St John set off at a walk and her own horse followed his with a minimum of direction on her part. She relaxed a little. He was right; this was not so bad. She called on what little she could remember of her childhood rides and manoeuvred her horse to walk beside St John’s so they could converse.
‘See?’ he encouraged. ‘It is not so bad as all that, is it?’
‘No. Not so bad,’ she lied.
‘We will ride down the main road and into the farm land, towards that little copse of trees yonder—’ he pointed towards the horizon ‘—then back to the house. And you will find the fresh air and exercise will do you good.’
He led her on and kept a running commentary on the local landscape. That farm held the oldest tenant. There lay the berry bushes that he and Marcus had raided as boys. That tree was the rumoured hanging spot of a notorious highwayman.
As he did so he encouraged his horse to a trot, and she did likewise. Her seat was not good and she jolted on the horse, wishing that they could return to the walking pace.
‘You are managing quite well. I was sure it would only take a short while to bring you back up to snuff.’ His voice was full of encouragement.
‘St John, I am not sure—’
‘It is only a little further. We will stop to rest in the woods and then walk the horses home.’
She gritted her teeth. If it was only a little further, she could manage. And, perhaps it was her imagination, but his pace seemed faster still, and her horse speeded up without encouragement to follow St John’s stallion. She glanced to the side, then quickly ahead to fight down the churning in her stomach. It was better to focus on the approaching woods. When they arrived there, she could stop and rest.
She looked with worry at the path before her. It appeared to be narrowing. And her horse was still abreast with St John’s and too close to the edge of the road. She tugged at the reins, but her mount ignored her, refusing to give way. She tugged more firmly, but the horse showed no sign of interest.
They were almost to the trees and there was no path left. St John realised her dilemma and spurred his horse forward and then pulled up short at the side of the path.
She pulled too hard on the reins and her own horse at last realised what she expected of it and stopped without warning, lowering its head to graze.
And, in the way of all objects in motion, she continued forward, and over the horse’s head. One minute she had an excellent, if alarming, view of the rapidly approaching trees. And then everything spun around and she had landed in a heap and was looking into the face of her own horse as it tried to nudge her out of the way to get to the tender grass that had broken the worst of her fall.
St John’s face appeared in her field of vision, horrified. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Miranda. I never thought …’
‘Perhaps,’ she managed, ‘a ride was not the best idea, St John.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, his light tone at odds with the worry in his eyes. ‘Are you injured?’
‘I do not believe so.’ She tried to stand, then sat down again as her ankle collapsed beneath her. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘Stay right where you are,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move. If there is a break in the bone, moving will make things worse.’
She lay back on the grass and stared up at the trees above her. What a fool her husband would think her if he returned to find her bedridden, unable to manage even a simple horseback ride. ‘It is not broken,’ she insisted. It simply could not be. She would not permit it.
She felt St John lift her skirts and realised with shock that he was removing her boots. She sat up, and then collapsed again as the blood rushed to her head. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What must be done if we are to establish the extent of your injuries. Now lie still and I will try not to hurt you.’
There was a firm tug and she bit back a cry as the boot came free. He reached for the other foot and she pulled it away. ‘I am sure that that one is not injured.’
‘But it is better to be safe than sorry in these things.’ He tugged the other boot free.
She felt his touch against her stocking as he probed first one ankle and then the other. Now that the offending boots were gone, the pain was not so severe. Perhaps it was only loss of circulation that had caused her to stumble. The pins and needles were subsiding and she could feel his hands on her feet.
It was good there was no groom along to see this, for it would seem highly improper. He was taking his time, touching each bone to make sure it was in place. Through the roughness of her stocking, the sensation tingled and she involuntarily twitched her toes.
His hand tightened on her foot. ‘You have feeling there?’
She nodded and bit her lip.
‘Then the fall could not have been too severe.’
‘I am glad to know that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll put my shoes back myself.’
‘It is better to leave them off, lest there be swelling.’
She reached for them. ‘I cannot ride back to the house stocking footed.’
‘And you cannot ride if your boots are so tight that you cannot feel your feet in the stirrups.’ He tossed the offending boots into the bushes.
‘St John! Those belonged to your mother.’
‘She has no plans to use them again. Nor should you, if they do not fit. When we go riding in the future, we will find another solution.’
When hell freezes and your mother needs her boots back, she thought, but kept her face placid and co-operative. ‘Very well. Now, if you will help me back to my horse, we can return home.’ His hand was still resting on her ankle, and she gave a shudder of pleasure and tried to pull away.
His grin was wicked as he pulled her foot into his lap. ‘Not so fast. I think I’ve discovered your weakness.’ He stroked the foot again, massaging the sole. ‘A moment ago, I very nearly saw you smile. I refuse to release you until you do me the honour of laughing, for I swear I cannot live in this house a moment longer without hearing you laugh.’
‘St John, please. This is most improper.’ She sat up and frowned at him and twitched the too-short skirts of the dowager’s habit down to cover her feet, but they covered his hands as well and it made the situation worse because she could not see what he was doing.
‘You are right. And that is why we must finish quickly before someone finds us. Laugh for me and I’ll let you go.’
‘St John, stop this instant.’ She tried to sound stern, but the effect was spoiled by the breathiness of her voice.
He trailed his fingers along the sole of her foot, ‘When you know me better, Miranda, you will find it impossible to oppose me. Save yourself the trouble and give me what I want. Then I’ll help you back on to your horse and we can return to the house.’ He was massaging now, alternating firm touches with light, and the sensitivity was increasing with each stroke.
‘St John …’ She wanted to lecture him, but the feeling of his hands on her was delightful. And he was so devilishly unrepentant. And the situation so absurd. Air escaped her lips in a puff, and then she gasped, as the feeling became too frustrating to ignore and a last featherlight touch of her toes reduced her to a fit of giggling. She lay back in the grass and shook with laughter as he took his hands away and smoothed her skirt over her feet.
‘There, you see. It was not so awful, was it, giving in and taking a little pleasure?’
She shook her head, dropping her eyes from his, and feeling the blush creeping up her cheeks as she smiled again.
‘Good.