Jasper charged after her, shooting past the groom in half a dozen long strides straight down the side of the hill, leaning low over Phoenix’s neck, urging her onward, the two of them gaining on the lady with every stride until he was close enough to see . . .
Devil take it!
She’d lost the reins! God above, how was she even still seated? Nine out of ten riders would have fallen off as soon as the horse threw himself down the side of the hill, but here was this lady, hardly wider than a walking stick by the looks of her, seated through nothing more than sheer force of will, her hands clutching the horse’s mane, and her thighs, well . . . he had rather a lot of experience with the strength of a lady’s thighs, but he’d never seen anything like this.
The lady couldsqueeze, by God.
But this was no time to admire her thighs. As strong as she was, she’d tire soon. Meanwhile, her horse showed no signs of slowing, and it was alonghill, and so steep from here it appeared nearly vertical, until it leveled off before it dipped down into the valley beneath it.
“Come on, girl!” He braced his own thighs hard against Phoenix’s sides and leaned lower over her neck, triumph shooting through him as she responded to him at once, springing forward, not a bit of fear in her. “That’s it! Good girl! Come on!”
The black horse was fast, but Phoenix was faster, gaining on the other horse in steady degrees, but the reins trailing in the dirt threatened at every moment to trip him up and send the lady sailing right over his head. Another length, and he might be able to grab them, or failing that, he could position Phoenix in front of the stallion and stop them that way—
“You’re alright, Sampson. It’s alright, boy.”
How he could even hear her over the crack of the wind whipping past his ears he couldn’t say, but there it was, soft and sweet, the murmur of it a continuous drone beneath the roar of pounding hooves.
She was talking to the horse—no,crooningto him, as if she were singing a lullaby.
Her tone was soothing, calm—calm, when one wrong move on her part would send her hurtling to the ground, the horse’s hooves likely coming down on top of her, splitting her skull or breaking her neck—yet somehow, she was calm, and even more incredible, now that the horse’s initial panic had lessened, he appeared to belisteningto her, his pace slackening just enough for Jasper to get Phoenix in front of them and ease them down from a hell-for-leather dash into a controlled gallop.
It took time, but slowly, bit by bit the black horse’s pace slackened, until at last he joined Phoenix in a steady trot near the bottom of the hill, Jasper keeping his own horse back a bit to allow the stallion some space while the lady guided him to a stop.
When they halted at last, he leapt from Phoenix’s back and strode over to her, his heart a heavy drumbeat in his chest, because, by God, that had beenclose, far too close.
He reached the stallion, laid a hand on his foaming neck, and looked up into a face gone so colorless he might have believed she was evaporating into a mist before his eyes, that is, if it hadn’t been for her red mouth, a smear of blood at the corner of her lip. “Are you hurt, Miss Thorne?”
Because, of course, it washer. He’d known it even before he saw her face, because who other than Prudence Thorne could end up in such a scrape, and still manage to come out of it unscathed? The lady might be hopeless at blackmail, but damned if she couldn’t talk a runaway horse safely down the side of a mountain. “Miss Thorne? Can you hear me?”
She glanced down at him, but she didn’t reply. Her golden-brown hair was a tangled mass of windblown curls around her white face, her eyes dark, the hazel swallowed up by her pupils.
He reached up to her. “Here. Take my hand, and I’ll help you down.”
She didn’t appear to hear him, but sat frozen atop her mount, her hands still clutching his mane as if she wasn’t certain they’d actually stopped. When she did reach out at last, it wasn’t to take his hand. Instead, she laid her palm flat against the stallion’s damp neck and bent close to his ear. She whispered a few words Jasper couldn’t hear, then she slid from the saddle, her boots hitting the dirt with an unsteady plop.
But she didn’t remain on her feet for long.
She stood there for a moment, swaying, and then her legs buckled beneath her, and without a sound, she sank to the ground and lay there, unmoving, seemingly dead to the world as her horse lurched around her, his big hooves dangerously close to her slender limbs.
“Miss Thorne!” A swoon, or was she hurt, after all? Every instinct screamed at him to scoop her up into his arms at once, but her mount was far from calm, his eyes still rolling in his head, showing white, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t bolt again. If Miss Thorne should be in the way of his hooves when he did, or if one of her limbs became tangled in the reins . . .
“Here, boy. Come on.” He approached the big stallion, getting between the horse and Miss Thorne’s prone body, his hands out in front of him, one eye on her and the other on those massive black hooves. By some miracle she’d made it down the hillside without breaking her neck, and he wasn’t going to let the horse trod on her now.
Fortunately, the horse was already exhausted by his efforts to get down the hill. He didn’t attempt to bolt again, but remained still long enough for Jasper to snatch up the reins and lead him over to Phoenix. “There, that’s it. Good boy.”
Phoenix gave a sympathetic snuffle, which calmed the stallion enough that he was willing to stand quietly with her while Jasper rushed back to Miss Thorne, falling to his knees beside her.
There was no blood to speak of, and no grotesquely mangled limbs. “Miss Thorne?” He ran his hands over her arms and legs. No obvious breaks, and no broken skin or swelling, but he didn’t like the look of her.
She was too pale, too still.
He slid his arm carefully under her shoulders and gently lifted her up so she was draped over his lap. No, no blood, but she was as limp as a boiled shrimp. Where the devil was Collins? He turned toward the hill to find the groom still struggling to coax his mount down the slope. Damnation, but the man was only halfway down—
“. . . smell of orange blossom.”
Startled, he glanced down at Miss Thorne. “I beg your pardon?”
“Orange blossom, and . . .” Her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed. “Amber, I think, but I’m not certain. I’ve never smelled the scent before.”
