Page 7 of Saving Miss Pratt

“No.” He held out his hand. “Use my boot as a step. I’ll lift you up.”

Those blue eyes widened. “You want me to ride on your lap?”

He laughed at her outrage. “Or behind me. Who is going to see us in this snowstorm? If you’d prefer to walk and freeze, that’s your choice.” He waited a beat, watching her face as she agonized over her decision. “Well?”

She huffed, her eyes narrowing, and he pictured a cornered hellcat. He’d have to watch for her claws, grateful he had extensive knowledge about angry cats thanks to Bea’s pet, Catpurrnicus.

When she slipped her gloved hand in his, her fingers felt stiff.

“Front or behind?” He stifled the chuckle at his improper innuendo. His weakened state played havoc with his manners. Luckily, the miss before him was too innocent and naïve to comprehend the implication.

“Behind.”

“Very well. When I pull, swing your right leg up behind me. You’ll have to lift your skirts.”

Red colored her cheeks, but she did as he instructed, and he lifted her onto the horse.

“Hold on.”

Her arms loosely slipped around his waist, but when he gave a nudge to the horse with the heels of his boots and the beast jerked forward, she tightened her grip.

It felt . . . good.

* * *

Surely the icecrusted upon her cheeks melted at the heat rushing to her face. What would her mother say if she witnessed Priscilla riding astride a horse—behind a stranger, no less?

On second thought, her mother would most likely ask if said stranger was a titled gentleman, and if so, to have more than a few witnesses document their embarrassing arrangement.

Thank goodness, as the handsome stranger said, no one would see them. Her mother’s machinations were the reason Priscilla was isolated in the country and in this predicament to begin with.

As she clutched his waist, she contemplated the odd sensations flowing through her. Framed by thick auburn lashes, his moss-green eyes had studied her in an unnerving manner as he lay trapped beneath his horse.

When he’d risen, his right leg gave way slightly as he steadied himself with the saddle straps. The weight of the horse must have injured him, and her heart lurched with compassion. Guilt swarmed in her stomach that she might have played a role in his fall by startling his horse.

The lure of the cottage beckoned as they drew closer. Even through the frigid air around them, heat emanated from him where her arms wrapped around his body. She scooted a little closer, pressing her face against his back. Closing her eyes, she relished in the delicious warmth. A soft moan of pleasure escaped her lips.

When a rumble of laughter vibrated against her cheek, she jerked back, grateful he couldn’t witness her—most likely—pinkened cheeks. The nerve he had to laugh at her! The man was probably a rake of the worst kind. She must be on her guard.

Somehow, the thought excited more than frightened her.

As he reined the horse to a halt before the cottage, he held out his hand again. “Grab hold and slide off.”

Once they’d both dismounted, he limped toward the cottage door, knocking soundly.

“It’s empty,” she said. “Mr. Thatcher passed away two weeks ago.”

One auburn eyebrow lifted as he turned toward her, but he remained silent. After tethering the horse, he tried the doorknob, but finding it locked, he pivoted toward her again. “You’re certain no one lives here?”

She nodded, her whole body shivering with cold and missing the heat of him as she’d pressed against his body.

When he stepped back, her heart sank to her toes. Was he giving up? Ready to leave? Then, with a swift kick from his left boot, the door flew open, and he stumbled and fell to the ground, clutching his injured right leg. “Damnation!”

“Sir, your language!”

He shot her an angry look and muttered something under his breath.

Not bothering to assist him, she raced inside and out of the hostile elements.

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