Page 35

“What is the brandy for?”

“Courage, though yours is already sufficient.” He gazed down at her. She looked away.

"I'll wait with the horse," he said.

She nodded, her lips set in a firm line.

"When are we to leave?" she asked.

"Now."

The horse was Marian’s. A bay mare, fifteen hands, too old for anything faster than a trot and too stubborn for anything she had not decided on herself. Kit had kept her fed and exercised because Marian had loved the animal and he had not been able to bring himself to sell her.

He saddled her in the stable and led her to the front of the house. Audrey stood in the doorway with her cane and looked at the horse and the horse looked at Audrey and neither of them seemed impressed.

"I have not ridden since I was eight," she said.

"You won't need to ride. You'll sit. I'll handle the rest."

"My hip—"

"I know." His voice came out softly, too close to tenderness, and her cheeks coloured.

He adjusted the stirrup, lengthening the left side so her bad leg would not have to bend as sharply. "You'll sit in front. Your weight against me, not the saddle. If it hurts, tell me and I'll stop."

The corner of his mouth lifted. The flush crept up her neck before she could stop it and she fixed him with a glare that could have stripped the bark off the oak tree.

"The last time you said that you were on your knees."

He laughed. A real one, startled out of him, loud enough that the mare flicked her ears. Audrey's mouth twitched before she killed it.

He offered his arm. She took it after a moment and came down the steps carefully. He took her cane and hooked it through the saddle strap, then turned to her. She stood in front of him, close, her face tilted up. She smelled of soap.

When he put his hands on her waist to lift her, he felt the difference. She was heavier than she had been when she arrived, and the weight was in her arms, her back, the muscles that weeks of hauling water and scrubbing floors and splitting kindling had built beneath the muslin. She was still small. Still thin. But something had hardened underneath, and when she gripped the pommel and pulled herself upright, the movement was sharp and sure in a way it had not been six weeks ago.

He swung up behind her and settled her against his chest, his arms on either side of her, the reins in his hands.

She was rigid. Every muscle clenched against the contact. Her spine was a rod, her shoulders pulled forward, her hands white on the pommel. She was touching him from her shoulder blades to her lower back, and she was furious about every inch of it.

He nudged the mare forward. She walked. Slow, steady, the rhythm of it rolling through both of them.

"Lean back," he said. "You're fighting the horse."

"I am not fighting the horse. I am fighting you."

"Fight me later. Lean back or your hip will seize before we reach the lane."

She leaned back. A fraction. Her shoulders met his chest, and she exhaled, short and reluctant, as though admitting that his body behind hers was a relief.

They rode in silence. The lane was narrow, overgrown, branches scraping the mare's flanks. The morning was cool and grey and smelled of wet grass and turned earth. His arms bracketed her body. His chin was level with the top of her head. He could feel his heart beating against her back.

"You're shaking," he said.

"I'm cold."

He doubted that. It was October and his body was a furnace behind hers. She was shaking because she was sitting in the arms of a man she had called a murderer twelve hours ago. Or because her body remembered what had happened between them in the tunnel. Both, perhaps.

He said nothing. He held the reins and kept the mare steady and breathed and did not pull her closer, though he wanted to. Though his arms ached with not doing it.