Rosalind cursed roundly and clutched at the horse’s mane – the only grabbable thing she could find besides Lucas’s thigh.
“Such language, Miss Trewent. Now comfortable?”
“No. I am sitting half on the saddle thing–”
“Pommel.”
“It hurts.”
He let out a sigh and shifted her again, off the saddle thing and back towards himself. Much more comfortable, and she wiggled in.
“Rosalind, whatever you do – do not do that again.” Turning around, she got a face full of snowy-white cravat and so looked up. His jaw was stiff, teeth clenched and scars pulled tight. Goodness, she was sitting directly in his lap now.
“I do apologise, as I have a bony derrière.” She imagined Benedict’s face – but at least she hadn’t said arse.
“Rosalind, have you any idea what your words do to me? No, don’t answer that. Walk on.” He clicked his teeth and lightly dug his heels at the horse’s flanks.
She would have liked to answer his question but was too concerned with maintaining her grip on the horse’s mane. The gait felt uneven and although Lucas had his arms around her waist, holding the reins, she felt as though she was about to slide off. Everything seemed so…high, as the horse gently plodded around the clearing.
“Billy? Take Bluebell back to the stables. We’ll take the bridle path through the woods.”
“Will yer now,” said Billy with a smirk.
“When did you employ that boy? He’s very…forthright.” It was the only word she could think of without insulting Lucas’s choice of servant – cheeky, insolent and impudent were better. She felt him tense behind her and suddenly wondered if the boy could be Lucas’s by-blow? Billy was certainly young enough, if Lucas had been precocious enough. The thought hurt even as she told herself that it didn’t matter.
He didn’t answer, and she slowly found herself relaxing into the unusual rocking gait of the powerful horse.
It was heaven and it was hell. Rosalind’s body had finally matched the rhythm of the horse, and even Goliath now seemed content to amble when this morning he’d been champing at the bit for a good gallop. The heaven part was her soft body, leaning against his in trust and suppleness – he hadn’t held a woman this near for an age. Of course, it was hell for the same reason.
A gentle but cold breeze rushed through the woods, blowing her auburn locks into his face. The hair had been held with a cord but was now loose again. It too smelled of roses, and he became convinced she was trying to torment him although at least she had stopped wiggling in his lap – a man could only take so much, and he’d never said he was a saint. He wasn’t quite sure why she thought her derrière was bony either…possibly the sugared almonds had added some padding, because from the way she was sitting, all he could feel was a lush roundness.
As to her question…
Would she trust him more if he imparted something of himself? Something he felt shamed about, something that sent remorse and guilt flooding through him. Maybe if he told her, she’d understand that everyone had secrets, and that fear only held you captive to them. He wanted to know Rosalind – past, present…and future.
But what if it failed? What if she thought him a monster for his actions and his weakness over a medicine mothers gave their infants to sleep?
At least it would be easier like this, with her facing away: he wouldn’t be able to see her expression.
“Billy was originally my mother’s serving boy.”
“Oh. I see. No, I don’t.” He imagined Rosalind’s forehead creasing and her teeth gnawing her bottom lip in confusion. “I thought he might have been yours?”
“Mine?”
“Your son…or something.”
“What! I don’t…I mean…I haven’t any children, illegitimate or otherwise.” Where did she get her ideas from?
“A lot of gentlemen do. I would have nothing but respect if you looked after any children.”
Lucas smiled and realised he’d have to start at the very beginning.
“I was caught in a fire, in France.” He felt her body instantly stiffen and prayed he was doing the right thing. He’d known Rosalind such a short time but he felt so…close to her, able to confide, and so he continued, “My superior managed to get me back. It was horrendous, and I can hardly remember. They were convinced I would not survive the sea journey.”
He heard Rosalind inhale sharply.
“When I arrived back in England, I was in a very bad way. My wounds had not been dressed although, surprisingly enough, the doctors think that is what may have saved me – that and the immense cold. They are rethinking their treatment of burns now, writing a paper, I believe.”
