How solid he felt against her side, like she walked along a stone wall. When her hand grazed his, he clasped her fingers in the crook of his thumb, the tiniest little act of possession. Her stomach—now clearly an entity with a mind of its own—flipped again.
“My apologies for this wagon, Miss Allard,” he was saying. “There are limited vehicles for hire in Ivy Hill.”
“I’m not surprised. Ivy Hill has become a deserted outpost.”
Kittens tumbled from the pathway and the tomcat called Lymond jumped from the wagon bed. Captain Bannock gently slid free of her grasp to pull out a step.
“Up you go,” he said, taking up her left hand and settling his palm on the small of her back. “How many cats have you, Miss Allard?”
“They’re Miriam’s cats,” she told him, absorbing the curious jolt she felt at the contact of his hand on her back. “There are seventeen, I believe. At the moment.”
“Mrs. Dinwiddie will know, I presume, when the optimum amount has been reached?”
“Of cats?”
“Yes.”
Dani shrugged. “After three or four, it makes no difference if you toss another one onto the pile.”
He snickered and the flipping in her stomach sailed again.
“Do you know the way?” he asked, hefting himself into the seat beside her and taking up the reins.
“Oh yes, do you?”
“I was given the general idea,” he said. “Hold on. This may be a wagon, but the horses are young and bored, and I made good time from the inn.”
He called to the horses and the pair set off, pitching her forward. Dani laughed and held one hand to her hat and another to the seat.
“Careful,” he said, speaking over the rumble of the wheels. “If you slide closer and lean against me, you’ll be less jostled.”
Dani thought of her lifetime on wagon seats and, in fact, on galloping horses. She’d survived all manner of jostling with no assistance whatsoever. Here again, the point was less about balance and more about the opportunity to touch him. She had liked touching his arm and she’d liked being handed into the wagon. With each bit of him she touched, she was curious about more touching.
“Yes, alright,” she said, sliding down the bench to close the space between them. Therewasless jostling when she wedged against him, but the stability was second to how very vital he felt. And strong. And solid. Also limber and athletic. He wore tight breeches, and they molded to his thighs when he braced his boot against the toe board. His arm bussed up against her shoulder, and she could feel his bicep flex as he handled the reins. Never before had she considered where everyone’s hands settled, or their hips bounced, or their arms went, but his outline against her side had become the most fascinating aspect of this wagon, except that it conveyed her to the house of her dreams.
“Your parents...” he said, casually. “They seem to be almost—ah... What’s the word? ‘Debilitated’—at the thought of marrying you off.”
“Oh yes. Actually, they’re coming to terms with the fact that I may marry. Panic sets in when we broachfamily ties. They are proprietary about my being their daughter. But the nature of this betrothal means someone else is making decisions about my future, isn’t it? I’ve asked them how it all fits together, but they become distressed—or debilitated, as you say—and I indulge their anxiety. Round and round we go.”
“So they’ve said nothing about the letter from St. James’s Palace since yesterday? Nothing at all?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t worth the anguish. Eastwell Park is a far safer topic, and we wanted to daydream, so we talked about the estate instead.”
Dani glanced up, hoping he would provide some answers, but they’d come upon a toppled cart with firewood strewn across the road. He was forced to navigate around logs without hobbling the horses.
When they rolled clear, the subject was lost. Dani was oddly relieved. She had no wish to discuss Miriam and Whittle and their strange anxiety. She wanted to know about him.
Dani cleared her throat. “What of your parents, Captain?”
“What of them?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the road.
A flush stung her throat. She knew a dismissal when she heard it. She glanced at him. His jaw was clenched, his profile rigid. He did not look evasive so much as uncomfortable.
“Were they informed of our betrothal by post like mine?” When in doubt, she thought, make a joke.
“My parents don’t know if I’m dead or alive. Given this, I’d say my marital status is even less considered.”
“Your parents don’t know you’re alive?” she marveled.
