“We won’t be hiring horses.”
Lyssa almost stumbled over her feet again in surprise. “You don’t mean towalkall the way to Appin?”
“How else did you think we would travel?”
“With Charley and Duci, I had the wagon.”
“There is no money for a wagon either, unless you have some.”
She didn’t. Her money had been hidden in the wagon that was burned to the ground. “You came after me without a shilling?” She’d never imagined herself without money.
“What little I have can be better spent than hiring horses.”
“I doubt that.”
Her flat reply startled a laugh out of him. “Oh, come now, people walk the distance across Scotland and back all the time, Miss Harrell. We shall manage.”
“But not with my—” She stopped just in time. She’d been about to complain of her blisters, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She’d heard the touch of satisfaction in his voice over having the power to make the rich man’s daughter walk. Oh, no, like the noble Joan of Arc, she vowed to keep her personal sufferings private.
“Not with your what?” he prompted.
“Not with the present company,” she improvised. “I’m certain walking is more pleasant with better company.” Hedidn’t like that response one wit, and she liked getting a bit of her own back—even though each step was agony.
And yet, she kept on, refusing to complain. She was her father’s daughter for a reason.
The Irishman led the way, holding back low-hanging branches that would have swiped her in the face or helping her scramble up the often steep climbs in the forest path. She hid her suffering. Behind his back, she would hobble like a troll, but once he turned, she forced herself to walk upright.
In truth, the longer they traveled, the friendlier he became. As the first rays of the sun signaled the approaching dawn, he appeared ready to smile—until he caught sight of her limping.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“I’ve a blister. Nothing more, nothing less.” They had come to a smooth road which she hoped would make the walking easier. She attempted to pass him, her head high…but parts of her feet felt like hot coals.
He held out his arm, blocking her path. “Sit down on that rock and take off your shoes.”
“I have no intention of doing any such thing.” And she would have ducked under his arm and continued on her way, except he hooked his hand in her elbow and swung her around to face him.
Lording his height over her, he asked, “What? You’d rather walk until you have nubs instead of feet?”
“That won’t happen,” she said.
“It will and it has,” he shot back. “I’ve seen grown men losealltheir toes because they didn’t take care of a blister.”
Lyssa frowned, slightly unnerved by his accurate diagnosis of her problem and yet not believing such a preposterous statement. “You’re hoaxing me.”
He shook his head. “Sit on that rock. We’ve been walking most of the night and the time’s come to take a breather.”
Her pride tempted her to nobly wobble on in spite of the pain. She wondered if he would be more contrite if shedidend up with nubs instead of feet.
However, what won her over was the idea of sitting. He was right. They had been moving all night. Letting down her guard, she gratefully sank onto the round, flat stone half buried in the hillside beside the road.
Who would have thought “sitting” could be such heaven?
He dropped to his knees in front of her and reached for her shoe. She pulled her foot back. “What are you doing?”
“Easing your laces a bit,” he said. “As I am your father’s agent, your health and well-being are my responsibility.”
“I can look after my own feet,” she informed him primly. This didn’t seem proper, his playing with her feet. It was too, too…intimate.
