Page 102 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
“Hello.” She held up the hamper. “I’m on my way to visit the widows.”
“So I gathered.” He arched a black brow at her. “Do you know the way?”
Vaguely.She waved in the general direction. “I know I should follow the lane to the northeast.”
He considered her for a moment, then glanced at the black mare harnessed to the gig. “Can you drive?”
She made a rude sound. “I’m a Cynster. Of course I can drive. I drove your grays, remember?”
“You’re the Cynster who isn’t fond of horses, and if you recall, I wasn’t exactly awake to watch you handle my grays.” He met her gaze. “Perhaps I should come with you”—he smiled charmingly—“just so you can set my mind at ease.”
It was a lovely late-spring day, and she wasn’t about to turn him away. “Why not?” She noted the relief that was there and gone in his dark eyes. Pretending she hadn’t noticed, she advanced on the gig. “But I’m driving.”
He followed, took the hamper from her, and helped her climb to the seat. “If you’re to convince me of your prowess, I suppose that’s unavoidable.”
She settled on the seat, took up the reins, and waited while he stowed the hamper, then joined her on the bench. The stable lad caught Ridley and assured them he would tie the pup up to await their return. Smiling her thanks, Meg flicked the reins and guided the docile mare out of the stable yard. “I thought you were going to spend the afternoon in the library.”
“I was, but the sunshine called, and I came out to check on Morgan, the horse I rode this morning. I thought he was favoring a leg, but he seems fine now.”
She nodded. Drago often rode before a late breakfast, which suited her; after he’d left her in a boneless heap, she could lie in and recover before joining him at the table.
The mare obediently trotted along the track that crossed to the north of the Court’s gardens and entered the woods to the northeast. These were old woods—more correctly, forest—with tall, mature, thick-canopied trees and dense undergrowth lining both sides of the winding track. It was peaceful driving through the dappled sunshine, with the only sounds the rattle of the gig’s wheels, the occasional jingle of harness, and intermittent birdcalls.
Meg’s mind was lazily meandering when Drago nodded ahead.
“Just after that corner, the track dips. The corner’s so sharp, you can’t see the dip until you’re all but in it.”
“Thank you.” She slowed the mare a trifle, and they rounded the blind curve.
Immediately, the mare snorted and danced.
A second later, the wheels hit a branch, one small enough for the horse to step over but large enough to badly jolt the occupants of the gig as one wheel rose, tipping them wildly one way, before slamming back to the flat.
Meg shrieked, and Drago seized her, anchoring them both via his hold on the seat’s back as the second wheel went over the branch and they were violently flung the other way with the gig angling down into the dip.
The second wheel thumped back to earth, and the seat leveled, then the mare screamed and reared.
Shocked, Meg fought to hold her.
Drago swore, let Meg and the seat go, and seized the reins—just as the mare tried to bolt.
On three legs.
Only Drago’s strength allowed him to rein in the panicked horse.
The mare responded to the absolute authority she sensed through the reins and stopped trying to break free. Gradually, she quieted, then stood, head down, muscles quivering, with one hoof held suspended and her hide flickering.
Drago stared at the horse and tried to sort out what had happened. He hauled in a huge breath, refilling lungs cinched tight, then glanced at Meg.
Her face paper-white, her blue eyes huge, she stared at the horse and breathed in deeply.
Crack!
The sound of a branch snapping had them jerking their heads to stare to the left.
Dense undergrowth was all they could see.
A second later, they heard a definite rustle, a disturbance much larger than that caused by a fox or a badger, then several moments later and more distantly came the distinctive sound of fleeing footsteps.
