He beamed. How many other ways could he bring color to her cheeks?
She tilted her face toward the cloudless blue sky. “You know, this does not feel dangerous at all. It feels quite nice, riding with you as if nothing has changed.”
Was that the tact he should take? Be as placidly pleasant as possible so she never felt at risk? Sounded like an excellent way to avoid strong emotions, and he didn’t want her to avoid them but to embrace them. Because what he felt for her was decidedly strong, and one of the few emotions he could not control, try as he might.
“It sounds like you’re angling for a dare,” he said, focusing on the road before them.
Her head swiveled on her neck like a weather vane caught in a strong gust. “Of course not. I no longerdare.”
“No? Pity.”
“Necessary,” she grumbled. “Seeing you shirtless seems daring enough for one day.”
Liked that, had she? Good. But he could not risk the direction a shirtless dare would take them. That was too dangerous for him. He needed something light, fun, something to remind her that she was a spirited woman. And that was an excellent thing. Something silly like a race to the village, or stealing a rose from the curate’s garden, or—the curate’s garden. Of course. Perfect.
They rode so close together his leg almost brushed her skirt.
He reached out and flicked a curl. “For a dare to be worthwhile, my Lady Jane, what you stand to win has to be worth more than what you stand to lose. Do you understand?”
She rolled her eyes.
“I am going to buy one single puff pastry.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“And if you do not kiss Sir Peter, I will eat it myself.”
Her mouth opened. It snapped shut. Apple danced beneath her, a sign of Jane’s agitation. “I’ll buy my own pastry, thank you very much.”
“Do you have funds on you?”
“No. But the Lucky Goose knows they will get their due.”
“Then you’ll not play our game.” He nudged Little John, prompting him to turn around, then trotted in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?”
“Back. There’s no need to go out if you’re not willing to play.”
“Hells. Come back, George. I’ll play your silly game.”
He turned Little John back around and returned to her side. “One puff pastry hangs in the balance. If you do not kiss Sir Peter, it’s mine.”
Her face screwed up in distaste. “But I don’t want to kiss a giant, hairy, dirty pig, George. He eats muck. And sleeps in it too. He’s a nice pig as far as they come, but he is still a pig.”
“Pigs are actually rather clean, Jane. What you have to ask yourself is this—is the puff pastry you would run me through for a mere taste of actually good enough to kiss a pig for?”
She tossed her chin in the air but kept her trajectory toward Little Whittington. “This is not the kind of daring I’m used to.”
“And what kind of dares are you used to?”
“Stealing Lady Jersey’s lemonade, dancing barefoot at a ball, giving someone the wrong name.”
“Sounds like kissing a pig is similarly silly.”
She tossed him a dirty look. “It’s certainly not dangerous. Isn’t that what this entire mad lark is about? Proving that risking a little bit will not kill me or some such rot?”
“It’s about as rotten as your idea of marrying a man who”—he bit his tongue—“marrying me willnotbe the end of all your happiness.” As long as Uncle Neville continued to improve. A refrain he could not let up, the only words that kept his hope aloft.
