The hill wasn’t particularly steep, but it was tall, and the ground near the top was damp and loose. Her feet slid out beneath her repeatedly, resulting in the last ten minutes of her hike becoming more of a scramble than a climb. By the time she reached the top, her gown was torn at the hem and covered in soil from the knees down, her hands were filthy from seeking purchase in the dirt and grass, and, as expected, her legs were screaming.
But the view at the peak made it all worthwhile.
The beautiful countryside lay out before her, exactly as she had always dreamed. Fertile fields and hills broken by stands of hardwoods and the occasional stone wall. A warm breeze brushed her face and the scent of hay teased her nose. The sound of sheep and cattle echoed in the distance. It was a world apart from the sounds and smells of London and, in her estimation, a world improved.
Anna grinned and decided that, unfortunate manure encounter notwithstanding, and despite her aching muscles, wet shoes, torn gown, and what she was certain were colossal-sized blisters on her feet, this was shaping up to be a perfectly wonderful morning.
She enjoyed the vista a minute longer, then took a deep breath of the sweet air and headed off once more.
For the next hour, she walked through fields, through stands of trees, and over small hills, careful to move in a circle about the manor house rather than stray too far away. After a while, however, her feet began to ache and sting to the point where she was no longer able to ignore the discomfort. It was time to head back, she decided, as she reached the top of another rise. She could explore the next hill another morning, perhaps venture closer to the flock of sheep she could see in the distance.
Anna took a final look, turned, and found herself staring into small brown eyes at the end of a long canine muzzle.
“Well, my goodness,” she whispered, delighted. “Who have we here?”
Black and tan with lopsided ears, a low-slung tail, and an intense stare, the dog didn’t quite reach her knees, but its strength was apparent in its long, lean lines.
“Aren’t you adorable,” she crooned and stretched her hand out for the dog to smell. “Aren’t you a beauty?”
The beauty lowered its head and issued a quiet snarl that showcased an impressive set of sharp, white teeth. Anna’s heart leapt at the sight.
“Oh, my . . . Oh. All right. All right, then. Good dog.” She withdrew her hand slowly and began to carefully back away. The dog crouched lower and followed, his snarl deepening into a long, low growl.
“Here now, no need for that.” Fear formed a hard knot in her chest. It wasn’t a great beast of an animal, no more than fifty pounds at a guess, but it appeared sufficiently agile (not to mention annoyed) to do considerable damage to her person. “No need at all. I quite like dogs.”
The dog lunged, snapped at the air a few feet from her toes, and jumped back again, quick as lightning.
“No! Bad dog!” She wasn’t able to keep the tremor out of her voice, but she compensated with volume, and by shaking her finger at the dog as if scolding naughty child. The latter left her feeling equal parts ridiculous and terrified. “Very bad dog!”
Her lack of confidence must have shown because the dog lunged at her feet again, stopped short by a good distance, and jumped back once more.
She took a deep breath, intending another scold with the desperate notion that she might be able to keep things at a standoff until help arrived. But she wasn’t given the opportunity to put her ill-conceived plan to the test.
A series of shrill whistles sounded behind her and to her immense shock and greater relief, the dog spun about in the opposite direction and sprinted back to the flock, for all the world as if Anna had suddenly ceased to exist.
With her heart lodged stubbornly in her throat, Anna kept her eyes trained on the dog, fearful it might change its mind and come sprinting back for another go at her ankles. Even the sound of footsteps coming up swift behind her couldn’t force her to turn around.
But the sound of Max Dane’s voice could.
“Are you injured?”
Oh, damn and blast.
The thank-you Anna had fully intended to deliver to her rescuer died a swift and painful death when she turned about and saw Max—looking a bit winded, she noted, but otherwise neat and collected. From what she could tell, she looked as if she’d lost in a footrace through a briar patch in a wind storm.
He closed the distance between them and took in her disheveled appearance with a quick, thorough glance. “Are you hurt?”
Shaking her head, she gestured toward the dog, who had gone back to darting around the edges of its flock. “No. No, he didn’t actually . . . He only . . . Engsly ought keep better control of his pets.”
“Clover’s not a pet, sweet. And she is a she.”
She was too rattled to do more than blink at his use of an endearment. “Well, she could use a spot of training.”
“She guards and herds the flock. A better-trained shepherd’s dog you’ll not find in England.” He looked out over the field to the flock and his lips thinned to an annoyed line. “Pity the same can’t be said for the shepherd.”
She felt a bit thick for having assumed the animal was a pet. Of course it was a shepherd’s dog. The flock was right before her. Evidently, the transition from city to country life did not come as naturally as she’d hoped.
“I didn’t see him,” she mumbled.
“My point exactly,” he said under his breath before returning his attention to her. “Certain you’re unharmed?”
“Yes.” She shrugged but found she wasn’t quite capable of being wholly nonchalant about the incident. “She tried to bite me.”
“If she’d wanted a bite, she’d have taken one. She was nipping at your feet to move you along.”
“I tried to move along,” she replied, defensive. “She followed.”
