Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(17)

“Because he’s nervous.”

Help, a wolf! it was. She looked away—but her eyes caught on her husband, and she felt her stomach contracting. She quickly looked back to Champion. Twenty yards away, the horse peeled his lips back. She caught a glimpse of yellowing teeth.

“He’s going to think you’re challenging him.” Ned sounded amused. But the alternative to looking at Champion was looking at her husband.

“Maybe I am,” she teased. “I should like to be lady of this pasture. I should reign over the goats in spring, and the straw in winter.” And I would command you to move piles of hay in your shirtsleeves. Daily.

“You may reign over as many goats as you wish, if you just—oh, damn.”

Across the field, Champion stamped. Kate had only a second to realize how serious the situation was before the animal charged toward them. Hooves pounded against turf. She didn’t think he would actually trample her, but before she could turn and scramble over the stile, Ned had picked her up for the second time that day, and swung her over the fence. She landed, awkwardly, and grasped the fence rail to keep from crumpling to the ground.

He vaulted lightly after her, and then turned to face her.

Champion’s charge came up short, and the horse let out what sounded to Kate’s ear like a very self-satisfied whinny.

“I take it back,” Kate said, catching her breath. “He may rule all the goats.”

When Ned had swung her over, she’d twisted to face away from the pasture. Her husband had landed catlike next to her, and as Champion came close, he stepped nearer, his body pressing her against the fence rail. He didn’t seem angry; he merely smiled at her.

“I suppose you think I’m very foolish.” She spoke softly; Champion was just behind her.

“What? Because you challenged a creature twice as strong as you and five times as fast?” Kate flushed.

“Not foolish in the least,” he said, peering into her eyes.

“No?”

“You weren’t in any danger. I was there. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.”

Kate froze, unable to breathe. He stood so close to her, scarcely six inches away. Every breath she took narrowed that distance between them by a finger’s breadth. His gaze dropped to her bodice, to the high neck of her ivory walking dress. She felt as if he could see through the lace collar, as if she were the one wearing translucent fabric.

Help. A wolf.

He was impossibly close. To him, she’d always been a wife. And she’d learned all too well what it meant to be a wife. She was to engage in delicate charity and complex embroidery. She was a figure to be trussed up in a corset and petticoats, to be protected when necessary and indulged when not. A lady did not get her hands dirty. Kate had learned that all too well from her parents.

She wondered what Ned would say if she told him she’d arranged Louisa’s escape. If he would even believe her capable of that much, or if he imagined that she was as frivolous—as superfluous—as Harcroft had said.

She could hear the animal’s breath behind her. She had never realized that a solitary horse could breathe so loudly.

“Why isn’t he going?” She pitched her voice low, but even she could hear the desperation in her words.

Ned did not move his eyes from her. “I don’t know. I think he can smell the peppermints in my pocket. Here.”

He moved his hand slowly, slowly to his waistcoat pocket; then, just as agonizingly slowly, he pulled it away. His hand was close enough to brush her cheek.

He tossed another candy, throwing it far off into the grass.

She could not see the horse. She heard only its breathing. No tentative footfalls signaling its departure. Nothing. She could imagine Champion, warily scenting the wind, considering whether to put its back to its enemies.

Ned winked at Kate, and her toes curled.

“I don’t dare move,” she confessed.

“Really?” He gave her a naughty smile. “I can think of a dozen ways in which I might use that to my benefit.”

Kate swallowed. If she’d been reluctant to move before, his words rooted her in place now. Her half boots seemed to be made of thick iron. Her arms were bound at her side. Her mind filled with all the wicked things he might do to her. He might kiss her. He might run his hand down her side. He might undo those mother-of-pearl buttons at her neck and peel back the lace at her bodice.

He looked in her eyes. That old, heady desire swirled through her. A breeze eddied between their bodies, and she felt its caress as if it were his. His eyes narrowed, oh so subtly. He leaned forward.

Maybe this was why she had come here, danger or no danger, plan or no plan. She needed to assure herself that on some basic, primeval level, Edward Carhart still thought of her as his wife. To see if he would treat her as carefully, as gentlemanly, as before.

Champion moved away. Kate felt an elusive brush of wind against the nape of her neck, a wisp of air turning to nothing. Then, the clop of hooves.

“There,” Ned said. He had not dropped his gaze. Her lips tingled; her skin seemed too tight. He was going to kiss her. And foolishly, after three years of absence, she still wanted him to try. She wanted to believe he would attempt to revitalize their phantom marriage. She wanted to put her hands on the rough, wet fabric of his shirt, to feel the skin beneath. She wanted a taste of his carefree casualness, some indication that he thought of her as more than a delicate duke’s daughter. She wanted to believe he felt something for her, even if it was an emotion as evanescent and fleeting as desire. She bit her lip in an agony, waiting for him to move forward.