Louise Allen - Regency Scoundrels And Scandals

‘An armchair ride?’ Eva enquired indignantly. ‘Certainly not.’ She did feel an inner qualm that perhaps she was so out of practice that she might not manage, or that she would slow him down. Jack’s high expectations of her reinforced her determination to live up to them, gave her courage, even while part of her wondered sceptically if this was just good management of the forces under his command. She decided to test him. ‘Why do you think now that I can ride this horse?’

‘Because you’ve got guts, determination and a certain natural athleticism,’ he said matter of factly, neck-reining one handed to turn his horse towards the track that led away from the post road. Eva stared at his retreating back. ‘Come on.’ Jack twisted in the saddle. ‘Don’t you believe me? When have I ever flattered you or been less than honest with you?’

‘Never.’ Eva dig her heels into the horse’s flanks and cantered up alongside him. ‘I don’t think so. Thank you.’

‘Thank me later, when your muscles are remembering that they have not worked like this in months—’

‘Years,’ she said ruefully.

‘Years, then. You will be convinced your posterior is one big blister and your shoulders will ache like the devil and then it will all be my fault.’

‘I’ll just have to look forward to a good deep hot bath,’ Eva said without thinking, then went red to her ear tips at the recollection of last night’s bath.

But Jack was already forging ahead, up the slope. ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ she thought he said. But that could not be right—any inn would be able to provide a tub.

The pace Jack set was steady but fast, wending their way between the small ponds, thickets and fields on the east side of the wide river. They would canter, then drop to a walk to spell the horses, then canter again. From time to time he would check a compass, glance at the sun or stop to study the black notebook he kept in his pocket. He took half an hour at noon to eat from the packages of food that were stowed in their saddlebags, then watered the horses and walked, leading them for half an hour before mounting again.

They spoke little, although Eva was aware of Jack’s eyes on her from time to time. Something strange was happening to her as the lush countryside unrolled beneath their horses’ hooves, as the wildfowl rose in honking panic from the pools or the cattle raised their heads and watched them pass with great liquid brown eyes.

The wind was in her hair, the air was sweet in her lungs and it was as though she was stripping off some heavy, uncomfortable robe, freeing her limbs so she could run and laugh. Reality narrowed down to the landscape around them, the feel of the horse beneath her, her awareness of the man by her side.

Slowly, very slowly, the realisation came to her that she was herself again, not the girl who had left England, a wide-eyed bride, not the Grand Duchess with the weight of a tiny country on her shoulders, but herself, the Eva who had always been inside. For years she had looked out through her own eyes as though viewing the world from behind a mask, and in time she had become to believe that that was who she was.

I was beginning to think I was middle-aged, she thought in amazement as she followed Jack’s lead and popped the gelding over a low post and rail and whooped in delight at the sensation of flying. I was a mother, a widow, a Duchess. They are all important, but they are not me, not all of me. I’m me and Freddie’s mother. Me! Eva, having an adventure. Last night I nearly died and now I feel more alive than I ever have in my life.

Jack reined in and pointed upwards and she squinted into the blue sky at the pair of kites wheeling above them. Free. She was free. What did she want? What was important for her, inside? Inside, where she was a woman…

Despite her euphoria she was beginning to flag, to think longingly of the inn ahead. As the sun dropped low over the hills of the Beaujolais to the west, Jack reined in. ‘This will do, I don’t want to press on past Châlon tonight.’

‘What? Where?’ Eva stood in her stirrups and looked around. There was no sign of so much as a farmhouse, let alone the snug inn she was imagining. ‘Are we going back down to the post road?’

Jack, she saw suspiciously, had the air that seemed to be shared by every male with a guilty secret from small boy to King’s Messenger. He was trying to look innocent—and failing.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘We are camping out,’ he admitted, cornered.

‘Out here? What about my bath?’ Now they had stopped she was painfully aware of her sore bottom and the fact that she was going to have to unbend her legs and stand.

‘I did warn you. Look, there’s a nice grove of trees and a stream.’

Nice grove, indeed! Eva considered grumbling. Complaining loudly even. She wanted a hot bath, she wanted a good dinner and she wanted a soft bed. She wanted her major-domo, her footmen, her Swiss chef and her maids. She wanted clean, soft linen. She sat on the tired gelding, absently rubbing her hand along his neck and watched Jack, who had swung down off his horse and was exploring the glade.

It was rather nice, now that she came to look at it. The trees whispered softly in the warm evening breeze, there was fine grass and the stream ran busily over glinting pebbles. And there was the man in the middle of it, stretching mightily, his hat tossed on the ground. As she watched he stripped off his coat and threw that down, too, then turned and smiled at her. And Eva smiled back, her aching muscles, her grumbles, her empty stomach forgotten. He was why she felt so free, so new. And she was going to have to decide what to do about that.

‘It is lovely,’ she called, and sensed, rather than saw, the way he relaxed. Had he expected her to be difficult? ‘I don’t think I can get down by myself, you will have to help me.’

It was part calculation on her part, a feminine wile to get his hands on her, and partly the absolute truth. Jack strolled across and held up his hands. ‘Throw your leg over the pommel and slide,’ he suggested.

‘I don’t think I can throw a shoe, let alone an entire limb,’ she joked, slipping her foot out of the stirrup and creakily lifting the leg over. The horse, impatient to get at the water and soft grass, shifted and she slid, with more speed than elegance, into Jack’s waiting embrace.

He caught her around her waist and held her for a second, feet dangling, then he let her slide down, sandwiched between his body and the horse. She was aware of every inch of his body, and of hers. As her feet touched the ground she realised she was holding her breath and raised her eyes to search his face.

It was expressionless, those searching eyes shuttered and uncommunicative. Jack opened his hands and stepped away. ‘I’ll gather firewood. Can you water the horses?’

‘Yes, of course.’ So, the door was still firmly closed. If she wanted him, she was going to have to be very explicit, not rely on hints or flirtation. Eva unsaddled the riding horses, removed their bridles and led them to the stream, then tied them on long leading reins to a sturdy branch. The pack horse stood patiently while she fiddled with straps and buckles, but soon he too was free of his burden and cropping the grass with the others.

‘I did not expect you to do that.’ Jack was back with an armful of wood. He crouched in the middle of the glade where travellers had obviously lit fires before and began to methodically stack the wood, sliding twigs and dried grass in at the base.

‘Why not? I am perfectly capable of it.’ Eva searched in the unloaded packs and found food, then bedrolls, which she shook out by the fireside. ‘Can we eat all of this tonight? I am starving.’

‘So long as we have something left for breakfast.’ Jack finished lighting the fire and stood, studying his surroundings, shading his eyes against the setting sun as he watched the track and the fields that lay between them and the river. He looked back at the fire, apparently satisfied with the almost invisible trickle of smoke from the dry wood.