And Lydia became suddenly aware of a number of physical sensations.
She was pulled across his lap, her chest crushed against his, one of her knees tangled in her skirts and pressed into his hip. Her other leg was stretched across his opposite thigh. Her hand was wrapped in his shirt, holding their bodies pressed together. His arm encircled her waist.
They were as closely entwined as two people could be. She could feel his heat straight through the layers of their clothes. He was hot as a forge and hard as iron, and the burnt-honey smell of him went straight to her belly and then lower.
She felt a sudden, dizzy unfurling in her body as she looked at him looking at her mouth.
She licked her lips. His arm flexed, as if involuntarily, but she could not come closer to him. She was already pressed as tightly as she could be, her curves molded to the contours of his chest.
He made a quick, rasping sound in the back of his throat, and she—
She liked that sound. She liked it quite a lot. Her indrawn breath was almost a gasp.
His eyes flew back up to hers.
“I beg your pardon,” he said hoarsely. “You’re—are you—can you get down?”
“Oh,” she said.
“The crisis has passed—’tis perfectly natural to—that is, I—”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “I’m not entirely certain I can, er, use my legs.”
“Bloody hell.” He dropped the reins and shifted his grip on her, scooping her legs up with one arm.
The musculature on the man’s limbs was absurd, really. She was not a tall woman, but certainly no one would describe her as petite. She had plump thighs and generous hips and breasts that regularly threatened the wide, low necklines currently à la mode. But the man lifted her up against him as though she were a delicate little waif.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have liked it quite so much. But as he flung his leg over the horse’s side and brought them both to the ground, she was forced to admit to herself that she found all that leashed physical power rather alarmingly appealing.
“I’m going to set you down,” he informed her once he had his feet. “Can you stand on your own?”
“We’ll find out.”
He muttered something under his breath and then let her slide down his body until her feet touched the ground.
Lydia felt every slow, hot inch of that slide. Her riding habit was made of sensible cotton twill, but it might as well have been made of gossamer for all it seemed to separate her body from his. She felt the press of his chest, and the buttons of his falls. She felt the cool brush of air on the backs of her calves as her feet met the ground.
And when he released her, she promptly crumpled back into him.
“Good Christ,” he muttered, and wrapped his arms around her again. “Take a moment to get your legs under you. I have you.”
He continued to mumble under his breath, something aboutdevilandlunatic, and she decided it was best for her dignity if she did not try to discern any further words.
When she could finally stand on her own, she tugged herself out of Strathrannoch’s grip, and he dropped his arms so fast that a flare of embarrassment lit inside her.
He had rescued her, yes. But surely he had not anticipated that such a rescue would end with an extended embrace. Perhaps she had imagined that heated glance at her mouth.
“We ought to go back to Georgiana,” she said. “Make certain she’s all right.”
“Aye,” he said.
“Can we, er”—she shot a glance at his horse—“walk? I am not entirely confident I can get back up on a horse. Ever.”
He gave a raspy laugh. “Aye, lass. We can walk. Had you ever ridden astride like that before?”
They made for the road, and Lydia glanced up. Strathrannoch’s fancifully colored eyes were fixed on his horse, lipping at grasses near the road’s edge.
“Of course,” she said primly. “At least… four or five times.”