“She wanted you to move along faster.” He gave her a small smile. “Gave you quite a scare, did she?”
The amusement in his voice grated just enough to steal her spine. “I have recovered.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“Are you?” she asked caustically.
Much to her surprise, he winced and offered what she might have taken for an apologetic expression, had he been anyone else. “I don’t wish you ill, Anna.”
“Merely my swift departure?” she asked, not believing him.
“On the contrary—”He made a show of turning about and holding out his elbow for her to take. “—it would be an honor to escort you back to the house.”
He looked the perfect gentleman awaiting a lady’s pleasure, but Anna knew better. He was no gentleman, and she was no lady. To refuse his offer would be petty, but when she took his elbow, it was with a cautious grasp and suspicious eye.
“I had hoped to find you this morning,” he commented lightly as he started them off. “You are now fully recovered from your journey, I presume?”
“Yes,” she replied warily. Coming to her rescue, playing the escort, asking after her general well-being . . . What game was he playing? And why the devil wasn’t he still abed like every other self-respecting degenerate? “I thank you for inquiring.”
“I’m not utterly without manners. Usually. Which leads us to why I sought you out this morning. I wanted . . .” He trailed off, slanted a sharp look at her skirts and brought them to an abrupt stop. “You said you weren’t injured.”
“Sorry?” She followed his gaze, baffled. Her gown was muddy, not bloody. “I’m not—”
“You’re limping.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged. “My boots are wet, that’s all. I’ve a blister or two.”
He gestured at an old tree stump a few feet away. “Sit down a moment.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she assured him. “I am perfectly well.”
“Sit,” he repeated and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the stump.
“And when I am done, shall I retrieve a pheasant for you?” she asked tartly.
“Curl about your feet to warm your toes? Run alongside your carriage?”
He held up a hand in surrender. “I apologize for my abruptness. If you would . . .” He trailed off, narrowed his eyes just a hair, and ran his tongue over his teeth, considering. “The toe-warming idea has some merit.”
“Good day, Lord Dane.” If he hoped to could gain her cooperation by making a racy jest, he was to be sorely disappointed. She turned to resume her walk toward the house, alone, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.
“Stop. Just a moment. Please.” He took a deep breath and flicked his eyes heavenward. “Miss Rees, I beg of you, humor my gentlemanly side, negligible and neglected though it may be, and have a seat.”
He ended this small speech by stripping out of his coat and laying the fabric over the stump. It was a thoughtful, even chivalrous gesture, and one she couldn’t argue against without appearing foolish.
“This really is unnecessary,” she reiterated, but she limped over, perched on the edge of the stump as it was too uneven to make a proper seat, and decided that she still felt foolish, only for different reasons.
“But harmless,” he returned and knelt at her feet to untie her boots.
As he appeared quite intent on the task, she discarded the idea of insisting she do her own untying. Instead, she marveled at the deftness of his fingers as they worked the laces. When she’d first met Max, he’d been a man under the influence of drink. He’d been notably uncoordinated, unable to manage so much as a snap of the fingers. But this man . . . this man had decidedly agile fingers. She found them to be fascinating for reasons she chose not to acknowledge.
When he slipped a finger between the leather and her stockings, she thought it strange that his touch should feel familiar. Strange and awful as he found her so distasteful, and she had fallen asleep the night before gleefully envisioning his forked tongue on a spit.
Discomforted, she made conversation merely to distract herself. “How did you know how to send Clover away?”
“I’ve watched the shepherd work with her now and again. Why are your boots sopping wet?” He inquired suddenly with a quick glance up. “What happened?”
“Hmm?” Her eyes snapped to his. There was nothing untoward in peering at one’s own feet whilst a gentleman’s hands just happened to be upon them . . . and yet she felt a warmth of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. “Oh. I . . . I stepped in something unpleasant and washed my boots in the stream.”
His fingers came up to lightly brush across the mud at her knees. “And then . . . You fell on the banks?”
“No.” She pushed his hand away. There was something very much untoward in allowing a man to handle one’s knees. “I . . . knelt to pick a flower. I didn’t realize the ground was so . . .”
“Dirty?”
She drew a hand down her sleeve, the picture of composure, and decided the best response to that was no response at all.
“Liar.” He laughed softly and began to ease her boot from her foot. “Keep that secret, if you like. My imagination can fill in . . . Damn it, woman, what have you done?”
“I beg your pardon? I’ve done nothing wrong. I . . .” She trailed off when he moved his head and her foot became visible. “Oh, my.”
Apparently, she’d done something wrong. On the inside of her ankle, the thin cotton of her stocking was worn and stained pink with blood. A large blister must have formed and opened, and the exposed skin beneath rubbed raw.
“How did you let it get to this point?” Max demanded.
She scowled at her bloody stocking. “I hadn’t realized it was as bad as all that.”
“You were limping,” he reminded her, reaching for her other foot.
“I never said it didn’t hurt, I said I hadn’t realized it was quite so bad. Besides, I wasn’t limping. I was stepping with caution. There is a difference.”
If he had a particular reaction to that bit of nonsense, she’d never know it. He kept his head bent and refrained from comment.
