Page 91 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Though he couldn’t hear it over the pelting rain and the raging wind, he swore he could see her sigh. “It’s already fallen, Stephen. I thought the danger mostly passed.”

Stephen leapt over the gulley—it was full now, more like a frothing river than a drainage ditch—his boots squelching in the water and mud on the other side. He held out a hand and she took it. She leaned awkwardly against him on the way back down the hill.

He frowned down at her. “What’s the matter?”

“Why, nothing at all.” She gritted her teeth as she stepped back down toward the water. “Just enjoying a lovely stroll.”

“Stop, Vera. What’s wrong?”

With the darkness, he couldn’t see her face. He found he hated it.

“I sprained my ankle, helping that traitorous horse.” Her voice lacked heat. She shortly added, “I’m glad you met the fellow, though. I was worried he might not find his way home.”

Stephen couldn’t help it, he pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her sodden head. The relief thrumming through him, to his very bones—it could only mean one thing. He loved her. He was helplessly, madly in love with Miss Vera Ashbury. Of course he’d suspected as much, which was why his thoughts had turned toward marriage as of late. Still, this moment drove the emotion home soundly.

“Why are you hugging me?” Vera asked suspiciously. “Are you about to deliver bad news? Is there something wrong with the horse? I thought he looked all right⁠—”

“Vera, shut up about the damn horse,” he ground out.

She fell silent, and he was grateful for it. He could barely think over the howling of the wind, over the much louder howling of emotions raging within him.

Stephen could have lost her. The fear coursing through him wasn’t just because of tonight, not just because of the stark terror he’d felt when that lone, riderless horse had loomed out of the darkness before him. No—he could have lost her in so many ways.

What if Vera had been accepted to a position before he’d even arrived home from India? They might have never met.

What if Vera hadn’t possessed a great capacity to forgive? He could have lost her with his own arrogance, his own stupid, disbelieving cruelty.

And Stephen might lose her still—if Vera didn’t feel as he did, if he couldn’t convince her to love him back…

Not to mention the danger she’d faced tonight—she could have been gravely injured. Vera could have died. And here she was blathering on about the horse. As it was, she was soaked and shivering and had sprained her ankle…

And Stephen was holding her like a dolt in the middle of the storm, when he could be getting her to safety.

“Forgive me,” he said, drawing back abruptly. “Let’s get you home.”

“That sounds wonderful. Can we please speak of fires and warm baths and hot tea all the way back?” Her lips stuttered on the consonants, belying just how chilled she was.

Stephen’s mind nearly stumbled at the thought of Vera in a bath, but he recovered nicely—his thoughts flew at once to pneumonia, to pleurisy, to fevers. He cursed himself anew.

He swept her up into his arms; Vera gave a little cry of surprise. Stephen charged down the gulley. When he was ankle-deep in the water, he jumped and splashed into the shallows on the other side. His boots were of excellent make, but even oiled leather had its limitations—water seeped in at the seams and his wool socks began wicking the moisture upwards.

It didn’t matter—he didn’t care. Vera was far wetter and far colder than he was.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” she squeaked, but he frowned down at her, unconvinced.

He set her atop his horse and swung up behind her, then set as fast a pace as was safe for home.

CHAPTER 29- VERA

Goodness’ sakes, Vera, she chided. Get ahold of yourself.

But it perhaps wasn’t her fault. Stephen had held her like she was unexpectedly precious. The dampness of her gown and cloak meant that the delicious heat of his body had transferred very easily to her. Vera told herself that it was only because she was so cold that she longed for him to hold her like that forever.

But then—as if the embrace hadn’t been disorienting enough—Stephen had picked her up and carried her. It was just like all those romantic heroes in Candace’s gothic novels. Except Vera didn’t feel like a heroine so much as a bedraggled rat that had been wedged in a drainpipe. Her hair stuck to her neck like wet grass. Her one stockinged foot was muddy to her knee, and the other ankle felt like a painful grapefruit-sized lump.

Though she appreciated how quickly Stephen rode toward Bertforth House, she winced every other minute. Her foot dangled awkwardly and bumped the side of the horse. Vera noticed that Stephen had dropped the lead of the other horse, the one she’d saved.