Muriel’s stableman was on watch; Michael saluted him and continued on, leading her to where a long line of horses were tethered. He marched along, then stopped. “Here we are.”
Released, Caro blinked at a faintly familiar bay rump. Then Michael backed his big gelding out of the line.
Her instincts jerked to life. “What—”
“As I was about to say before being rudely interrupted by that arrow”—he lifted his head and met her gaze as his hand locked once more about hers—“come with me.”
Her eyes widened with very real shock. “What? Now?”
“Now.” Reins wrapped about his hand, he reached for her—and hoisted her up to sit in his saddle.
“What…but—” She had to grab the pommel, desperately fight for balance.
Before she could manage anything else, he slipped a boot into the stirrup and swung up behind her. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he lifted her, settled her against him, locked her there.
She looked up, fleetingly glimpsed the main clearing and the distant crowd as he wheeled the huge horse away. “We can’t just leave!”
Michael touched his heels to Atlas’s flanks; the big bay surged. “We have.”
He’d planned, schemed, to make this afternoon their time—the only time when his house lay truly empty, no staff about. Everyone was at the fete and would remain there for hours, happy to while away the day.
While he and Caro seized their moment.
As they emerged onto the lane just outside the village and he turned Atlas away from Bramshaw, he was aware of the thud of the horses’ big hooves—and the echo driving through his veins.
How much of the emotion that hardened his muscles, that fired his determination to cling resolutely to his plan and his goal—to grasp the hours he’d promised himself they would share—derived from the incident of the arrow he couldn’t say, couldn’t at the moment even reasonably guess. Some part of it certainly derived from a primitive conviction that he should claim her without delay, make her his and thus secure the right to protect her, yet while the incident might have acted as a spur, deepening his need to bring their wooing to a swift and satisfactory conclusion, the arrow hadn’t given rise to that need.
She had.
She twisted before him, making him wince; she tried to glance back at his face, then back toward the fete. “What if someone misses me? Edward might—”
“He knows you’re with me.”
Leaning forward, she focused on his face. “Geoffrey?”
“As usual hasn’t a clue, but he saw us.” Looking ahead, he negotiated the turn into the lane that led to the Manor. He glanced at her as Atlas lengthened his stride. Raised his brows. “If he does wonder, he’ll imagine you’re with me.”
Which she was.
Caro faced forward. Her heart was thudding again, but with an even more unsettling cadence. He was carrying her off like some knight in a minstrel’s tale, tossing the maiden he desired over his saddle and making off for his isolated keep.
There to have his way with her.
It was a distracting thought.
She blinked back to the present—to the reality before her—when they clattered into the Manor’s stableyard. Michael reined in the big horse, dismounted, then lifted her down. Quickly, he unsaddled the great beast….
Two hours. That’s what he’d said.
She tried to imagine it. Failed completely.
“Come on.” Seizing her hand, he towed her out of the yard and on through the orchard.
She really should protest—shouldn’t she? She cleared her throat.
Over his shoulder, he flicked her a glance. “Save your breath.”
She frowned at the back of his head. “Why?”