“Georgiana,” she said through gritted teeth, “get in.”
“Bloody hell,” said the earl over her, “get down from there. I’ll drive you back to Dunkeld if you’re in such a great tearing hurry—”
“No,” she said, “no, that’s not necessary. I am perfectly capable—”
“I didn’t say you weren’t capable, I said I can bloody well take care of it—”
“Georgiana!”
Her horse danced uneasily beneath her—probably alarmed by the shrill undertone her voice had begun to take on—so she tightened her grip on the reins and clenched her thighs around the animal’s back.
Don’t fall, she told herself fiercely.Don’t fall, don’t fall.
Georgiana gave Lydia one more incredulous look and then gathered her skirts in one hand. She lifted Bacon up into the post-chaise, then leapt up after him, and Lydia did not even turn to look at Strathrannoch or his beautiful, ramshackle castle before she kicked the horse into motion so fast its mate nearly tripped as it tried to keep up.
Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.
She didn’t. She steered the horses down the long drive, past the ruined gatehouse that she’d looked at with such fondness earlier in the day, and headed back down the road toward Dunkeld.
For all of ten minutes or so, until she heard hooves thundering up the road behind her.
The horses shifted. The one beneath her made to break into a trot, and she tried to pretend she was riding sidesaddle, tried to pretend she was comfortable and competent, tried to pretend she was a woman capable of changing her own life.
But she was only Lydia Hope-Wallace, after all. She was not that other woman.
She twisted her head after she’d calmed the horses to locate the source of the sound.
Strathrannoch. It was Strathrannoch, riding hell-for-leather behind them, mounted on a black horse. He’d shed his smock, and he wore only trousers and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. His mount had a long feathery black mane, which fluttered as horse and rider charged down the road. From a distance they were so well-matched a set that Lydia almost forgot the size of the man, but as he approached, she fairly goggled.
Of course. Of course the man would have a giant horse as well. She suspected that were she to stand beside the horse, its shoulder would top her head by several inches.
But the animal was not half so impressive as the man. His shoulders were huge and broad; she could see the muscles rippling straight through the threadbare linen of his shirt. His thighs strained his trousers as he controlled his enormous mount. It was almost indecent, for heaven’s sake, and Lydia could not tear her eyes from him.
Truly, not even the bravest, boldest, most fantastical version of herself would have ridden up to Perthshire and offered her hand if she’d known the man looked likethat.
She forced herself to stop ogling the earl and stared fixedly at the road stretching in front of her.
“I told you,” she said when he was close enough to slow and hear her, “I will look through the letters. I promise you, I will send along any information that you need to know.”
“For Christ’s sake, you wee bampot, I’m not worried about the letters. I’m worried you’re going to kill yourself halfway to Dunkeld.”
“I can ride a horse perfectly well, thank you.”
“You couldn’t even make it across a room without needing me to catch you!”
She was taken aback by his blunt words, and yet strangely she did not feel intimidated. She felt a tiny frisson of outrage, a hot desire to defend herself.
So often, Lydia’s mother and brothers sheltered her from her fears, safeguarded her from harm. If they could, her brothers would wrap her in cotton wool and set her upon a shelf like a doll: just as safe and just as lifeless.
It was peculiar—good—to face this man’s challenge head-on.
“Stop your mount,” Strathrannoch said. “Let me take over.”
Her blood went hotter at his words. Outrage felt nothing like panic and humiliation, Lydia realized. It feltwonderful.
“I do not need you,” she said, and for once her voice wasn’t thin or shaky. It came out strong and carrying, and if she was a little breathless, it was only because she was perched atop a thousand pounds of poorly controlled horseflesh.
“Icame to offer my fortune toyou,” she went on, her voice rising. “I came to help you fixyourancestral home. I have ridden horses since I was six years old and my brother placed me atop his pony and set it loose on Rotten Row. I do not need your help!”
