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She stifled a sob, still struggling to comprehend what was going on due to the pain cutting off her logic. She rubbed at her hands and face, trying to stop the stinging before those same arms from before wrapped around the back of her waist and the bend of her knees, scooping her up in a swift motion.

Gasping, Lark grasped onto a gentleman’s lapel, her opposite arm encircling broad shoulders, and suddenly, dread overcame her.

Mr. Branok. He’d hoisted her from the nettles and was now carrying her to safety.

Why, why had she wavered from the grass? And why did Mr. Branok rescue her, of all people? At this point, she would have preferred Mr. Chumley.

“We must take her home,” Mrs. Shepherd said, speaking from behind as she trailed after Mr. Branok and Lark.

“Yes, straight to the carriage,” Mrs. Chumley agreed.

Lark could not even protest if she wished to.

“What in Heaven’s name happened?” Mr. Chumley asked, coming up to join his wife, Mr. Shepherd not far behind. Mr. Dunn remained at the wall, face red with anger.

He and Mr. Chumley were no doubt fuming for Lark’s disruption, but at least Mr. Shepherd had the decency to be as concerned as the women.

Mrs. Chumley responded to her husband, though her whispers fell so silent, Lark could no longer hear them.

It was just as well. She could hardly comprehend their words anyway. Tears still trailed down her face, though with how hard she now bit her lower lip, her cries of pain had finally ceased.

That, and her pride refused to allow herself to be weak in front of Mr. Branok anymore than she’d already been. She could not bear the fact that he was carrying her so commandingly in his more-than-capable arms.

“I can walk,” she squeaked out to him as the others spoke behind her.

She attempted to raise her arm so it might not rest so heavily on his shoulders, but the stinging became more poignant as she moved.

Mr. Branok didn’t respond to her weak words. She glanced up at him, his jaw set, lips in a thin line, and brow furrowed.

Was he…angry? At her?

“Her face,” Mrs. Shepherd whispered, her voice trailing toward Lark. “Did you see the rash?”

“It’s all over,” Mrs. Chumley responded.

The invisible flames of pain lapped at Lark’s skin, and she peered down at her arm, swollen with white bumps and angry red welts. She could only imagine what her cheeks and neck looked like as the women had mentioned.

Humiliation rushed over her, not only at the thought of how she must appear, but also at having made such a mistake and disrupting the others in the process.

“You can put me down,” she attempted again with Mr. Branok. “I can walk.”

Once more, he did not reply. Was he so utterly inconvenienced by her mistake that he could not manage a single word in response?

“Mr. Branok, how can we help?” asked Mrs. Chumley from behind.

“Yes, what can be done?” Mr. Shepherd asked.

“Dock leaves,” came Mr. Branok’s gruff reply as he continued carrying her toward the coaches. “They should be near the nettles. Broad, oblong leaves. They will not rid her of the pain entirely, but the sap will soothe the stinging.”

The two couples dispersed at once to gather the leaves, and while Lark appreciated their efforts, her pride smarted. So, Mr. Branok deigned to speak with everyone but Lark?

Another wave of fresh agony rushed over her, and she couldn’t help but squirm in pain.

“You knew the nettle was there,” Mr. Branok said brusquely.

Oh, so he could speak with her, then.

She frowned, dwelling on her anger instead of her pain. Why in Heaven’s name had the coaches parked so far away? This was taking an eternity, even with the gentleman’s long stride.