But Nicholas had swung himself from Sulayman in the midst of this impassioned tirade and put a stop to it by seizing her upper arms, yanking her to her feet. "How dare you frighten me like that!" he raged. "Those trees would have
broken your neck!" He shook her with all the frenzy of a terrier with a rat, giving vent to the pent-up anguish of the last minutes. "You are my life, Goddamn it! Never have I been so afeard!"
"P-please stop!" Polly begged, when it seemed as if her head would leave her shoulders, and her body, already shaken to its core by the fall, screamed its protest at this further assault.
Nick pulled her against him, wrapping her in his arms in a convulsive hug that was as violently expressive of fear and relief as the shaking. "God's grace, Polly. How could you do that to me?" he whispered into the fragrance of her hair.
"But it was all right, love," Polly cried against his shirt-front. "There was nothing to be afeard of. It would have been perfectly all right if you had left well alone. Tiny was tiring; she would have stopped soon enough. I did not want to draw back roughly on the rein in case I hurt her mouth."
Nicholas paused as the world settled again on its axis. The sun still shone, the river still flowed, hawks flew, and the earth continued on its accustomed circuit. Tiny was windblown, catching her breath in sobbing gasps, but she would recover. Polly was whole, pliant, and warm beneath his hands. She had given him the fright of his life, but he, too, would recover.
He drew back to look at her, her hair tousled, eyes wide, glistening, tears streaked on that flawless complexion, mouth opened to continue her indignant defense and accusations. "Are you hurt?" he asked in his customary calm tones. "That was quite a tumble."
"My arse," Polly muttered with a sniff, rubbing her aching rear. "It is all your fault."
"It seems that there is natural justice in this world, after all," Nick said, a tremor of laughter in his voice. "You'll not be up to sitting a horse again for a while, in that case." He turned from her to remount Sulayman. Reaching over, he took Tiny's bridle, drawing it over her head to hold it loosely with his own. " 'Tis to be hoped your injuries do not
preclude your walking," he observed. "It cannot be above four miles to the house."
Polly stared, for the moment speechless, as he turned both horses and set off homeward. "You bastard!" she yelled, then followed the insult with the more colorful examples of the vocabulary that had informed her growing. Nick's only response was to doff his hat, waving it in cheerful salute as he rode way. She picked up her own hat from its resting place on a spiky thornbush, dusting it off vigorously against her skirt, before cramming it back on her head. Then she limped after the fast-disappearing rider and horses, muttering curses and imprecations with all the vituperative malice of an entire coven of witches.
George Villiers, motionless within earshot, hidden by the screen of trees at the edge of the spinney, remained in seclusion for a good five minutes after the close of that fascinating and enlightening confrontation. It was always pleasing to have one's suspicions confirmed. It was with a most satisfied smile that he rode back to join the hunt.
The morning was far advanced by the time Polly arrived back at Wilton House. She was hot, and the walk had done nothing to improve her bruised muscles and spine, and even less for her temper. Unwilling to be seen in her bedraggled, dusty state by any guests, she used the back stairs to reach the peace and privacy of her chamber.
"Lor', Polly! Whatever's amiss?" exclaimed Susan. "Ye looks as if ye've been dragged through a hedge backward."
"Just as I feel," Polly groaned, sitting gingerly on the bed to pull off her boots. "If you love me, Sue, contrive some hot water and a tub. I am one enormous bruise."
"Whatever've you gone and done?" Susan, consternation wrinkling her round, placid countenance, bent to help with the boots.
"Oh, everything has gone awry!" Polly sighed. "And what is so infuriating is that it was not my fault." Thoughts
of Nicholas brought an alarmingly ferocious glint to her eye. "I need a bath, Sue. Can ye contrive it?"
"Aye." Susan bustled to the door. "There's a footman who's monstrous willing to oblige." A flush deepened the already healthy coloring, and Polly forgot her own ills for a minute.
"Willing to oblige you, is it, Sue?"
"Well, I dunno about that," the other girl mumbled, and whisked herself out of the room.
Polly took off her habit; mindful of the imminent arrival of Sue's swain with hot water and a tub, she put on a wrapper. She went to the door connecting her chamber with Kincaid's, pressing her ear to the keyhole. No sound came from within. He had probably returned to the hunt, sending his groom back to the stable with Tiny, thus advertising to all and sundry that the filly's rider had been unhorsed. She blinked away angry tears at the injustice.
Susan and the footman appeared, laboring under the weight of a round wooden tub and steaming brass kettles. Polly observed the two with interest, looking for the signs of an understanding between them. Nick, she knew, would be more than generous with his wedding gift, if such an understanding existed and could be brought to fruition. Sue's heightened color and a certain complacent air of the footman's seemed to lend credence to the idea. She would sound out Nick, Polly decided, before remembering that she had no intention of ever again exchanging as much as two words with the odious man!
"Thank 'ee, Oliver," Susan said with another fiery blush, holding the door for him. The footman grinned and chucked her beneath the chin as he went out.
"So that's the way the land lies," Polly commented with a teasing chuckle.
"Oh, give over," Sue said, still blushing. She hefted one of the jugs, pouring its contents into the tub. "Are ye gettin' in 'ere or not?"
"I am." Polly tossed aside her wrapper and stepped into the tub.
"Lawks!" squeaked Susan. "Ow d'ye get that bruise? 'Tis bigger than a saucer!"
"It feels as big as a serving platter." Polly groaned, sinking into the hot water, arranging herself delicately on the bottom of the tub. "I fell off a horse with some considerable force onto very hard ground. Actually, I did not exactly fall; I was practically pushed," she amended with a resurgence of indignation, hugging her drawn-up knees, resting her chin upon them. "And if I had my way-"
"You would see me drawn and quartered!" Nick's voice came laughing from the connecting door behind the occupant of the tub and her attendant. He lounged against the jamb, arms folded.
"How long have you been there?" demanded Polly crossly, without turning her head.
"Oh, long enough," he said cheerfully. "You were both far too busy complaining and exclaiming to notice me. However, Susan has the right of it. That is an enormous bruise."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Susan, I think you had better find something to do elsewhere. See if you cannot procure some witch hazel from the stillroom," suggested his lordship, pushing himself away from the door.
Susan bobbed a curtsy, disappearing in short order. Nick crossed to the window seat, where he sat facing Polly in her bath. "And whose fault is it?" A red-gold eyebrow lifted in punctuation.
"I would never have fallen if you had not pulled on the rein in that manner. It was quite unnecessary; I had matters well in hand. And then, to ride off and leave me…!" She glared at him over her knees, shifting slightly to take the weight off her bruise. "It was unkind and unjust-"
"Now, there I take issue with you," Nick interrupted, raising a forefinger to halt the tirade that was bidding fair to assume majestic proportions. "You took my horse-a blood Arabian. You took her not only without my permission, but also in direct contravention of my wishes, intending to force