“Who made you judge of that, child?”
She laughed. “You’re infatuated, sir. But I’m not respectable, give you my word. In boy’s clothes I’ve kept a gaming-house with my father; I’ve escaped out of windows and up chimneys; I’ve travelled in the tail of an army not English; I’ve played a dozen parts, and—well, it has been necessary for me often to carry a pistol in my pocket.”
Sir Anthony’s head was turned towards her. “My dear, will you never realize that I adore you?”
She looked down at her bridle hand; she was shaken and blushing like any silly chit, forsooth! “It was not my ambition to make you admire me by telling you those things, sir.”
“No, egad, you hoped to make me draw back. I believe you don’t appreciate yourself in the least.”
It was very true; she had none of her father’s conceit; she had never troubled to think about herself at all. She raised puzzled eyes. “I don’t know how it is, Tony, but you seem to think me something wonderful, and indeed I am not.”
“I won’t weary you with my reasons for holding to that opinion,” said Sir Anthony, amused. “Two will suffice. I have never seen you betray fear; I have never seen you lose your head. I don’t believe you’ve done so.”
Prudence accepted this; it seemed just. “No, ’tis as Robin says: I’ve a maddening lack of imagination. The old gentleman tells me it is my mother in me, that I can never be in a flutter.”
Sir Anthony leaned forward, and took the mare’s bridle above the bit; the horses stopped, and stood still, very close together. An arm was round Prudence’s shoulder; the roan’s reins lay loose on his neck. Prudence turned a little towards Sir Anthony, and was gripped to rest against a broad shoulder. He bent his head over hers; she had a wild heartbeat, and put out a hand with a little murmur of agitation. It was taken in a firm clasp: for the first time Sir Anthony kissed her, and if that first kiss fell awry, as a first kiss must, the second was pressed ruthlessly on her quivering lips. She was held in a hard embrace; she flung up an arm round Sir Anthony’s neck, and gave a little sob, half of protest, half of gladness.
The horses moved slowly on; the riders were hand-locked. “Never?” Sir Anthony said softly.
She remembered she had said she could never be in a flutter. It seemed one was wrong. “I thought not indeed.” Her fingers trembled in his. “I had not before experienced—that, you see.”
He smiled, and raised her hand to his mouth. “Do I not know it?” he said.
The grey eyes were honest, and looked gravely. “You could not know it.”
The smile deepened. “Of course I could know it, my dear. Oh, foolish Prue!”
It was all very mysterious; the gentleman appeared to be omniscient. And what in the world was there to amuse him so? She gave a sigh of content. “You give me the happy ending I never thought to have,” she said.
“I suppose you thought I was like to expose you in righteous wrath when I discovered the truth?”
“Something of the sort, sir,” she admitted.
“You’re an amazing woman, my dear,” was all he said.
They rode on in silence, and quickened presently to a canter. “I want to rest you awhile,” Sir Anthony said. “Keep an eye for a likely barn.”
“The horses would be glad of it.” Prudence bent to pat the mare’s neck.
They were in farmland now; it was not long before they found such a barn. It lay by some tumbledown sheds across a paddock, where a little rippling stream separated field from field. The farm buildings were hidden from sight by a rise in the ground; they rode forward, past what was left of a haystack, and dismounted outside the barn.
It was not locked; the door hung on rusty hinges, and inside there was the sweet smell of hay.
Sir Anthony propped the door wide to let in the moonlight. “Empty,” he said. “Can you brave a possible rat?”
Prudence was unbuckling her saddle-girths. “I’ve done so before now, but I confess I dislike ’em.” She lifted off the saddle and had it taken quickly from her.
“Learn, child, that I am here to wait on you.”
She shook her head, and went on to unbridle the mare. “Attend to Rufus, my lord. What, am I one of your frail, helpless creatures then?”
“You’ve a distressing independence, on the contrary.” Sir Anthony removed the saddle from the roan’s back, and led him into the barn. For the next few minutes he was busy with a wisp of straw, rubbing the big horse down.
Prudence went expertly to work on her mare, and stood back at last. “It’s warm enough here,” she remarked. “They’ll take no hurt. When they’ve cooled we’d best take them down to the stream. Lord, but I’m thirsty myself!”
Sir Anthony threw away the wisp of straw. “Come then. There’s naught but my hands to make a cup for you, alack.”
But they served well enough. They came back at length to the barn, and found the horses lipping at a pile of hay in the corner. A bed was made for Prudence. “Now sleep, my dear,” Sir Anthony said. “You need it, God knows.”
She sank down on to the sweet-smelling couch. “What of yourself, sir?”
“I’m going to take the horses down to the stream. Be at ease concerning me. What, must you be worrying still?”
She lay back with her head pillowed on her folded greatcoat, and smiled up at him. “A pair of vagabonds,” she said. “Faith, what have I done to the elegant Sir Anthony Fanshawe? It’s scandalous, I protest, to set you at odds with the law.”
Sir Anthony led the horses to the door. “Oh, you must always be thinking you had the ordering of this!” he said teasingly, and went out.
When he brought the horses back her eyes were closed,
