Aedan dashed behind the canvas tent where he had tied Pog to protect her from the dust and commotion. He loosed her, leaped into the saddle, and raced toward the gig, which now careened wildly toward him.
Chapter Nine
Within moments, gallopingalongside the bay, Aedan reached out to grab the horse’s bridle, pulling steadily as he rode in tandem, guiding both horses with all of his strength. They slowed and stopped, and as the gig clattered to a halt, one of its two wheels struck a rock, lurching wildly. Christina Blackburn nearly flew out of her seat, but grabbed the iron side bar and sprawled on the bench.
Aedan settled the bay horse, its breath heaving, and shifted Pog to face the driver. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
She sat upright, skirts flounced and mussed, showing the flare of red-and-white petticoats above slim ankles and calves over sturdy boots. She shoved down her sober gray skirts and sat up, righting her hat and tugging at her jacket.
“Not—hurt,” she said breathlessly, patting her hat.
How on earth she had managed to keep that hat in place, he could not imagine. But he was concerned, for her cheeks were deathly pale, her spectacles were awry, auburn curls danced over her shoulder, and her hands trembled as she righted hat, spectacles, curls, and skirts. Then she faced him, folding her hands. “Not hurt,” she repeated. “Thank you for your help.”
“Of course. Have you been taking driving lessons from Tam Durie?” he drawled.
Silent, she glared at him from under the brim of her hat. For a moment he wanted to laugh, for she was adorable and he wasso damn relieved that she had not been hurt—or killed. And he wanted to shout at her for scaring the wits out of him. Crossing his hands calmly on the saddle pommel, he gave her a tense smile.
“It got away from you,” he surmised.
“It did. Your quick action saved me. Thank you.”
He nodded. “I believe I have saved you three times in twenty-four hours—monkey, stairs, now the gig. In primitive cultures, that means your soul is mine.”
She tugged on her gloves. “Thankfully, this is not a primitive culture.”
“It is the Highlands, the land of savage Gaels. And I am fully Gael by blood, though I am civilized—”
“Somewhat,” she said tersely.
“I could ask for your soul in return for your life.” His heart still hammered with fear and concern, not for the valuable Clyde-bred horse and the London-made gig, but for the harm that could have come to the girl had he not reached her in time.
She brushed at her skirts. “There is no need to be sour with me, sir.”
“Then I will be direct. Why in the name of all the devil’s henchmen did you drive my gig like that?” He raised his voice, then drew a breath to gather his composure. “What is the emergency? Is your brother hurt? Should we hurry?”
“He is fine. I apologize. I am not used to driving Highland roads, and I lost control. Something frightened him. Her.”
“If you handle a cart like that in Edinburgh, I am warned to be wary the next time I cross the High Street on one of your shopping days.”
“Stop,” she snapped, startling him. “You have cause to be upset, but you need not be harsh. The horse bolted. And I am grateful. Please accept my gratitude in lieu of my soul.”
He drew his brows together, mollified and impressed at how calmly and firmly she cut through his response. “I beg your pardon. I was…alarmed.”
“Then just say so directly.”
“I was worried for your safety. I was—frightened,” he admitted.
She watched him from under that hat. “So was I. Thank you.”
He nodded curtly. “Was it the machine that frightened her?”
She looked past him. “Aye, that thing there made such a noise. What is it?”
“The beast? A steam engine. Surely you have seen them.”
“I have, but never with a scoop on it.”
“It is a shovel. We need to finish this section, and the beast expedites the digging.”
