“I would have,” she insisted.
“How are your knees?” he asked instead of arguing with her.
They hurt. Likely, she had skinned them. “Perfectly well,” she said brightly.
He gave her another knowing look and dropped to his haunches. He caught her hem and raised it.
“Jack!” she protested, his earlier admission he had seen her here from the windows reminding her that anyone could be watching them now. “Do not lift my skirts.”
“I am checking on your knees, not planning to ravish you.” His touch drifted lightly over her smarting knees as he ignored her. “Besides, I have been beneath your skirts many times in the past.”
Therogue.
She shifted away from him. “I do not need you to check on my knees. They shall be fine.”
“Your stockings are ruined,” he reported, ignoring her. “There is that lovely little mole I have always adored on your right knee, perfectly unscathed. I do not believe you have any cuts. Only bruising.”
“Small mercies,” she muttered, twitching her skirts back into place as he stood, looming over her. Her cheeks were hot, and it had nothing to do with the warmth of the summer sun overhead.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “We need to clean the scrapes on your hands.”
Why did he insist upon being so kind? So concerned about her? It made the anger she had been carrying for him these last three years more difficult to cling to. Undoubtedly, that was part of his plan.
“I will see to them myself.”
He said nothing, simply stood there, his hand extended, watching her calmly.
With a sigh, she relented, placing her hand in his. “You will likely dog me every step of the way.”
His fingers tangled lightly in hers, avoiding her injured palm. “You cannot shake me, Nellie. Surrender.”
“Never,” she vowed.
But some part of her could not help but to wonder if her resistance to him was not fading.
JACK HAD FORGOTTENwhat an excellent horsewoman Nell was.
As he rode alongside her on the periphery of Needham Hall’s vast forest, he could not help but to admire her seat. It was miracle enough she had accepted his invitation to go riding, albeit with his reassurances he would do his utmost to behave himself. But the sight of her, too, was miraculous all on its own. The riding habit she had donned was scarlet. Her hat was jaunty, her golden curls trapped in a fat braid which ran down her back.
She looked like an invitation to sin, and he very much wanted to accept the offer.
Siege, he reminded himself once more. Slowly, surely, he would win this war between them. He merely needed to bide his time.
“Do you recall the last time we rode together?” he could not resist asking her.
She cast him a frown. “No.”
He was equally certain she did.
“It was here at Needham Hall,” he reminded her. “We raced, and you won. Afterward, we tethered the horses by the stream and I made you a coronet of forget-me-nots.”
The blue of the flowers had matched her eyes.
She had suspected him of allowing her to win, but he had not. In truth, her mount had outpaced his.
“I do not remember it,” she said coolly.
The expression on her lovely face said otherwise.
