She flicked a glance at him. “You feel better, my lord?”
“I do. Hungry though.” He grinned. “I could even consume a big English breakfast.”
Sometime during the night, the fire had gone out. The room was so cold that steam floated out of their mouths when they spoke. Hetty stood and wound the green scarf around her neck and the lower part of her face. She stirred a log in the fireplace with a toe. “I’ll light the fire before I leave.”
“You do not intend to abandon me here?” He pushed up from the cot.
She raised her head to glance at him. How tall he was. Now that he’d recovered, his masculinity filled the room with an almost overpowering presence.
She turned toward the door. “I’ll ride for help. The sooner I go, the quicker someone will come for you.”
“No need for that.” He snatched up a boot and sat to pull it on. “We can double up on that big horse of yours. Mr. Fennimore expects me. My letter will have reached him several days ago. Because of the storm, he might have sent a search party out for me.”
She watched helplessly as he buttoned his waistcoat and shrugged into his coat. He reached for his cravat. “You can have something warming to eat and feed your horse before you return home.”
Hetty’s heart sank. Not only would her godfather recognize her in broad daylight, the baron would learn who she was. If she took him into her confidence now, could she trust him to keep silent about her escapade? She couldn’t be sure. Neither could she dispute his suggestion, for it made sense. There was very little dry wood left, and in daylight, the hut had lost any pretensions to comfort. Not only was it a miserable place to be cold in, it was dirty and smelt of mold. She chafed, wishing to be gone. She would travel much faster alone, but as a lowly groom, she must obey him. With no option but to take him with her, she pulled her hat down over her eyes. “As you wish, my lord.”
He dressed quickly, and they left the hut. The stallion snorted his impatience and shuffled, unhappy with his makeshift stable.
“I’m sorry, boy. It has been a long chilly night.” Hetty patted his neck.
“He will be glad of a feed and a warm stable.”
“Yes, indeed.” Hetty pulled off the blankets and saddled The General, relieved that long practice made it appear easy.
She mounted the horse and removed her foot from the stirrup for the baron. He threw his leg over the rump of the horse and sat close behind her, his thighs rimming hers. As she returned her foot to the stirrup, his hand settled at her waist, driving the air from her lungs. “Do you know the way?” His voice sounded close to her left ear.
She threaded the reins through her hands and moved the horse on. “I do. I roamed these woods as a child.”
“Did you?” He sounded surprised, and she realized she’d become so relaxed in his company that, for a moment, she’d forgotten she was a groom. She bit her lip. How could she remain on guard with him so close?
She forced a laugh. “I should not admit my trespass to the owner, perhaps.”
“You have my permission to roam my woods for the rest of your days, Simon.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
She tried and failed to ignore his muscular thighs and the warmth of his hands at her waist as she turned the horse. The trees were heavily laden with snow. As they rode along the woodland trail they brushed against branches, scattering snow over them.
She was surprised by how overgrown the woods had become, thick with bracken, fallen trees and dead branches. Had her godfather lost his forester? Several seasons ago by the look of it. Might he be short of money? There’d been no sign of it, for he dressed well and still enjoyed the London season in his Mayfair townhouse. The arrangement with the baron’s father was not her business. For many years during October, London society had come for the grouse shoot. The village had come alive like a parched plant given water. Some very important personages attended Eustace’s dinner parties and balls. But two years ago, they had ceased because of his health–or that was what she had been given to understand. Since then, Eustace had not entertained in even a small way.
“I know a shortcut. If it isn’t too overgrown, we’ll be there in an hour or so.” And the sooner the better, she thought, as his arm reached around her to push away a pine branch and his warm breath stirred the hair at her nape.
As they negotiated a rise, The General stumbled over a rock hidden beneath the slush. The baron’s thighs gripped hers, and his tight hold on her diaphragm sent a wave of heated anxiety through her. Distracted, the reins slipped through her grasp. She steadied herself and urged the horse on. They had to reach the house soon.
“What did you like to do when you roamed these woods as a child?”
“Oh, I collected robin’s eggs. Climbed trees and picked wild flowers.” She went rigid with horror as her mind searched for an acceptable explanation. “My aunt liked to press them into books.”
He dropped a hand from her waist and shifted away from her. Chilly air rushed into the space where his warm body had been.
There was a long pause as the horse crunched its way through the snow. The icy wind stung her nose while she berated herself for her stupidity. The more familiar with him she became, the more difficult it was to pretend. At least he was no longer so close.
“Do you prefer the company of men, Simon?”
She almost missed his quietly spoken question. “I have several friends,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. Might he now suspect her to be one of those Romans Catullus spoke of in his poems? She clamped her lips shut on a nervous giggle. In India, she’d found a French translation in the library of their rented house. Her French was good enough to make some sense of them. Those poems had shocked her, but she couldn’t help continuing to turn the pages. There had been a collection of Persian literature, too, some with pictures, and she’d smuggled them into her room and poured over them late at night by candlelight.
“We play cards and hunt when we get a day off,” she said.
