“You saved my life,” he said.
She shrugged. “I was aiming for his hat.”
A hint of a smile flickered across his face.
Once they were safe inside the carriage, he said, “We will reach the next inn by dusk. There is a doctor.”
“I do not need one,” Lydia said, glancing at the dowager who had already fallen back asleep.
“All the same,” he replied, then offered a bright, genuine smile.
The coach jolted onward. Lydia closed her eyes, feeling the sting of her wound and the burn of memory, but above all, the lightness of survival.
Twilight spread behind them. The hedgerows gave way to open land, cart ruts glimmering where water pooled. In the distance, smoke hung over a farmstead; nearer, the sweet scent of crushed gorse drifted through the cracked coach window. Lydia leaned her temple against the paneling, watching the countryside fade into dusk.
Maximilian checked the bandage again when the road smoothed. His fingers were deft as he tried not to take any liberties. “It will weep,” he said. “We will clean it properly at the inn.”
“I have endured worse from new boots,” she replied, but did not pull away. “My governess used to say ladies faint at the sight of blood. She was dismissed soon after teaching me to read a map.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “You read a battlefield faster than most officers I have met.”
She angled toward him. “You have met a great many?”
“My cousin dragged me to Spain at the end of the war,” he said after a beat, his eyes fixed on the window. “Not to fight. Toobserve.” He tapped his ribs, almost idly. “A French sabre near Salamanca observed me back.”
Lydia’s gaze dropped to the faint white seam he indicated, half-visible where his waistcoat gaped.She did not tease. “And yet you still put yourself between me and a pistol.”
“I am better at that than staying in the carriage.” He looked at her then, taking in the steel in her eyes, the set of her shoulders. She was remarkable, and every part of him wanted to know her better, to have her, to protect her. He sighed, pushing the desire back. “I have no doubt I misjudged you.”
She considered, feeling the warmth of it. “I know.” A breath later, softer, she said, “Thank you for admiring it.”
The coach took a rise and leveled. Beyond the hedge, the land sloped toward the Teign, a stretch of water catching the last light. “We will cross the ridge at Haldon tomorrow,” he said, more to the dark than to her. “Chudleigh lies just beyond.”
“And an old chapel with proof that I am a fool, or that someone hopes I will act like one.”
“Or proof we can use,” he said. “If the willhasbeen tampered with, we will find the seam.”
She smiled without humor. “You and your seams.”
“They have saved me more than once.” He paused, then added, almost ruefully, “They have cost me, too.”
“Control always does.” Her voice softened. “Sodoes recklessness. Perhaps between us, we make one sensible person.”
“That would be a novelty.” The word carried an undertone of hope.
Quiet settled—not the brittle kind that breaks at a touch, but one that allows thought to flow. Lydia flexed her fingers and found, to her surprise, that the tremor had disappeared. She set the pistol back into the hamper, under the candied ginger and the flask.
“Maximilian,” she said, tasting the name. “If anyone asks, you fired the shot.”
He turned his head. “Lydia?—”
“I have no intention of being paraded as a curiosity in an inn yard.” She averted her gaze to the window, then back to him. “Or of inviting gossip that reaches my sister before I do.”
Understanding clicked into place. He nodded once. “As you wish, but will the countess keep your secret?”
“She will likely wake to think it all a dream.”
Her palm lay open on the seat between them, a gesture neither inviting nor dismissive. He set his hand there for the space of one breath—then withdrew to the opposite corner when the coach rocked through a rut. The imprint of warmth lingered.
