“Thos told me…” She jerked her eyes up. “How is Thos? He fell.”
“I believe he will be fine. Mrs Pettifer is tending him.”
“Thank heaven. He… He told me of the Burford highwaymen.”
“Perhaps not the best tale for a lady about to become lost in a forest.”
“It wasn’t just that…” Hebe reared a fraction and he brushed thumbs over her tear-stained cheeks, narrowed his eyes at the dried blood in her hair. She reached up and straightened his skew-whiff spectacles. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I was so…angry.”
He smiled. “Your fists did not hurt me, Hebe.” But he became innately aware thatshecould.
“’Tis ridiculous but I thought… I was running from my husband. I still dream of him chasing me, you see. And it all became blurred. The night. The day. The past and the now.” She bit her lip. “I could see no beauty.”
Perhaps because that beauty was looking at him.
Ernest yearned to know so much more of this damn husband but…
“That gash needs cleaning and there’s a nasty scratch to your cheek. I’ve water in the saddle bags.” He caressed her smudged face. “Nearabout here, there’s an abandoned manor house that I hope to one day restore. If you feel well enough, would you like to see it? I will show you there is no need to be afraid of the woodland.”
“I… I thought to go home but…you are right, if I leave now, it will always frighten me. So, yes, yes, I would.”
Ernest shifted, certain parts of his anatomy now fully aware of their intimate entanglement. And he cleared his throat.
“Oh, look at us, I should…” He groaned as she scrambled off, her thighs grazing as she righted her skirts with wobbly hands. “How did you find me?”
Sitting up and resting an elbow on his knee, he grinned. “I mean no disrespect to your delicate swan-like stature, Hebe, but a drunk stag pulling a barouche would have wreaked less carnage in its wake. Your mare proved harder to track, leaving only soft imprints and a few broken branches. You, on the other hand, left deep heel marks from your boots, trampled bracken, snags of petticoat and a pair of gloves.”
A healthy flush bloomed in her cheeks. “And Mrs Salter? Will she find her way home?”
“I’m sure she will or the grooms will locate her. Do not worry.”
Stanley chose that moment to amble in their direction, and so without further ado, Ernest rose to his feet and investigated the saddle bags, finding the carafe of water and digging around for a handkerchief. He bade Hebe sit on a tree trunk and he dabbed at the gash.
“Ow!”
Trailing a hand down her arm, he throatily whispered, “Nearly done. Hold still.”
She arched a brow. “Don’t treat me like one of your horses. Soothing with those capable fingers.”
“In all fairness,” he said, dabbing dry the shallow wound, “you don’t have breath odour that can singe my eyebrows or feel the need to urinate in your new water bucket, so unlikely.”
Her trembling ceased, and Hebe rolled her eyes with a soft giggle. “Can’t you be serious for one moment?”
Tilting her chin, he kissed the scratch to her cheek. Stared into her cornflower eyes. “The world has enough seriousness without Ernest Brook adding his trivial pennyworths, don’t you think?”
And he turned away to replace the items in the saddle bags.
“Are there others out looking for us?”
“Yes, but if we head for the manor, we’ll meet them. In these circumstances, a time is agreed to call off a search.”
She nodded and stretched, a low groan emanating.
“What hurts?”
“My back a touch.” And she tentatively smiled, appearing like some wild river sprite.
Her hair gushed free to her waist, and her lake-blue riding habita la Hussarwas unbuttoned, its white braided frogs ripped. Her skirts were muddied and torn at the hem, and she looked so young.
