I swear I did my best to avert my eyes, just as I am certain she did her best to arrange my coat around her figure, but I saw a waxing crescent moon-sized sliver of her backside. My face burned. Though I tried with all my mental strength to think of anything other than the shape of her, my face heated with the exertion.
My horse snickered—actually laughed at me. “Brute,” I whispered, plucking his reins from the branch and holding them loosely in one hand.
“Um,” Miss Elizabeth said to my back.
I had not yet regained my composure.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes?” I croaked.
“I cannot move without—” She stopped, not needing to complete her sentence for me to know she required my help. Nevertheless, I had already been reproved for my assistance and would wait for her to ask before I moved or even flinched in her direction.
“That is to say…” I distinctly heard her teeth rattle. It took every ounce of my self-control not to lift her into my arms again and carry her to Longbourn. “I am in need of…”
Decency be hanged—she was miserable. “Are you as covered as you can make yourself? Especially… the back?”
“Yes.”
“Then, I am going to turn around and—without looking—I will lift you in my arms and carry you the short distance to Longbourn.”
“Yes, please.”
“You will have to hold the reins to my horse.”
“That is not a problem.”
Without another word, I spun around, kept my eyes fixed on our feet and the muddy path, shoved the reins at Miss Elizabeth, and lifted her up. She tucked against me, her outside hand resting on top of my shoulders with a firm grasp on my horse’s reins. I pressed her close against my chest as much to lend her my warmth as to cover as much of her as I could.
While I had made a pact with my eyes not to look at her, I was not prepared for the feel of her.
She buried her face against my neck. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
I could not account for the rapidity with which my frustration became delight at being the recipient of her gratitude. Had I needed to carry her five miles, I would not have tired.
“I believe your horse would follow you even without the lead,” she observed.
Eager for the distraction conversation provided, I asked, “Do you ride?”
She sighed. “I used to.”
“You do not anymore?” I asked, hoping she would fill the silence and abate the looming awkwardness.
“I had a lovely mare. Persephone.”
“Queen of the underworld?”
“It is what my father called her. Once my sisters caught on, the name stuck. Unfavorable connotation aside, it is a beautiful name, is it not? Far superior to her original name, Sugar.”
I admitted it was a superior name, though I could say nothing against Sugar. That had been the name of my little sister’s first pony. “How did she earn such an appellation?”
“She was very particular about who she allowed to ride her. If she did not like someone, she would lie down and pretend to sleep until they went away. Or she would ram their legs into fence posts. Or kick and rear to test the firmness of her rider’s seat.”
“Yet she behaved with you?”
“I did not allow her to get away with poor behavior. Once she determined I would not put up with her foolishness—which did not take long at all—she was the best horse I have ever been privileged to ride.” She paused, adding softly. “She liked it when I sang to her.”
The sentiment in her tone tugged at my heart. “I had a stallion no one else could ride. My cousin Richard, who prides himself on being the best rider in the family, got thrown and dislocated his shoulder when he tried.” I bit my tongue to prevent myself from boring her with stories of Richard and my horse she would not fully appreciate, having met neither of them. That stallion had kept me alert and had taught me a great deal about control, but once I had gained his trust, he responded to me like no horse I had ridden since. I understood why Miss Elizabeth would miss such an animal. “What happened to Persephone?”
