She was so close.

“Of course na – silly me.”

His arm now smelled of peaches, her scent on his bandage. “I canna ken how you smell so delicious.”

“Delicious? What are you, a werewolf?”

“Preshea?”

She looked up from his injury at last.

Blue, her eyes are blue. The deepest, darkest blue Gavin had ever seen.

“I’m thinking that a kiss would make it better.” Gavin felt his request was greatly daring – her gun was still within reach. He’d wager she didn’t miss at close range.

“Thinking that, are ye?” She imitated his brogue and didn’t reach for her gun.

“Fair certain.”

“Well, if it’ll help.” She suited her actions to her words with a quick, sure kiss.

He let her try to make it brief, but then opened to her, waiting to see if she would take the bait. Vulnerability, retreat – is she hunter enough to chase? Aye, she is that. There came her tongue, only the tip, tentative. Then he felt a little sigh against his lips – the puff of acceptance.

Their kiss paused naturally, at the place where it could have gone further. He might have relaxed back against the earth, which he now realized was cold and damp. He might have caressed one stocking-covered leg. He might have coaxed her to lie atop him, kiss him more deeply.

Her eyes said she might have agreed.

But they heard shouting and the sound of horses galloping in their direction.

Preshea reached for her revolver, licking one finger to spit-test the heat of the barrel. Finding it cool enough, she flipped down one of her petticoats (Gavin was mighty disappointed) and stashed the gun away somewhere uncouth. Brushing down the rest of her riding habit, she stood and offered him a dainty hand.

He took it but didn’t use it to rise. He didn’t need it and likely would have overbalanced her with his weight, the laws of physics being what they were. He took her hand so he might stroke the back with one thumb. So he might feel how strong it was.

To his surprise, she smiled, gave his fingers a squeeze, and then let him go.

“We should return to the duke. I have a feeling he might require an explanation.”

* * *

Everyone who could had come to rescue them. Those cantering the fields heard the gunshots and raced back, except Jack. Lady Blingchester reported, snidely, that the foolish lad had fallen shortly after the party split, and returned to the house.

Miss Pagril and Lord Lionel also did not return. One assumed she had allowed her horse its head and they were already home. Gavin didn’t fret, for she was a fine rider.

The duke’s mount was gone and he was grumpy about it.

“He’ll return to the stables,” Preshea consoled him. “I shouldn’t worry. If not, we’ll send out a search party of groomsmen. Meanwhile, you take my mount and I’ll ride double with Captain Ruthven.”

“Are you mad?” objected Lady Blingchester. “That’s most unseemly!”

Preshea said, without inflection, “In case you hadn’t noticed, we are short a horse and the captain is injured. Someone must keep him in the saddle. What if he becomes dizzy from blood loss? Since I applied the dressing, it should be me. Unless the duke wishes to do the honors? Lady Violet is certainly not an appropriate choice. Are you offering, Lady Blingchester? I should struggle with your horse – too much mettle for me – but if you insist. Although I’m the least likely to be an additional burden to the captain’s animal.”

Gavin was impressed. She’d complimented Lady Blingchester on her riding and insulted her weight in the same breath.

Of course, his wonderful Rusticate, being a gentleman steed, would not protest any added burden – even as much as Lady Blingchester might entail. And Gavin had not lost that much blood. But he dared not open his mouth to protest her scheme. After all, it would net him Preshea in his arms for the entire ride back.

He was in luck. With no further objections, the duke assisted Preshea to mount before Gavin. She perched there, stiff. He held Rusticate back to take the rear of the party.

Once the others were far enough ahead, she allowed herself to relax against him. He pretended it was out of affection, although it was likely so they could talk quietly and not be overheard.

“I intended no insult, Captain. I know you could stick your horse, but this seemed the easiest solution. I’d like the duke back at the house quickly.”

“So, you are here to protect him.”

“You too, I take it?”

He nodded. “Fenians.”

“Reform League is what I was told.” She leaned her head back against his collarbone, on his uninjured side. He rested his cheek against the crown of her head.

“What’s daft is that Snodgrove is na the worst to stand against them. In February, he spoke for leniency. He’s a moderate.”

“Can one really be progressive and a Tory?”

“The duke’s a special breed of bagpipe.”

He could feel the movement when she shrugged.

“Perhaps it’s a violent faction of the League? He was seen lunching with Adullamites.”

“Careless lad.”

“Very. And he is too good a speaker. My sources tell me it is his rhetoric they fear, not the man himself. We should send someone after the attacker.”

“Aye. I’ll put Mawkins on it.”

“Your batman valet?”

“Aye.”

“But won’t you get awfully scruffy without him?”