Free A Heart in Flight by Nina Coombs Pykare Page A

Earl’s eyes gleamed with laughter. “I should say not.” He gave her what should have been a stern look if his eyes had not spoiled it. “Let us hope that the story of your escapade doesn’t give her ideas in that line.”
    “Ideas? Oh dear.” Laughter bubbled from her and she clapped a hand to her mouth. And, of course, the animal she was riding chose that precise moment to leap forward and take off at a gallop.
    Unfortunately, a good run was not nearly as pleasant as Phoebe had described it. To be bouncing up and down and sideways was most disconcerting. The horse paid no heed to her efforts to slow it down. It just ran, faster and faster.
    “Aurelia!” the Earl called after her. “Miss Amesley, stop?”
    “I cannot! Help!”
    Sawing at the reins, she perceived that she was telling the awful truth. The horse had the bit between its teeth and was running for dear life.
    Woodland and meadow passed in a whirlwind of confused images—a hassock of turf that almost unseated her, a low hanging branch she ducked to avoid, and, in the distance, a winding ribbon of stream.
    The pounding of her horse’s hooves almost drowned out her own labored breathing. She could not turn her head to see if he were coming. She could barely keep her seat.
    The stream was getting closer—and wider. Surely it would stop the horse.But then, just as she expected the horse to slow, she felt it gather itself to jump.
    “No-o-o-o-o!”
    There was one long timeless moment when her body left the saddle. And then she was lying in the stream, making curious noises while she fought to pull air into her lungs.
    The shako hat, which had fallen over her eyes, obscured her vision, but as her labored breathing slowed, she could hear the pounding of coming hooves.
    She pushed herself to a sitting position and tugged offthe offending hat. Her hair came down, spilling over her shoulders and dripping down her face. She pushed at it impatiently.
    Cold water was running over her lap and she couldn’t even get up to escape it. Her ankle was still too weak for tramping about the rocky bottoms of streams. She shifted. And this bottom was very rocky.
    Ranfield pulled his mare to a halt. She appeared uninjured. Thank God! Sitting there in the middle of the stream, she made quite a sight. He felt the laughter rising in him, but he shoved it back down. A gentleman should not laugh at a lady in distress.
    He dismounted. “Miss Amesley, are you hurt?”
    “I think not.” She threw a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. “But I cannot stand. I’m most dreadfully sorry, milord. But I fear I cannot get up without help.”
    She looked so contrite, sitting there. So innocent. And, strangely enough, sodden and rumpled, she looked beautiful. But where on earth had she learned to ride in that atrocious fashion?
    He spared one regretful glance for his shining Wellingtons and then he stepped into the water. “I’ll have you out in a minute.” Wet as she was, he managed to lift her. But her habit was waterlogged and the stream bottom uneven. Halfway to shore his boot heel turned on a pebble. There was a brief moment of panic. And there he was—sitting in the stream with a sodden Miss Amesley in his lap.
    A giggle escaped her. She buried her face in his waistcoat. Trying to contain it, no doubt. And he fumed his jaw.
    But it was no use. Laughter overcame them both. And they sat there, in the middle of the stream, clutching each other, and laughed till they cried.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, finally, when she could speak again. “But the expression on your face ...”
    “No apologies are necessary.” He was loathe to get up. He liked having her there in his lap, water and all. But he had to be sensible. And he certainly didn’t want her to take a chill.
    Gently he set her aside and heaved himself to his feet. His coat hung about him, a sodden mass. Water ran from his breeches in rivulets, and inside his boots it squelched between his toes.
    He offered her his hand.