The bridge that, if not in good condition, would assuredly collapse under his weight.
"Stay back!" Demon yelled at Flick. Pushing past Jessamy, he strode the three paces to the bridge. Ignoring the rain, he checked the structure thoroughly, in the end standing atop its middle and jumping up and down. The timbers didn't creak; the bridge seemed sound enough.
Ducking back through the rain, he nodded at Flick, then freed his reins and was back in the saddle. Despite the downpour, he wasn't soaked; the bridge itself was protected by a huge oak on the stream's opposite bank.
Flick was looking back at him, her brows high. He nodded again. "You cross first."
She nodded and sent Jessamy forward; they clattered across in ordered style. Demon shook Ivan's reins-he bounded forward, keen not to be separated from the mare. His heavy hooves clattered on the planking; in a few swift strides, he was safely across.
Flick was waiting under the spreading branches of the oak; Demon reined in beside her and fixed her with a look calculated to impress on her the unwisdom of arguing with him in his present mood. "There is no possibility that we can ride on to the manor in this."
Eyes wide, she looked at him consideringly, then cast a swift glance at the clearing before them, the surface of which was already playing host to myriad tiny rivulets. "It'll stop soon-these squalls always do."
"Precisely. Which is why we're going to wait in the hut until it does."
Flick eyed the hut and immediately thought of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Maybe even mice. Or rats. Then she looked at the steady rain coming down and grimaced. "I suppose it'll only be for an hour or so."
Demon tightened his reins. "There's a small stable tacked on the other side-ride straight there."
Flick shrugged, shook her reins, and did.
A second later, Demon followed.
The small stable was only just big enough to house both horses; with the two of them in there as well, laboring in the darkness to unsaddle, space was in short supply. It was impossible not to bump into each other. Arms brushed breasts, elbows stuck into chests. Searching for a loose strap, Flick inadvertently ran her hand up Demon's thigh-she snatched it back with a mortified "Sorry."
Which was received in fraught silence.
A minute later, reaching out to locate her so he wouldn't hit her when he lifted his saddle from Ivan's back, Demon found his fingers curving about her breast. An incoherent word of apology was all he could manage, too exercised by the battle to drag his hand away.
Flick's only reply was a muted squawk.
Finally, they were done, and the horses, contented enough, were settled side by side, Ivan with a minimum of rein. Flick joined Demon in the doorway, ducking behind him, into the protection afforded by his broad shoulders.
He glanced around at her, then looked back out, peering along the front of the stone cottage. "God only knows what state the inside is in."
"The charcoal makers come every year."
"In autumn," he replied incontrovertibly.
She grimaced.
He sighed. "I'll go and take a look." He glanced over his shoulder. "Do you want to wait here? It's perfectly possible I won't be able to get past the door."
She nodded. "I'll stay here while you check-call if it's all right."
He looked back out, then strode swiftly for the cottage door. An instant later, Flick heard wood grating on stone. She waited, looking out at the steady rain, listening to the dripping silence. Beside her, the horses shifted, heaved horsy sighs, and settled. All she could hear was their steady breathing and the soft patter of the rain.
And a hesistant, furtive rustling in what sounded like straw, coming from the rear of the stable.
Flick stiffened. Wild-eyed, she swung around. Visions of munching rats with evil red eyes filled her brain.
She whirled and fled for the cottage.
The door was ajar; without a thought, she slipped through.
"Stop." It was Demon's voice. "I've found the lantern."
Flick stood just inside the door and calmed her leaping heart. He was large-he had large feet. He'd been clomping around in the cottage for at least three minutes-surely, by now, any resident rodents would have departed.
A scrape of a match on tinder broke the stillness; light flared, then softened, throwing a warm glow about the hut as Demon reset the glass.
Letting out the breath she'd held, Flick looked about. "Well!"
"Indeed." Demon likewise was taking inventory. "Remind me to compliment the charcoal makers when next they're by."
The cottage was neat as a pin, and, bar the inevitable cobwebs, clean. The door had been tight in its frame, and the windows securely shuttered; no unwanted visitors had disturbed the charcoal makers' temporary home.
By extension, however, there was no food left in the cottage to attract vermin. The pots and pans and, most importantly, the kettle, travelled with their owners. There was, however, wood stacked and dry in the woodbox.
Demon glanced at Flick, then moved to the fireplace. "I may as well get a fire going." They were both damp, just this side of wet through.
"Hmm." Flick shut the door, then, rubbing her upper arms, came farther into the cottage. While Demon crouched before the stone hearth, selecting logs and sticks with which to start his blaze, she studied the furniture. There was only one chair-an old armchair from the manor. Beyond it stood three narrow pallets, each sporting a lumpy, tick mattress. Bending down, Flick grasped the wooden strut at the end of the nearest pallet and tugged until the end of the pallet was positioned before the hearth to one side. Satisfied, she sank down upon it. And sighed as she let her shoulders ease.
Demon glanced back, saw what she'd done, and nodded. The next instant, he had a flame laid in the kindling; busily, he coaxed it into a blaze.
Flick sat and watched the flames grow, watched the bright tendrils writhe, then lick along the dark wood. Patiently, Demon fed the flames, laying branch upon twig until the blaze roared.
Heat billowed out, enveloping her, washing through her, driving away the chill locked in her damp clothes. Contentment rolled through her; she sighed and rotated her shoulders, one, then the other, then settled again to watch Demon's hands, steady and sure, pile logs on the fire.
His hands were like the rest of him-large and lean. His long fingers never fumbled. His grip was strong and sure. His movements, she noted, were economical; he rarely used extraneous flourishes, a fact that enhanced the sense of control, of harnessed power, that invested his every act.
He was, now she considered it, a very controlled man.
Only when the flames were voraciously devouring two huge logs did he stand. He stretched, then turned; large and intensely male, he stood looking down at her.
Her gaze fixed on the flames, Flick knew he was studying her; she felt his gaze on her face, hotter than the heat from the flames. She looked away from the fire, to the nook beside the hearth, gathering strength to look up and meet his eyes.
In the dark corner she saw a flicker of movement, a twitch of a whisker.
A pointy nose and two pink-red eyes.
"Eeeeeehhh!"
Her shrill scream split the stillness.
With another shriek, she leapt up, straight into Demon's arms.
They locked about her. "What is it?"
"A rat!" Eyes glued to the dark cranny, she clung, her fingers sinking into his muscles. She gestured with her chin. "There-by the fireplace." Then she buried her face in his chest. "Make it go away!"
Her plea was a panicked mumble. Demon stared at the small field mouse cowering back against the stones. He stifled a sigh. "Flick -"
"Is it gone?"