The removal of the second boot revealed a stocking spotted pink at the heel and big toe. Two blisters, then. Both of them clearly less severe than the one on her first foot, but ghastly all the same. Anna sighed in defeat. Manure, mud, a mad dog, bloody blisters, and the presence of Max Dane. Her stroll about the countryside had now officially turned into a disaster.
Max cupped the heel of her first foot and gently turned it for inspection. “How long have you been stepping cautiously on these feet?”
“Not long.”
“Not long being a relative phrase?” he inquired, glancing up. “Or just a lie?”
“Not long being the politest way of informing you to mind your own business. Might have known the effort was wasted. Now, if you are done pretending to be a gentleman, might I have my footwear back?”
He released her foot and handed her the boots. “By all means. Let’s get you back to the house.”
“Thank you.” She accepted his hand and rose from the tree stump. The ground was cold and a little damp beneath her stockinged feet. “Now—”
“You’re welcome,” he cut in, and then, to her complete astonishment, he put an arm around her shoulders and bent in an attempt to put the other arm behind her knees.
She hopped away, quick as Clover. “What are earth do you think you are doing?”
“I’m going to carry you back,” he replied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She gripped her boots against her chest like a shield and took another step back. “The devil you are.”
“You’re injured.”
“It’s a blister, Lord Dane.” One would think a bone was protruding. Carry her back, indeed.
“It’s several,” he countered, “and one is bleeding profusely.”
“Yes, gushing blood, really,” she replied dryly. “I do wonder if the physician will allow me to retain the limb.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “It’s a quarter mile back to the house.”
“It’s not half that.”
He gestured impatiently at her feet. “You’re practically barefooted.”
“Yes,” she agreed and took some pleasure in adopting a patronizing tone, “and no doubt I am in for a slow and uncomfortable return walk, but if you think for one moment I will allow you—”
“If you think for one moment I’m going to stand by while you hobble all the way back to the house, you are very much mistaken.”
She’d heard men could be autocratic in their misguided attempts at chivalry, but she’d never experienced the phenomenon firsthand. It struck her as distinctly ridiculous under the circumstances, and more than a little aggravating.
“This is not your decision to make, Lord Dane. My blisters and my morning stroll need not and do not concern you.”
“If that were true, I’d leave you to hobble, wouldn’t I? Now come—”He stepped forward again, hand outstretched.
She stepped back.
He dropped his arm and gave her a bland look. “Are we really going to do this?”
“Argue?”
“Play catch-me like a pair of eight-year-olds?”
She’d rather not. She didn’t think the scraps of her dignity could take the strain. But neither were they eager to accept another capitulation. She’d retreated from the billiards room and now she was retreating back to the house. Both were disheartening enough, but never let it be said she hadn’t retreated on her own two, blistered feet.
Max offered his hand. “One of us needs to take the higher road, sweet.”
Again, the use of an endearment. What the devil had changed in the last twelve hours? “Are you volunteering?”
His smile was slow, wicked, and filled with humor. “Darling, I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for it.”
She considered that statement and the light in which it had been offered. It was difficult to poke at a man who made jests out of his own sins and shortcomings. But, in this instance, she wasn’t adverse to the challenge.
“T
he paths you walk are low, indeed,” she agreed. “But surely if I were to provide a long, long rope along with a climbing hook, and point you in the right direction, you might find your way if I held aloft a great light and—”
He let out a frustrated laugh. “For pity’s sake—”
“You’re the one who began the analogy,” she reminded him smugly. “It’s not my fault you chose a poor one.”
“But it would be my fault if your injury worsened because of a long walk back to the house. Engsly would have my head.”
“And if I allow you to carry me all the way back to the house, Mrs. Culpepper would have my head.” Mrs. Culpepper would pronounce Lord Dane terrifically romantic, but Max couldn’t know that, and Mrs. Culpepper was too loyal to mind the fib.
“However,” she added, aware that some sort of compromise would need to be made. There was independence, and then there was unreasonable stubbornness. She hadn’t the experience to know for certain where the line separating the two fell, but she suspected that an argument over a blister and an eighth-to-quarter-mile walk indicated that it wasn’t far off, “the blistering does sting a bit and I would, of course, appreciate some assistance—”
“Excellent.” He stepped forward once again as if to sweep her up.
“In the form of your arm, Lord Dane.”
Max stopped and dropped his hands. He looked to the sky in the manner of one praying for patience, yet again, then looked to her in the manner of one sizing up his opposition, and then, at last, held out his elbow in the manner of one defeated.
“Very well, hobble it is.”
She stepped forward slowly, transferring her boots to one hand, and took his arm just as she had earlier, with great care.
“I’ll not bite,” he promised, starting them off slowly.
“So you say now.”
“And so you’ve little reason to believe,” he added for her.
She cast him a sideways glance as she grit her teeth in discomfort. The green grass of the English countryside, which had always looked so invitingly soft in the drawings of her books, was not, as it turned out, especially soft or inviting. “Your conduct toward me has altered considerably since yesterday.”
Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3) Page 9