Page 164 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“We deal with that when we know it too.”

William had looked at him.

“One problem at a time,” Gabriel said. “We reach Bryn Hir. We find Lord Eastmere. We discover who is responsible. Then you may have whatever crisis you please.”

“How generous.”

“I thought so.”

William had smiled then, reluctantly.

Gabriel was right. It had not made the questions disappear, but it had made them easier to carry.

The horses crested another rise, bringing William abruptly back to the present.

Bryn Hir was still hidden from view.

Rosalind shifted in her saddle ahead of him, and his attention went to her immediately.

Which had happened rather a lot during the journey.

Far more often than he cared to admit.

The previous afternoon, a pheasant had burst suddenly from the brush beside the road. Rosalind’s mare had shied violently, dancing sideways before rearing just high enough to send William’s heart into his throat.

He had been halfway toward her before he realized she did not need him.

Rosalind had shortened the reins, leaned with the mare’s movement, and brought the animal under control before William could reach her.

When Rosalind noticed him beside her, breathless and undoubtedly looking more alarmed than the situation warranted, she blinked.

“William?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

Her expression softened. “Quite certain.”

He looked her over anyway, searching for some injury she had already assured him did not exist. Rosalind seemed to realize what he was doing, and a small smile touched her lips.

“I am all right,” she said more gently.

William knew that, yet he remained beside her for the next mile.

By then, there seemed little point in denying what had become increasingly obvious.

He wanted to take care of her.

Not because Rosalind needed taking care of. If the past several weeks had taught him anything, it was that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. But knowing that did nothing to lessen the instinct that had sent him racing toward her the instant her horse reared.

She mattered to him. Whether she was safe, happy, cold, or exhausted after hours in the saddle mattered more than any of it reasonably should.

Somewhere along the way, William had begun collecting small pieces of her without meaning to. The line between her brows when she concentrated. The way she pressed her lips together when suppressing a laugh. How she grew quieter when she was truly angry, and the particular brightness in her eyes whenever she discovered something everyone else had overlooked.

Even the way she said his name when she forgot she was supposed to be irritated with him.