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"You will not ride again. Do you understand me?"
She held his gaze for another moment before giving a small, reluctant nod.
He could tell she was weakened by the way she nodded. The girl he believed could carry a conversation for England and beyond had been reduced to a simple nod, and the unease he felt earlier returned. He let out a low whistle that drew Fido closer, and his stallion instantly obeyed, coming to his master's side and lowering his neck.
Arthur slipped one arm beneath Eliza's knees and the other behind her back before lifting her. She let out a small gasp, her hands instinctively gripped the front of his coat a little tighter as he settled her sideways upon Fido's back before mounting smoothly behind her. One arm remained firmly at her stomach, keeping her steady, whilst the other gathered the reins.
He saw the alarm in her face.
“I can walk back to the chambers,” she offered.
With the lightest pressure of his heel, Fido began a slow walk towards Winworth House.
"We will be there in half the time this way," he found himself saying, unaccustomed to explaining himself.
"I thought I wasn't permitted to ride again," she said, half teasing, half questioning.
"You aren't."
"This looks suspiciously like riding,” she said, on a whispered observation.
He felt his eyes roll involuntarily; gods, had she been taking jesting lessons from Laurence today?
"I am riding," he said dryly, "You are cargo."
She must have seen the look on his face because she merely muttered something about it being "a convenient distinction" before falling mercifully silent.
He had finally managed to silence her. Evidently, all it required was twenty-four hours and a fall from a horse.
Duly noted.
Chapter 14
Eliza was sitting upright in bed, her room full of people.
The evening shadows pressed against the tall sash windows, casting the room in a warm glow that turned the white bed curtains a soft shade of orange. Servants moved quietly in and out, speaking only in hushed whispers so as not to disturb her.
At the foot of the bed stood her husband, towering over the physician, a small, round man whose brown hair fell to the nape of his neck.
He seemed like a kind man. She had learned his name was Dr Abraham, but he spoke primarily to Arthur, who listened intently.
Arthur had scarcely spoken to her since they returned from the forest, yet she found herself watching him all the same. He listened to the physician with the same concentration he had shown whilst examining her as she lay on the grass, his arms folded tightly across his chest, asking quiet questions only after the doctor had finished speaking.
It would have been easy to mistake his stance for indifference. She knew better.
His hands had betrayed him. They flexed ever so slightly, opening and closing as though unwilling to remain steady. She could still remember the firmness of those hands around her as he had lifted her from the ground, and the unwavering steadiness with which he had held her, as though she weighed no more than a quill.
"Well, Your Grace," Dr Abraham interrupted her thoughts, fastening his briefcase before looking at her. "Following my assessment, I believe you shall recover very well. You are exceedingly fortunate. Most who fall from a horse do not escape so lightly. I suspect you are merely winded. You may have a little bruising on your forearm, but you are in no danger."
He offered her a kind smile.
"Thank you so much for coming. I'm sorry it was a wasted journey, seeing as I am going to be perfectly fine,” she said.
"Nonsense, Your Grace. It makes my work considerably easier, and my wife will be happy to see that I am home in time for supper."
Her chest was still sore, but she guessed it would take only a day or two to ease.
"I would also advise against riding again for some time, Your Grace. The body heals readily enough. The mind, however, often requires rather longer, and until your confidence returns, there is every chance of another accident."
