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Charles hesitated, holding to the horse’s sides despite Amelia’s offer. They rode through the silent, dead town, the noise from the inn’s taproom fading the further they drew from it. The moon shone brightly above them, lighting the road and shimmering off the metal bits of the horses’ bridles. Charles jostled on the slick, bare back. He could not seem to grant himself permission to hold on to the woman before him, but if his hands did not find purchase on something other than the horse’s smooth rump, Amelia was right—he would fall. Again.
“Just hold on to me,” Amelia whispered, turning her head enough so her quiet voice might reach him and not her friends—or he assumed that to be her motive. Her voice was near and their position intimate, jostling him to awareness like a quick splash of stream water. “I’ve been married, Charles. A man’s hands do not frighten me.”
That was not an image he enjoyed. The idea of any man’s hands on Amelia was enough to sour the drink where it sat in his stomach. He swallowed back the irritation gathering in his throat. He needed to get a hold on this unruly jealousy. Gads, the woman had merely mentioned hands. And currently, she welcomed his.
Sliding his arms around her waist, he secured his hold. No longer feeling as though a trot would toss him from the back of the slippery horse’s hide, he expected his shoulders to relax and the rigidity to abate—only, the opposite seemed to occur. How had he managed to live so long without knowing the sweet feel of her in his arms?
Get a grip, Charles. This was a rescue effort and nothing more. In fact, she was merely repaying his actions from the day he pushed her gig free of the mud if he’d correctly taken her measure. Friends. They were friends.
“Better?” she asked, barely turning her face in his direction. The moonlight shone on her angular jawline, glinting on the thin buckle on her hat.
Lud, this was harder than he expected. “Yes, much better.”
Miss Green slowed her horse, worry creasing her brow. “Amelia, I really must get Giulia home.”
“Go on,” Amelia said. “I can see to it that Charles and I are both safely returned to our houses.”
“But if you are seen together, surely—”
“We won’t be,” she said with confidence. “It is too dark to see much of anything anyway.”
Miss Green didn’t look convinced. Her small nose scrunched, her mouth turned down in a frown. “I suppose no one will be the wiser, will they? Who could possibly be out this late?”
Amelia didn’t argue the point. “We shall be fine.”
“Very well.”
Miss Green and Mrs. Pepper rode away, leaving them in the still darkness. They could have continued on together until the split in the road, but that would have meant speeding the horse, and that would be a danger to Charles—one jostle and he was sure to fly off the back. He watched the other women’s horses disappear down the lane, leaving him completely, utterly alone with the woman who haunted his dreams—both asleep and otherwise. “If you would like to go directly to Falbrooke, I can ride home and return your horse tomorrow.”
“No, I can see you to Sheffield House.”
What was the reason for this stubbornness? “In the case that we are spotted, it would be better for—”
“For whom?” she asked, glancing back at him. The way she sat sidesaddle before him made it easy for her to look his way, and he found he liked the proximity when she did so very much. “I am a widow, Charles, thrice over. I should think I am beyond reproach.”
“No one is beyond reproach. But the fact remains that a young woman in such an intimate position with a man would not remain—”
“Do not argue that you must save my reputation.” Her voice was dry, her light scoff floating on the cool night.
“I cannot very well argue anything if you continue to cut me off like that.”
She stiffened in his arms. Had he gone too far? He meant it as something of a jest, though it certainly held the truth.
They followed the curving path from the road, slipping onto the lane that led to Charles’s house. Branches from tall beech trees hung over one side of the lane, cutting off the moonlight and lessening their visibility.
“I think I hear something,” Amelia said, her voice faint as she pulled on the reins of her horse, slowing him. The quieter hoofbeats made it easier to hear, but still, Charles heard nothing but the faint sounds of rustling leaves and the silence that only night could bring.
“I don’t—”
“Shh.” She twisted on her sidesaddle to better face him, her finger lifting to his lips. He could not decipher her face well enough to determine her expression any longer, but her eyes shone, and they were fastened on him. “I really do think I hear something.”
Swallowing, Charles released one of his hands from her waist to grip her wrist instead, pulling her finger away from his lips. He strained his ears for the sound she referred to, but all he could hear was his heavy pulse thrumming in his ears. “I hear nothing, Mrs. Fawn.”
“But what if it’s the gypsies? The ones Mrs. Naylor spoke of tonight.”
“What did Mrs. Naylor say?” Likely the same thing Mr. Conway had said to Charles, but he wanted to know, nonetheless.
“She mentioned that we ought to be on our guard, that a group had made camp near the creek on the edge of Donning Grove. Is this not Donning Grove?”
