“Yes,” he said. “I stole one.”
Chapter 9
Everything was completely mad. Matilda had eloped with Ashford. Margo was lost in Derbyshire. She hadsleptwith Henry, who cursed now and also was a virgin. Or—no, he was no longer a virgin, because she had in fact deflowered him the night before.
She, a despoiler of virgins! She’d never felt more like a Halifax Hellion in her life.
Moreover, though Henry no longer seemed interested in finding his pleasure with her—which was fine and certainly not a good explanation for the tears that kept filling her eyes—she’d evidently corrupted him in other ways.
Henry hadstolena horse. Henry! Who had probably never broken a rule in his life.
He sat now atop the chestnut gelding, gazing down in the vicinity of her boots. She followed his gaze. She was a disheveled mess. She probably smelled. Her traveling dress was not divided for riding.
“Do you want to ride in front or behind?” Henry asked, his fingers gripping the gelding’s bridle.
“In front.” She was not about to cling to his back like a limpet. Let him do the clinging.
He looked down at her, and his ears went pink, and she refused to be charmed. “I’ve reconsidered. You should ride behind.”
She gritted her teeth. “Did you not just ask me my preference moments ago? Whyever would youaskif you did not mean to—”
“Fine,” Henry snapped, and, bending, he half-boosted, half-flung her onto the horse’s back in front of him.
She was fairly certain he had not groped her backside, and she found herself absurdly disappointed.
She shifted, trying to arrange her skirts in a way that did not completely restrict her range of motion while also protecting her skin from rubbing raw on the horse’s back. Wherever Henry had managed to find a horse, he’d inexplicably secured a bridle but no saddle. They were bareback and astride, which was perfectly fine with her. She and Matilda had been doing both since childhood, though usually while wearing men’s breeches.
She attempted to lean back against Henry as she adjusted the crumpled fabric, and he shifted backward away from her.
She pinched her lips together. So he wanted to act as though she were repellent now, did he?
It was absurd, insulting. He had been just as willing as she!
But perhaps—well. She had not known he was not experienced. She should have taken things more slowly, been more gentle. Perhaps she had rushed him—she often rushed things, smashed things with her carelessness.
Somehow she had smashed their comfort, the ease of long-held friendship between them.
He reached around her body to grip the reins, his arms coming around either side of her. They rode in silence for several minutes, Henry leading them back out to the road and up the way they had come the day before.
“Henry?”
“Hmm?” He sounded abstracted, his voice and body both stiff.
“Where did you find this horse?”
“I told you.” His voice still sounded strained. The horse missed a step and she rocked against Henry’s body behind her. He made an almost inaudible sound. “It—I went looking for more firewood this morning and found it bridled in the woods.”
“And you simply brought it with you?” She shifted in her seat.
“Yes. I mean to send it back with some coin eventually. I—would youstopdoing that?”
She craned her head around to look at him, which brought her face startlingly close to his. She could see the faint line of dried blood where he’d cut himself with his razor. Her eyes fell on the curve of his lower lip, which was less a serious slash at this juncture and more of a pout.
“Doing what?”
“Wiggling like that! I am trying to find civilization, and I can’t—I can’t—”
It dawned on her then precisely why it was so difficult to make herself comfortable in Henry’s lap. He was—er. Goodness. She hadn’t imagined a man could achieve that state while on horseback, although she supposed she’d never thought about it.
