When He Was Wicked

Although, she thought rather peevishly, he was certainly not blameless in the debacle that was last night. And if he assumed that her litany of panicked, after-the-fact I’m sorrys the night before meant that she’d absolved him of guilt, he was quite mistaken.

“Well, let’s go, then,” he said briskly, nodding toward his mount.

She kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder. “The rain is letting up.”

“In China, perhaps.”

“I’m quite fine,” she lied.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Francesca,” he said in short tones, “hate me all you want, but don’t be an idiot.”

“It’s too late for that,” she said under her breath.

“Maybe so,” he agreed, demonstrating annoyingly superior hearing, “but I’m damned cold, and I want to go home. Believe what you will, but right now I have a far greater desire for a cup of tea than I do for you.”

Which should have reassured her, but instead all she wanted to do was hurl a rock at his head.

But then, perhaps just to prove that her soul wasn’t immediately headed for a toasty locale, the rain did let up, not all the way, but enough to lend a hint of truth to her lie.

“The sun will be out in no time,” she said, motioning to the drizzle. “I’m fine.”

“And do you plan to lie in the middle of the field for six hours until your dress dries off?” he drawled. “Or do you just prefer a slow, lingering case of lung fever?”

She looked him straight in the eye for the first time. “You are a horrible man,” she said.

He laughed. “Now that is the first truthful thing you’ve said all morning.”

“Is it possible you don’t understand that I wish to be alone?” she countered.

“Is it possible you don’t understand that I wish for you not to die of pneumonia? Get on the horse, Francesca,” he ordered, in much the same tone she imagined he’d used on his troops in France. “When we are home you may feel free to lock yourself in your room-for a full two weeks, if it so pleases you-but for now, can we just get the hell out of the rain?”

It was tempting, of course, but even more than that, damned irritating because he was speaking nothing but sense, and the last thing she wanted just now was for him to be right about anything. Especially because she had a sinking feeling she needed more than two weeks to get past what had happened the evening before.

She was going to need a lifetime.

“Michael,” she whispered, hoping she might be able to appeal to whichever side of him took pity on pathetic, quivering females, “I can’t be with you right now.”

“For a twenty-minute ride?” he snapped. And then, before she had the presence of mind to even yelp in irritation, he’d hauled her to her feet, and then off her feet, and then onto his horse.

“Michael!” she shrieked.

“Sadly,” he said in a dry voice, “not said in the same tones I heard from you last night.”

She smacked him.

“I deserved that,” he said, mounting the horse behind her, and then doing a devilish wiggle until she was forced by the shape of the saddle to settle partially onto his lap, “but not as much as you deserve to be horsewhipped for your foolishness.”

She gasped.

“If you wanted me to kneel at your feet, begging for your forgiveness,” he said, his lips scandalously close to her ear, “you shouldn’t have behaved like an idiot and run off in the rain.”

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” she said childishly, letting out a little “Oh!” of surprise when he spurred the horse into motion.

Then, of course, she wished she had something else to hold onto for balance besides his thighs.

Or that his arm wasn’t wrapped quite so tightly around her, or so high on her ribcage. Good God, her breasts were practically sitting on his forearm.

And never mind that she was nestled quite firmly between his legs, with her backside butted right up against-

Well, she supposed the rain was good for one thing. He had to be shriveled and cold, which was going a long way in her imagination toward keeping her own traitorous body in check.

Except that she’d seen him the night before, seen Michael in a way she’d never thought to see him, of all people, in all of his splendid male glory.

And that was the worst part of all. A phrase like splendid male glory ought to be a joke, to be uttered with sarcasm and a cunningly wicked smile.

But with Michael, it fit perfectly.

He’d fit perfectly.

And she’d lost whatever shreds of sanity she’d still possessed.

They rode on in silence, or if not precisely silence, they at least did not speak. But there were other sounds, far more dangerous and unnerving. Francesca was acutely aware of every breath he took, low and whispering across her ear, and she could swear she could hear his heart beating against her back. And then-

“Damn.”

“What is it?” she asked, trying to twist around to see his face.

“Felix has gone lame,” he muttered, leaping down from the saddle.

“Is he all right?” she inquired, accepting his wordless offer to help her dismount as well.

“He’ll be fine,” Michael said, kneeling in the rain to inspect the gelding’s front left leg. His knees sank instantly into the muddy earth, ruining his riding breeches. “He can’t carry the both of us, however. Couldn’t even manage just you, I fear.” He stood, scanning the horizon, determining just where on the property they were. “We’ll have to make for the gardener’s cottage,” he said, impatiently pushing his sodden hair from his eyes. It slid right back over his brow.

“The gardener’s cottage?” Francesca echoed, even though she knew perfectly well what he was talking about. It was a small, one-room structure, uninhabited since the current gardener, whose wife had recently been delivered of twins, had moved into a larger dwelling on the other side of Kilmartin. “Can’t we go home?” she asked, a little desperately. She didn’t need to be alone with him, trapped in a cozy little cottage with, if she remembered correctly, a rather large bed.

“It will take us over an hour on foot,” he said grimly, “and the storm is growing worse.”

He was right, drat it all. The sky had taken on a queer, greenish hue, the clouds touched with that strange light that preceded a storm of exquisite violence. “Very well,” she said, trying to swallow her apprehension. She didn’t know which frightened her more-the thought of being stuck out of doors in the storm or trapped inside a small cottage with Michael.

“If we run, we can be there in just a few minutes,” Michael said. “Or rather, you can run. I’ll have to lead Felix. I don’t know how long it will take for him to make the journey.”

Francesca felt her eyes narrowing as she turned to him. “You didn’t do this on purpose, did you?”

He turned to her with a thunderous expression, matched rather terrifyingly by the streak of lightning that flashed through the sky.

“Sorry,” she said hastily, immediately regretting her words. There were certain things one never accused a British gentleman of, the foremost of which was deliberate injury to an animal, for any reason. “I apologize,” she added, just as a clap of thunder shook the earth. “Truly, I do.”

“Do you know how to get there?” he yelled over the storm.

She nodded.

“Can you start a fire while you wait for me?”

“I can try.”

“Go, then,” he said curtly. “Run and get yourself warm. I’ll be there soon enough.”

She did, although she wasn’t quite sure whether she was running to the cottage or away from him.

And considering the fact that he’d be mere minutes behind her, did it really matter?

But as she ran, her legs aching and her lungs burning, the answer to that question didn’t seem terribly important. The pain of the exertion took over, matched only by the sting of the rain against her face. But it all felt strangely appropriate, as if she deserved no more.