His big, warm hands took hold of hers, and she hated how comforting they felt. How much she relished that touch. Would she never learn her lesson? Gently, he helped her to her feet. He was frowning down at her, his gaze searching.
“Pru, what did you hurt?” he asked.
She rather thought it was her heart. It was most definitely her pride. A twinge of pain sliced through her once more, reminding her of yet another reason why being too tall was a hindrance rather than a boon: the higher the height, the greater the fall.
“I am perfectly well,” she muttered, blinking away her tears. “Do go away, Lord Ashley. I have already endured more of you than I can bear.”
“You are in pain,” he observed grimly, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. “That was quite a fall you took.”
“It was nothing,” she argued for the sake of her pride, which was just as foolish as the rest of her, it would seem.
He had to be cold, with the sleet and the wind driving into him, and yet he seemed only to be worried over her welfare. Doubt crept into her heart, making her wonder if he was indeed that fine an actor, or if all was not exactly as she had deemed it.
Before she could further argue the matter, he bent and swept her into his arms. She gasped, her arms going around his neck for purchase. She had to be heavy, given her height. And yet, he made her feel dainty. His grim countenance showed nary a hint of strain.
“Put me down,” she protested, because she knew the last thing she should be doing was remaining in his presence, giving him a chance to worm his way back into her good graces and convince her she had been wrong.
But her backside was still smarting, and being in his arms felt good. Her traitorous body had yet to realize what a blackguard he was. For that matter, so had much of the rest of her.
“I am carrying you back inside, where I can have a look at your injuries for myself,” he informed her, pivoting in the snow with a graceful ease she only wished she had exhibited earlier.
But of course, she had gone sprawling to her doom. And of course he had scooped her up like some sort of gallant swain. And of course her stupid heart was pounding faster, and not even the merciless ice and cold could diminish the unwanted heat roiling through her in answer to the glory of being in Lord Ashley Rawdon’s arms.
Even if he was a rakehell with a heart of stone.
Belatedly, it occurred to her that her injury was on her derriere. He could hardly look at that. How mortifying.
“I can walk on my own, Lord Ashley,” she argued once more. “Let me go.”
“No,” he insisted stubbornly. “I shall not run the risk of you falling again and hurting yourself worse. This snow is dreadfully slippery with the sleet now lying upon it.”
“What if you fall?” she could not resist asking. “I should think it would be far safer if you were to allow me to go on my own. If you take the both of us down—”
“Pru,” he interrupted. “Stop talking. Nothing you say will change a bloody thing. I am carrying you. Stop being so stubborn.”
Pru was not even the most stubborn of the Winters. That title belonged to her sister, Grace. But further quarreling with him was a moot point, because they had reached the front door to the ruins once more. Lord Ashley exhibited a remarkable amount of dexterity, opening it with one hand, all while never letting her go or so much as shifting her in his arms.
And then, they were back inside the great hall of the ruins, out of the freezing sleet that had been pelting them. The door slammed shut. It was eerily quiet, save for the fire at the far end of the hall, decorated with holly garlands. It crackled on.
Pru and Lord Ashley stared at each other. Their faces were inexorably close. One tip of her chin, one slight movement, and they would be kissing again. She shivered, but the reaction was only partially due to the cold.
He took note. “You must feel like ice after that spill.”
“I am perfectly warm,” she lied.
In truth, wetness from the snow and sleet was seeping through her skirts and petticoats. She was beginning to realize they were quite sodden. She shuddered again, unable to stay the instinctive reaction.
“Obstinate fool,” he muttered.
And then he was stalking once more, still holding her in his arms. They were back in the room from which she had run not long before. He settled her upon the oversized cushion of the settee. Thank heavens the piece of furniture was remarkably well-upholstered, for her bottom was still sore.
Before she could protest, he sank to his knees before her, parting her pelisse and clasping handfuls of her snow-laden hem in his hands. “Good God, Pru. Your gown is covered in snow. You will be drenched when it melts. Do tell me what hurts, if you please. Is it your ankle? Something else?”
“It is nothing,” she forced herself to say. “I have already told you more than once, I am well. All I wish is to be left alone. To be free of your intolerable presence at last.”
“Are you certain you find me intolerable?” the scoundrel dared to ask, as he lifted her skirts higher, revealing her stocking-clad calves above her smart boots. “It did not seem so earlier, when you were kissing me.”
“That was before I realized what you wanted from me,” she said coldly, reaching down to swat at his hands. “Get your hands off my hem, my lord. And do cease lifting my skirts at once.”
