Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)(78)

The foliage had never seemed particularly dense in the sun. But the black leaves filtered out all but the most persistent light—and that came through in dark, waving blotches, shadows chasing each other across the uneven forest floor as the branches overhead moved in the wind.

His mount shied and skittered, throwing her head in fear of those moon-tossed shadows. Ned patted the animal’s neck in a fashion that he hoped was soothing. There wasn’t much time to cater to equine sensibilities in his schedule. And while he’d chosen the animal for the speed and sureness of her footing, with these shadows about, she was almost as skittish as Champion.

A quarter-mile into the forest, an owl hooted. For one heart-stopping second, Ned felt his horse’s muscles tense in panic. He reached forward to give the animal another soothing pat, but before his gloved fingers landed, the animal let out a frightened cry. She reared up, and before Ned could regain his balance, she broke into a teeth-jolting gallop.

Ned sawed uselessly on the reins. The heavy leather strings cut into his gloves, but the mare had grabbed the bit between her teeth and was too frightened to pay the least attention. She stampeded along the unlit path, her sides heaving in terror. Branches crashed into Ned’s cheeks, little whippy things that left stinging lashes across his face.

“Hush,” he tried. And then, “Quiet.” Not that the horse could hear any of Ned’s attempts to calm her, not over the cacophony of breaking branches.

“Stop!” he finally shouted.

As if the mare heard this command, her forward motion checked. It happened too fast for Ned to react, and yet it seemed to occur so slowly, he could see every leaf on the tree in front of him. There was a cracking noise; Ned felt a sudden sense of drunken vertigo as inertia slapped him against his mount’s neck. The beast stumbled. There wasn’t time to move as his mare fell, but still, Ned tried to kick free. His boot caught in the stirrup—he swung wildly—and the ground rushed up to slam into him. The next instant after that, the horse was rolling on him. Ned’s leg twisted underneath that crushing weight. He pulled away; his leg wrenched.

He pulled again, and his leg finally came free. He scrambled away, backward, his elbows digging into the cold mulch underneath him. It was over. He’d survived. His lungs burned and he fell back on the cold ground, expelling the breath he seemed to have been holding.

He was light-headed. He lay, a thousand little twigs poking his spine. He was a mass of cuts and bruises. Just beyond him, his horse let out one last panicked whinny before surging to its feet.

Ned felt a momentary flit of pleasure that whatever had caused the fall had done no permanent damage to his mount. But before he could clamber to his feet and rescue the reins, his mare raced off again. He heard her hoofbeats echoing into the distance.

Oh, yes. The evening had wanted just that.

This was not yet a total disaster. The beast was familiar with the area; he’d ridden her to Berkswift before. She’d go there now—and Ned would perforce need to walk behind. It would take him longer on foot, but he was no more than five miles distant at this point. Once his heart slowed down—once his breath ceased slamming into his lungs—he’d follow after. The schedule… He would make it work. Walking would mean delay, but there were more horses and a carriage at Berkswift. He would have needed them, in any event, to bring Louisa and her infant home. He’d be back in London hours before eleven in the morning. It was a delay, but it was only a delay. Just an unfortunate setback, not a catastrophe.

Ned took another deep, calming lungful of air. With that breath, he came to a very odd realization—his leg hurt. He noticed it as an intellectual curiosity before he truly felt the pain. And then it hurt like hell.

He vaguely recalled the twist of his hip as he’d fallen, the slam of his horse’s weight atop him. Now, with every last respiration, it felt as if his lungs were taking in acid in place of oxygen. It was a sharp pain, like a thousand shards of glass all stabbing his ankle with vicious glee. Beneath that, there was a dull, persistent throb, a pressure where his leg seemed to swell against his thick riding boot.

Deeper than any of the coruscating sparks of hurt, lay an exceedingly bad feeling in his gut. This was not good. It was so not good that he couldn’t even bring himself to think of what had occurred. He could only act.

His gloves had shredded when he hit the rocky earth. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees. His breath caught against his ribs. From his knees, he pushed himself upright onto one foot. His ankle dissolved into a fire of pain from even that tiny amount of weight.

“Holy Christ,” he swore aloud.

Blasphemy didn’t make the pain any better. It sure as hell didn’t make the truth any more palatable.

He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to take off his damned boot to feel the telltale fracture. But he knew with a sick, sure certainty, knew it with the grinding pattern of pain he felt, pressing his foot into the ground.

Somewhere in that fall, he’d broken his leg.

The black despair that seeped into him was all too familiar. At least this time he actually had a reason to feel it. It felt like little tearing claws, that sure knowledge that he’d failed, that he’d made Kate another promise he couldn’t keep. He’d thought he was good enough. He’d imagined he could do anything. But that had been sheer pride. Reality now stripped him of his arrogance.

Failure settled about him like a lead cloak. He wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t strong enough. He was an idiot to have allowed Kate to rely on him, and now she—and Louisa—were going to pay the price of depending upon someone who was fool enough to think he could be a hero.