Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(21)

Cold. Freezing cold water. Ice-cold mortification.

Icy shock seized her ribcage like a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs. Lucy could not bring herself to care. She would gladly drown. Here, in the spot where she and Toby had passed so many pleasant afternoons. It would be a fitting end to her young life and vain hopes. For who in his right mind would marry such a perfect ninny?

Then several strong, meddlesome hands hauled her out of the water. Lucy went limp. There could be only one thing worse than dying of shame.

Surviving it.

She kept her eyes tightly closed as the men dragged her onto the bank. She heard voices. Henry, Sophia, Toby, Kitty, Felix, Jeremy. They all spoke at once.

“Fetch the blanket.”

“Is she alive?”

“Henry, you ass.”

“She’s breathing.”

“I wouldn’t have imagined she weighed so much.”

“Lucy, wake up.”

She allowed her eyelids to flutter briefly—just long enough to glimpse Henry’s face hovering above her. His eyes were troubled; his mouth a thin line. She shut her eyes again. More voices.

“What shall we do?” Toby asked, as strong fingers brushed her hair from her face and throat. Lucy quickly disguised her sigh with a cough.Toby was touching her throat .

“Leave her be,” Henry ordered. “She’s my sister. I’ll see to her.”

The touching ceased. Drat Henry. His brotherly affection always surfaced at the worst possible moment.

“Poor thing,” Sophia said.

“Should we remove her boots?” Felix asked.

Silence.

“They say that, you know.” Felix again. “If you’re drowning, you ought to remove your shoes.”

“I think that only helps while one is actuallyin the water,” Kitty said.

“Lucy, wake up now.” Henry gave her a rough shake. “Stop playing around. I swear you’ll be the death of me, if I don’t kill you first.”

“You very well may have killed her this time.” Jeremy’s voice was gruff, and nearer than she would have supposed.

“Henry, just step aside. Let’s get her back to the house, warm her up.” Oh, now that sounded promising. Toby’s voice warmed her from the inside out, like whiskey.

Lucy felt a pair of strong arms lifting her, tucking her body against a broad, muscled chest. Powerful strides carried her up the bank and across the uneven ground.

She sighed and nuzzled into his coat, breathing in the deliciously masculine scents of leather and pine. Eyes closed tight, she mentally cataloged the position of each of his ten fingers on her body. A five-pointed star cupped her right shoulder; the other five formed a crescent curving around her upper thigh. The flexed muscles of his arms were thick ropes running across her back and under her knees, binding her to him.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been carried. She must have been a girl, and a small girl at that. It had always been a matter of pride, for Lucy, to choose her own path. Whether walking or riding or driving the gig—she decided just how far she went and in what direction, and she found her own way back. Eventually.

But there was something strangely pleasant about surrendering to this strength, her eyes closed, her body limp in his arms. He could have been carrying her anywhere, or nowhere. But wherever he was going, Lucy was willing to be taken. She pressed her ear to his chest and listened for the distant rhythm of his heartbeat, beating faster to match his determined pace. Beating for her.

He trudged down an incline, and her body sank lower in his grasp with each step. Her cheek slipped from the rough wool of his lapel to the smooth linen of his shirt. His fingers bit into the flesh of her thigh. He broke stride briefly, tossing her body into a new, stronger grip.

“Oh!” she cried, falling against his chest with a soggy thud.

He stopped.

“Lucy?” His voice rumbled through his chest like distant thunder. It sounded different this way. Deeper. Darker. Slightly dangerous.

“Mmmm?” She kept her eyes shut tight and her cheek plastered to his chest.

“Are you finished playing Ophelia, then?”

No. It couldn’t be. Her eyes flew open, and cool blue eyes met her startled gaze.

Jeremy.

“I thought Henry was jesting this morning, when he said you planned to pursue the stage. You have the madness bit mastered, but the drowning? That’s a bit rich. There are fish in that stream that could take swimming lessons from you.”

“I didn’tmean to fall in.” She wriggled in his arms. “Put me down.”

“No.” He pulled her back against his chest and resumed walking at a brisk pace.

“I said, put medown!” She beat against his shoulder with her fist.

“I said, no. You wanted to be rescued.”

“Not by you!” Lucy jabbed her elbow into his ribs, levering her arm to increase the space between them. “Jemmy, I do not need to be carried.” She growled with frustration.“Put. Me. Down.”

At last he complied without ceremony, fairly dropping her into the mud. To her added irritation, Lucy missed his warmth immediately. She hugged herself against the chill and looked around to get her bearings. The house’s familiar Tudor façade winked at her through the Manor’s iron gates. In the distance, the rest of the group crested a distant rise.