She was so practical. So damned practical. He should have thought of that.
‘I have another neckcloth in my valise,’ he retorted. See? He could be practical, too. ‘And a shirt.’ Though it was blood-spattered and sweat-soaked from his exploits at Wragley’s. He shook his head. How he detested not having clean linen every day. ‘Plenty of things we can tear up to bind your feet.’
As well as her stays.
He swallowed.
‘Why on earth didn’t you say so earlier?’
‘I would have done if only you’d admitted you were having problems with your shoes. I could have bound your feet miles ago, and then they wouldn’t have ended up in that state,’ he snapped, furious that she’d been hurt so badly and he hadn’t even noticed when he was supposed to be protecting her.
Though how was he to have guessed, when she hadn’t said a word? She had to be the most provoking female it had ever been his misfortune to encounter.
‘You weren’t even limping,’ he said accusingly.
‘Well, both feet hurt equally badly. So it was hard to choose which one to favour.’
‘Prudence!’ He gazed for a moment into her brave, tortured little face. And then found himself pulling her into his arms and hugging her.
Hugging her? When had he ever wanted to hug anyone? Male or female?
Never. He wasn’t the kind of man who went in for hugging.
But people gained comfort from hugging, so he’d heard. And since he couldn’t strangle her, nor ease his frustration the only other way that occurred to him, he supposed hugging was the sensible, middling course to take. At least he could get his hands on her without either killing or debauching her.
Perhaps there was something to be said for hugging after all.
* * *
Prudence let her head fall wearily against his chest. Just for a moment she could let him take her weight, and with it all her woes—couldn’t she? Where was the harm in that?
‘You’ve been so brave,’ he murmured into her hair.
‘No, not brave,’ she protested into his shirtfront. ‘Stubborn and proud is what I’ve been. And stupid. And impractical—’
‘No! I won’t have you berate yourself this way. You may be a touch proud, but you are most definitely the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know anyone who would have gone through what you have today without uttering a word of complaint.’
‘But—’
‘No. Listen to me. If anyone is guilty of being stupidly proud it is I. I should have swallowed my pride at the outset and pawned the watch. I should have done everything in my power to liberate that horse and gig from the stable so you wouldn’t have to walk. I will never forgive myself for putting you through this.’
‘It isn’t your fault.’
‘Yes, it is. Oh, good grief—this isn’t a contest, Prudence! Stop trying to outdo me.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. Even when I admit to a fault,’ he said, as though it was an immense concession to admit any such thing, ‘you have to insist your fault is greater.’
‘But I feel at fault,’ she confessed.
It was easy to maintain her pride when he was being grumpy and aloof, but so much harder when he was trying to be kind.
‘It was my fault you lost all your money.’ She’d known it from the start, but had been so angry when he hadn’t scrupled to accuse her of carelessness that she’d refused to admit it. ‘It was my fault you got into this...this escapade at all. If my aunt and her new husband, whom I refuse to call my uncle, hadn’t decided to steal my inheritance...or if you hadn’t had a room up on our landing...’
‘Then we would never have met,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’m glad we have met, Miss Prudence Carstairs.’
Her heart performed a somersault inside her ribcage. She became very aware of his arms enfolding her with such strength, and yet such gentleness. Remembered that he’d put them round her of his own volition.
And then he looked at her lips. In a way that put thoughts of kissing in her head.
‘Because before I met you,’ he said, with a sort of intensity that convinced her he meant every word, ‘I have never admired or respected any female—not really.’
What would she do if he tried to kiss her? She had to think of something to say—quickly! Before one of them gave in to the temptation to close the gap that separated their faces and taste the other.
What had he just said? Something about never admiring a female before? Well, that was just plain absurd.
‘But...you were married.’
He let go of her. Pulled away. All expression wiped from his face. Heavens, but the mention of his late wife had acted upon him like a dousing from a bucket of ice water. Which was a good thing. If she’d let him kiss her or, even worse, started kissing him, who knew how it would have ended? A girl couldn’t go kissing a man in a secluded barn, on a bed of sweet-smelling hay, without it ending badly.