“I’m taking you to the top of the hill,” he replied, hauling her up with an ease that surprised her. “There’s too much bramble here for a horse to make it safely down.”
Instinct made her put her arms around his neck as he began to climb. Lord, the man was strong. She’d had no idea there was so much strength in his lean form. The chest she was pressed against was hard and warm, and the arms that held her were banded with muscle. He carried her up the side of the hill without so much as a hitch in his step—or his breath.
There was such power in him, she thought—beyond the wealth and title. How had she not appreciated it?
He adjusted his grip, lifting her higher against his chest, his large hand settling comfortably on the side of her knee. And something inside her thrilled again, louder this time. It was all too similar to the jolt she’d felt in his study, and sitting next to him on the bench, and because of that, she pushed it aside and fought to concentrate on something else all together. Something along the lines of how best to extract herself from her current situation.
She shifted a little in an effort to create a meager amount of space between their bodies. It was a pointless effort, really, but she couldn’t stop herself from at least trying.
“This is entirely unnecessary,” she said. “If you’d just put me down, I could hobble along well enough.”
“No doubt you could, but why should you?”
It was an annoyingly reasonable question, and the fact that she hadn’t a reasonable answer made it all the more irritating. “Because…I…it’s unseemly.”
“Stop squirming before you do us both an injury,” he warned, obviously unimpressed with her logic. “Under the circumstances, it’s an insult to describe my behavior as ‘unseemly.’ It’s been nothing short of chivalrous—heroic even.”
The vision of her and Whit both rolling down the hill put a quick end to her struggles, and his ridiculous statement had her snorting out a laugh. “Perhaps you’ll get a medal.”
“I’d settle for the fawning admiration of the ladies.”
“Oh, I’m sure Miss Willory will be in raptures,” she said sweetly. “No doubt, she’ll follow you about doggedly, insisting you relate the tale of your gallant deed over, and over, and over, and—”
“That’s just cruel,” he interrupted with a wince. “You’re an appallingly bad damsel in distress, you know.”
She sniffed. “I’m being admirably stoic, in my opinion.”
He sidestepped a series of large roots. “And in my opinion, if you have to mention you’re being stoic, you no longer are by definition.”
She thought about that. “You have a point. I’ve been commendably reserved in my reaction, then. I think that’s a fair assessment, given how very much I wished to swear”—he jostled her slightly and had her gritting her teeth—“and still do.”
“Sorry, imp. It’s tough going here, but don’t hold back on my account. I’ve heard you curse the air blue before today.”
Intent on taking him up on his offer, she opened her mouth…then shut it again. “It’s just not the same when one’s expected to do it.”
Whit laughed and maneuvered around a sapling. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s expected for men to swear in the company of other men. I do so regularly and enjoy it immensely.”
They reached the path, but rather than put her on her feet, he continued toward the house.
“Perhaps it’s an acquired skill.” She craned her neck to look down the path. “Aren’t you going to set me down?”
“No point in it. We’ll meet the horse and groom on the way.”
“But you must be tired,” she insisted. “I’m no longer a child, Whit.”
“No, you are not,” he replied softly, and for a brief second, his eyes changed from laughter and concern to something else, something she couldn’t read.
“I…” She wanted to ask him what that something was, but it was gone before she could work up the courage to form the words. “I think I hear hoofbeats,” she finished lamely.
“And the cavalry arrives. I could carry you back, if you like. It’s bound to be more comfortable than having your injury jostled about on the horse.”
“It’s a quarter-mile walk, Whit. You can’t carry me all that way.”
“I certainly could.”
Before answering, Mirabelle was careful to take into consideration what Evie referred to as “the innate fragility of male vanity.”
“You’d know your limitations better than I, I’m sure,” she said prudently. “But it would be unkind not to use the horse after Miss Heins went through the trouble of fetching it for us.”