Free Unlacing the Innocent Miss by Margaret McPhee

tremor of panic flitted through her. ‘I can walk.’
    ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I thought it was carriages and sedan chairs every where for ladies like you.’
    She glared at him, wanting to tell him that he was more wrong than he could imagine, that he had no right to be here forcing her on to horseback; no right to be dragging her back to Evedon at all.
    Wolf glared right back, the animosity crackling between them, his expression hard and uncompromising. Beneath him, his horse stared at her with an equally hard eye. She averted her gaze from the meanness contained in the beast’s stare, and tried to ignore the horse’s sheersize and the power and strength emanating from both horse and rider.
    The proximity of his horse and the prospect of being taken up upon the massive beast was making her legs tremble and her stomach roil. She locked her knees and swallowed down the nausea. ‘I would not wish to inconvenience you, sir.’
    ‘I assure you that it is never an inconvenience bringing in a captive.’ And when she looked again, his pale gaze was on hers. ‘Miss Meadowfield.’ He reached his hand down to her, ready to pull her up on to the saddle before him.
    She stepped away, afraid of both the man and the horse, feeling the quickening thump of her heart and knowing that she must let nothing of her fears show. ‘If the horse is lame, then we can travel no faster than her walk.’
    ‘True. And?’
    ‘I will walk,’ she said too quickly. ‘Do not fear that I would delay our pace, for I assure you I am quite capable of walking at an equivalent speed.’
    ‘It is thirty miles to our destination this day.’
    She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders as if what he said was of no great consequence. ‘I said I will walk, sir.’
    ‘Thirty miles?’ He laughed, which served to stir her anger. ‘Have you any idea of that distance?’ The scepticism on his face made her all the more determined.
    ‘I have walked further; thirty miles is no great matter,’ she lied.
    He looked at her as if he knew that she was lying. ‘I think your memory is playing you false, Miss Meadowfield.’
    ‘My memory is perfectly fine, Mr Wolversley,’ she insisted.
    He stepped his horse towards her.
    She backed away in alarm, thinking he meant to snatch her up on to the beast.
    He stopped where he was, and the cool silver gaze scrutinized her for a moment more. ‘Very well then,’ he said at last.
    He glanced away. ‘Campbell, you and Kempster ride in front with the mare. I’ll stay behind with Miss Meadowfield.’
    She sagged with the relief of not having to share Wolf’s horse.
    The small party moved off. Campbell led the mare, riding abreast with Kempster, then came Rosalind on foot, and finally Wolf.
    There were no replacement horses in the next village. They left the little mare there and continued on.
    Rosalind walked, and amidst the relief at having won this small battle was the awareness of the man that rode behind her. She could hear the steady rhythmic clop of his horse’s hooves on the hard surface of the road. She tried to force her mind to turn away from him, to think other thoughts, to see anything but him, but all of her determination was useless. There was only the long road that stretched ahead and Wolf behind.
     
    Miss Meadowfield had been walking for three hours when Wolf decided that he would have to intervene. Not one word of complaint had she uttered, nor one single glance back in his direction, not even when they had made a brief stop to let the horses and themselves drink had she looked at him. The thick fur cloak hung heavy over her arm, her cheeks were flushed prettily from fresh air and exertion, several dark tendrils of hair had escapedher bonnet to snake against her throat, and there was an undeniable weariness in her step.
    He drew his horse alongside her.
    ‘You’ve made your point, Miss Meadowfield. You can climb upon my horse without any injury to your pride.’
    She did not turn her face to his,