” Lucy pitched forward, her hands flailing out around her, but there was nothing to grab. She was going to fall down from her seat, land in front of the wheels, and be crushed by the slowest moving cart in all of England.
Mr. Harrison dropped the reins and flew forward. She’d thought if she were ever to be saved from certain death by her future husband, he would have reached for her waist or her hand, or, even better, he would have jumped and pulled her firmly to him, risking life and limb to ensure her safety.
Mr. Harrison grabbed the bottom half of her full skirt and yanked, catching her just in time.
Her legs were suspended in midair, flailing about as she tried to keep her balance. Her head and torso, however, were suspended between Marge and the cart, her head hanging precariously over the hitch and spring bar. Mr. Harrison gripped her dress tightly, using his strong arms to pull her toward him.
Her arms flapped about, trying and failing to find anything to grab onto and steady herself, but to no avail. This was not at all the impression she had hoped to make on her fiancé. No wonder the man had run away from her. She was a disaster of epic proportions.
“Whoa!” Mr. Harrison hollered to his beloved horse, still pulling Lucy closer to him. Since Marge was barely moving as it was, the cart came to a stop almost immediately.
“Mr. Scarper! Let go of my skirt and help me stand, this instant.” She remembered to use his false name, but had dropped her Scottish accent. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t seemed to notice.
“If I let go of your skirt, you will fall.”
She craned her head to see over her skirts and into Mr. Harrison’s red face. Hers was most likely a much brighter shade of red than his. Her neck ached from holding her head up without support. “Then what do you propose we do?”
“Can’t you sit up?”
Had the man never seen a corset?
“No, I cannot simply sit up from this position.” The pain in her neck was intensifying. “I suppose I will have to roll.”
He grunted. “Just a minute.”
“I can’t hold this position much longer.”
He let out a burst of air. “Neither can I, and I need a more solid grip on your skirt.”
She let her head fall back. This was ridiculous. A snort escaped her throat. “Oh, just drop me. Marge isn’t even moving anymore.”
“I can’t drop a young lady. It would be completely inappropriate.”
