Jasper did not touch her.
He wanted to. God, he wanted to gather her up, hold her, kiss her hair and put himself between her and every horror, but there was a difference between comfort and capture, and he was learning it late, but he was learning.
He remained where he was, seated in the mud like a fool, hands open upon his knees.
After a moment, Charlotte gave a choked, miserable laugh. “You look ridiculous.”
He offered a smile. “How so?”
She wiped her eyes, smearing mud across her face. “You are sitting in a puddle.”
“Am I? I suppose I had noticed a certain dampness.”
Another laugh broke from her, and then another sob followed it so closely that the sound became something else entirely.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, pressing the back of her muddy glove to her mouth. “Oh, God. He is dead.”
“Yes, I think he is.”
They sat in silence for a time, with Charlotte staring at the stream, as though the water might arrange events into some sensible order if she watched it long enough.
“Well,” she said at long last. “I shall tell you the truth. He forged these letters in my hand, and though I cannot bring myself to read them, I can only imagine what wicked things he has written. He meant to sell them to the scandal sheets. Or threaten to—I’m not sure which. I—” She stumbled over her words.
“Charlotte—”
“No. Let me finish.” Her voice shook, but she lifted one hand, as though commanding silence at Almack’s rather than sitting tear-streaked beside a stream. “If I stop now, I shall never say it.”
He bowed his head.
Charlotte breathed deeply. “He held the letters out, though not near enough for me to take them. He was enjoying it. He was enjoying every second, because he knew I was afraid and wanted to see whether I should beg. I think he wanted that most of all. Not the money, nor even the scandal. He wanted me begging.”
Jasper’s jaw worked, but he did not speak.
“But I did not beg.” A terrible little smile passed over her face and vanished. “I moved my horse closer, as though I meant to look at them. He laughed and called me a clever girl. And then I snatched the letters.”
“Good,” Jasper said, very softly.
Lottie’s fingers tightened around her skirt. “He grabbed my reins.”
Her voice thinned, and Jasper saw, horribly, that she was no longer quite beside the stream with him. She was in the clearing again.
“He caught them here.” She lifted both hands, showing where the leather had pulled. “He jerked my mare towards his horse, hard enough that she nearly slipped. I told him to let go, but he would not. He said I had always liked a struggle.”
Jasper closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was watching him.
“I hit him,” she said.
“With your crop?”
“Yes. Across the wrist. He swore and let go, but then he came at me. Not—” She stopped, swallowed, and began again. “Not quite at me. At the letters. At my hand. I think he meant to tear them away, or knock me down, or perhaps only frighten me into dropping them. I do not know. Everything happened very quickly. His horse was already wild. He had ridden the poor creature too hard, and he was jerking at its mouth. When I struck him again, the grey reared.” Her breath hitched.
“In the confusion, I dropped one of the letters. I could not let him have them again, so I dismounted. My mare was frightened half out of her senses. She bolted the moment my feet touched the ground.”
Her voice shook, but she continued. “Marchmont dismounted too, and came after me, trying to snatch the letters back. I had them in my hand, and he caught at my sleeve. I hit him, right in the nose with my fist. He slipped.” She swallowed. “He was very near the edge.
“I could have tried to help him, I think. But I was holding the letters, and I thought—” She pressed her lips together. “I thought, no. Save yourself. The bramble broke, and as he went down, he screamed. High and dreadful, like a woman. So you see, I did not kill him. But I did not save him either.”
Jasper was silent, before he reached, slowly enough that she might draw away, and laid his hand open upon the ground between them. “You saved yourself. That is no sin.”
