Surprisingly, it was one of the youngest that had the women huddle round and started giving instructions.
“Her older brother plays for the Bury Fens. She’s seen more bandy matches than Maggie,” Cassandra whispered, nodding toward the grey-haired woman.
The next hour was pure hell. Amelia quickly forgot about the indecency of a dress short enough to display her ankles and concentrated solely on dragging enough air into her lungs in order not to die right there on the field.
Skating up and back, up and back, occasionally hitting out at a ball with the stick, sometimes connecting, sometimes not.
The rest of her team didn’t send the ball her way unless they had to, not after the first time she’d promptly skated to the side as three burly-looking men charged right at her.
With only a few centimeters of candle left in the game—and goodness was she watching that, begging it to burn faster—the scores were tied, four all.
She stood with her hands on her hips, bent nearly double, halfway behind the line of woman attackers and the net, when somehow the men got the ball. Benedict charged down the center of the ice. Her teammates screamed her name.
Oh no. There was no one else. How was she supposed to stop him?
Benedict was skating on an angle that would see him run straight past her.
She skated right and then left, unsure of what to do and praying he’d give her the ball—he was her husband, after all.
His wicked smile was not a good omen. He was taunting her.
She bent her knees and launched herself into his path.
It was like hitting a solid brick wall.
She went down, and down hard.
Her back hit the ground, her head thwacked into the ice, and as he landed on top of her, all the air whooshed out of her lungs.
She tried to suck in breath but couldn’t move under his weight. She pushed at him.
“Bloody hell.” He propped himself up on his elbows, removing his crushing weight from her chest. “What the devil did you do that for?”
Breathe. She couldn’t breathe. She clawed at her throat.
He rolled over and dragged her into his lap. “It’s okay, princess,” he murmured, brushing hair from her forehead. “You’ve just had the wind knocked out of you. You’ll be okay.”
Amelia finally dragged in a small, tiny thread of air. And then another. And another. The blackness that was crowding the edges of her vision receded.
Benedict ran his fingers gently over her scalp.
She winced.
“You’ve a lump. It’ll be there for a day or so.” He gently set her back on the ice—the wet and cold seeping through her skirts—and turned her face to his. He looked into her eyes. Really looked, as though he were examining them.
“What’s your name?”
“Amelia.”
“Where are you?”
“The back end of nowhere.”
His lips twitched. “Why are we sitting on the ice?”
“Because you slammed into me, you giant oaf.” She shoved him in the chest. He should have just given her the darned ball.
He chuckled. “You’ll be okay. Let me know if you start to feel nauseous.”
