She turned back around, though not before noticing that he was red as a currant.
He blew out a breath, and she felt it stir her hair. “Forgive me. It’s not your fault that I cannot seem to keep my mind off of—”
He stopped. She waited with what was, for her, extraordinary patience, but he did not go on.
“Off of…?”
He made a sounded that resembledggrmph.“Use your imagination, Margo.”
“I don’t want to use my imagination. I want to hear yours.”
Now he definitely groaned.
“I will forgive you,” she added, “if you tell me.”
He leaned forward. “Lifting your skirts.” His lips were almost at her ear, his voice a growl. “Putting my hand between your thighs. Making you beg.”
Margo felt lightheaded. She hoped she did not fall off the horse. “I—see.”
Henry’s teeth closed over the rim of her ear. A fine tremor ran through her body. Her lips had parted—she could hear herself panting.
Henry sat back. His voice was a trifle grim. “Let’s find the nearest village. Then we can talk.”
Margo hopedtalkwas a euphemism for something else entirely.
It took hours for them to find Darley Dale, the small coaching town. Margo’s legs were jellied from riding astride for so long, and when she slid down from the gelding, she nearly crumpled to the ground.
Henry cursed and caught her, his large hands banded to her waist.
His hands—Margo felt quite warm and shivery all over just thinking about them.
But he pulled back once more. “We should find a public house. You’ll need sustenance. It’s been quite a while since you broke your fast.”
He hauled her across the street like a man possessed, and together they ducked into a small, low-ceilinged tavern. The place seemed clean and well-kept, the early afternoon light spilling clearly through new-glazed glass. When they settled themselves at a table, a round-faced woman in an apron hurried over, placing two tankards of ale on the waxed wooden surface before them.
“What do ye fancy, ma’am, sir?” she asked. “We’ve game pie today and—”
She stopped abruptly and looked more closely at Margo, who emerged rather breathlessly from her beer. The woman’s brows drew together for a moment, and then her face cleared. “Begging your pardon, mum! I didn’t know ye at first, since ye’ve changed your dress. Were the buns to your liking?”
Henry looked up, puzzled. Very slowly, Margo set down the ale glass. “The buns?”
“To be sure,” said the tavern keeper. “The caraway buns I sent with ye this morning. After ye broke your fast in the dining room.”
“Me?” Margo said, her voice coming out faint. “You saw me this morning?”
“Of course I did,” the woman said. She looked to Henry with an expression of concern. “Is the lass overset?”
“No.” Henry reached out and caught Margo’s hand, and she gripped hard, steadying herself. “You say she was wearing a different gown? But she looked like this woman here?”
“Just exactly,” said the tavern keeper. “A blue striped dress, but other than that, it could have been her twin. Same hair. Same freckles, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“No,” Henry said. “Not the same freckles at all.”
“Matilda,” Margo managed. Her fingers were still locked with Henry’s. “We found her!” Relief stabbed through her, painful in its intensity. They had started a day after Matilda and Ashford, then had lost another night with the carriage accident and the rainstorm. But somehow they had ended up here, at the coaching village. At the very same public house.
Guilt and alarm made her stomach hurt. Matilda had been here this morning—but where was she now?
She looked up at the tavern keeper. “How long ago did she leave? Do you know where she went? Was she alone?”
