There was a frenetic flurry of movement, followed by a thud and a grunt, and another string of blasphemy that Honoria was far too sensible to take offense at. With a horrified gasp, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Marcus was back on the ground, and from the expression on his face, this time he’d actually been hurt.
“Are you all right?” she asked frantically, even though it was clear he was not.
“It was the hole,” he bit off, gritting his teeth against the pain.
And then, as if it might possibly require clarification, he added, “Again."
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, scrambling to her feet. And then, because the situation clearly called for a more substantial apology, she said it again. “I’m very, very sorry."
He did not speak.
“You must know it wasn’t my intention to . . .” She didn’t finish.
A stream of babble wasn’t going to help her cause, and indeed, he appeared very much not to want to hear her voice.
She swallowed nervously, taking the tiniest step in his direction.
He was still on the ground, not quite on his back and not quite on his side. There was mud on his boots and on his breeches. And on his coat.
Honoria winced. He wasn’t going to like that. Marcus had never been overly fastidious, but it was a very nice coat.
“Marcus?” she asked hesitantly.
He scowled. Not specifically at her, but still, it was enough to confirm her decision not to tell him about the dead leaves in his hair.
He rolled slightly to one side until he was more squarely on his back, then he closed his eyes.
Her lips parted, and she almost spoke, but then she waited. He took a breath, then another, then a third, and when he opened his eyes, his expression had changed. He was calmer now.
Thank God.
Honoria leaned a little forward. She still thought it prudent to tread carefully around him, but she did think he might have calmed enough for her to venture, “May I help you up?"
“In a moment,” he grunted. He scooted himself into an almost- sitting position, then grabbed his calf with his hands, lifting his injured leg up and out of the mole hole.
Which, Honoria noticed, was significantly bigger now that he’d stepped in it twice.
She watched as he gingerly rotated his ankle. He flexed his foot forward and back, then side to side. It was the latter that seemed to cause him the most pain.
“Do you think it’s broken?” she asked.
“No."
“Twisted?"
He grunted his assent.
“Do you—"
He speared her with such a ferocious glare that she shut her mouth immediately. But after about fifteen seconds of wincing at his pain, she couldn’t help herself. “Marcus?"
He hadn’t been facing her when she said his name, and he didn’t turn around when he heard it. He did, however, stop moving.
“Do you think you should take off your boot?"
He didn’t reply.
“In case your ankle is swollen."
“I know”—he stopped, let out a breath, then continued in a slightly more controlled tone of voice— “why to do it. I was just thinking."
She nodded even though he still had his back to her. “Of course.
Just let me know, ehrm . . ."
He stopped moving again.
She actually took a step back. “Never mind."
He reached forward to touch his injured ankle through his boot, presumably to test the swelling. Honoria scooted around so that she could see his face. She tried to discern the extent of his pain by his expression, but it was difficult. He looked so at the edge of his temper that one really couldn’t tell much beyond that.
Men were so ridiculous that way. She realized that it was her fault that he’d twisted his ankle, and she understood that he was going to be at least a little bit irritated with her, but still, it was obvious he was going to need her help. He didn’t look able to come to his feet on his own, much less walk all the way back to Fensmore. If he were thinking sensibly, he would realize this and allow her to come to his aid sooner rather than later. But no, he needed to snap about like a wounded tiger, as if that might make him feel he was in charge of the situation.
“Ehrm . . .” She cleared her throat. “Just so I’m sure I’m doing the right thing . . . Can I help you in any way, or would it just be best for me not to make a sound?"
There was an agonizingly long pause, and then he said, “Will you please help me remove my boot?"
“Of course!” She rushed over. “Here, let me, er . . .” She’d done this long ago, when she was a little girl aiding her father, but not since, and certainly not with a man who had just been lying on top of her two minutes earlier.
She felt her face burn. Where on earth had that thought just come from? It had been an accident. And this was Marcus. She needed to remember this. Marcus. This was only Marcus.
She sat opposite him, on the far end of his outstretched leg, and grasped the boot with one hand at the back of the ankle and the other on the sole. “Are you ready?"
He nodded grimly.
She pulled with the ankle hand and pushed with the other, but Marcus let out such a cry of pain that she dropped his foot immediately.
“Are you all right?” She almost did not recognize her own voice.
She sounded terrified.
“Just try again,” he said gruffly.
“Are you certain? Because—"
“Just do it,” he ground out.
“Very well.” She took up his foot again, grit her teeth, and pulled. Hard. Marcus did not cry out this time, but he was making an awful noise, the sort an animal made before it was put down.
Finally, when it was more than Honoria could bear, she let up. “I don’t think this is working.” She looked back at him. “And by that I mean I will never get it off.” “Try again,” he said. “These boots are always difficult to remove."
“Like this?” she asked, in complete disbelief. And people said that ladies’ garments were impractical. “Honoria.” “All right.” She tried again, with the same results. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to have to cut it off when you get home."
A flicker of pain crossed his face.
“It’s only a boot,” she murmured sympathetically.
“It’s not that,” he snapped. “It hurts like the devil."
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry."
He let out a long, shaky exhale. “You’re going to have to help me to my feet."
She nodded and rose to her own. “Here, let me take your hand.” She took his hand in hers and yanked up, but he couldn’t get his balance right. After a moment he let go.
Honoria looked down at her hand. It looked empty. And felt cold.
“You’re going to have to grab me under my arms,” he said.
This might have shocked her before, but after trying to take off his boot for him, she couldn’t see how this could possibly be any more improper.
She nodded again and bent down, sliding her arms around him.
“Here we are,” she said, letting out a little grunt of exertion as she tried to get him up to his feet. It was strange to be holding him, and terribly awkward. Ironic, too. If it hadn’t been for his stepping in the mole hole and crashing into her, this would have been the closest she had ever been to him.
Of course, if he hadn’t stepped in the mole hole again, they wouldn’t be in this position.
With a bit of maneuvering and one more half-uttered curse on Marcus’s part, they got him onto his feet. Honoria stepped back, putting a more proper distance between them, although she did put his hand on her shoulder to steady him. “Can you put any weight on it?” she asked.