Surprise flitted across his features. “To Hawthorne? But it’s far still. It’s cold; you’ll catch the cough.”
“I’m warm enough, and I walk fast.”
“You’ve walked much farther than we expected; you must be exhausted,” he said. “I’m to bring you back to the house.”
He wasn’t listening; they never did.
She gave him a wide smile, and he blinked the way men blinked when she smiled widely at them.
“McMahon, there’s only one horse.”
His face brightened. “Not to worry, miss, you’ll have the horse.”
“But it’ll take us two hours walking to the house, and it will take me little more to get to Hawthorne.”
McMahon assessed the situation with a deepening frown, probably realizing that he could not just bundle her onto the horse if she refused to cooperate.
“His Grace will not be pleased,” he finally said.
His Grace? Why did he send for her at all, when he wanted her gone?
Because he wanted it all on his own terms, the domineering autocrat.
“Tell His Grace that I refused.”
McMahon’s mouth fell open.
“And that I was awfully obstinate about it,” she added, “a veritable shrew.”
The groom slowly shook his head. “I c-can hardly tell him that, miss.”
“He won’t be surprised, not one bit.”
“See here, miss—”
“Good afternoon, McMahon.”
She did not turn her back on him, because she did have manners, excellent manners, actually.
Still McMahon looked unhappy. Would the duke take it out on the lad? She pressed her lips together; this was a matter of self-preservation.
Muttering something under his breath, McMahon finally doffed his cap, mounted, and turned the horse around, soon becoming a dark dot against the white landscape.
She pushed onward with redoubled effort, a restless urgency coursing beneath her skin. The duke wanted her back, and he was a man who got what he wanted. She needed to be faster. Also, she was coated in sweat, gluing her chemise to her back and forming crystals on her cold face. She needed to get out of the cold.
Not even half an hour had passed when there were hoofbeats again.
She turned, prepared to see a large brown horse.
The horse was gleaming white.
Hell’s teeth.
The rider was approaching rapidly, and there was no mistaking that erect posture. It was Montgomery himself. Another horse, riderless, was hard on his heels.
She spun around, her wits suddenly as frozen as her face.
Montgomery himself had come for her.
He was upon her like a gust of wind, a flurry of motion and stomping, steaming muscle as he maneuvered the horses across her path.
As if she’d be so foolish as to run at this point.
When she rose from her curtsy, he was staring down his nose at her from the lofty height of his saddle. That was how his forefathers would have looked on the battlefield, imperious men on mean warhorses, their voice the signal that made soldiers raise their swords and hurtle toward peril and glory. Peril it was for her, no doubt. He was stone faced.
“Good afternoon, Miss Archer.” His tone was deceptively idle. “Now, what exactly were you hoping to achieve with this?”
His index finger made a circular motion around her and the snowy path at large.
“I’m following your orders, Your Grace. The road permits travel, so I left your house.”
“And as you could have safely assumed, that referred to travel by coach, not on foot.”
“I wouldn’t dare to make assumptions about your orders, Your Grace.”
His jaw tightened. “So had I made my order very, very clear, that it precluded travel on foot, you would have stayed put?”
She could say nothing at all now, or blatantly lie. They both knew she would have taken off regardless.
Montgomery nodded, that tight little nod again, and then he smoothly swung from the saddle. Riding crop in hand, he advanced on her, the snow crunching menacingly under his boots.
Her heels dug in to hold her ground. They were under the open sky now, a more equal stage than his library, but he still looked disconcertingly unassailable in his heavy navy topcoat with the double rows of glaring silver buttons. He hadn’t even bothered to secure his horse. It stayed put, the poor beast no doubt long harangued into submission.
Montgomery planted himself a mere foot from her, his eyes piercing bright with annoyance.
“I would never order a woman to walk anywhere,” he said, “so mount up, if you please.” He pointed the crop at the spare horse.
She eyed the beast. It was the size of a small house and looked nervous; besides, she would not go back with him had he shown up in a plush four-in-hand.
“I will reach Hawthorne in an hour, Your Grace.”
“You won’t,” he said, “but it will be dark, and you will be ill.” Said with a certainty as if he weren’t just foreseeing but steering the course of nature. “You might also lose a few toes,” he added for good measure.
Her feet curled in her boots at his mentioning of toes; botheration, she hardly felt them.
“I appreciate your concern—”
“I will not have a woman come to harm on my land,” he said. “Concern plays no part in it.”
Of course not. “I have no desire to come to harm, merely to get to Hawthorne.”
He gave her a cold, cold look. “You are putting pride above your safety, miss.”
Well, there was no arguing with that. She gritted her teeth, struggling to control the unfamiliar urge to snarl.
“Get onto the horse,” Montgomery ordered.
“I prefer not to, Your Grace. It’s huge.”
He slapped his riding crop against his boot, and she had a feeling that he’d quite like to slap something else instead.
“There’s an inn in Hawthorne where I plan to stay,” she said quickly, “and—”
“And then word gets around that I cast my guests out into the cold?” Montgomery snapped. “Certainly not. You are not even wearing a proper coat.”
She looked down at herself. “It’s a most regular coat.”
“And utterly useless for an eight-mile march in these conditions,” he shot back; ridiculous woman were the unspoken words. He’d never say it out loud, of course, and he didn’t have to. He inflicted enough damage with the contempt coloring his cultured voice.