Devon Lockley, on the other hand, had literally dive-bombed it, then set up camp right in the middle of her brain. And worse—after just two days in his company she’d begun using loose language, arguing, even veering dangerously close to banter. Much more of this and she might become sassy. Going their separate ways was entirely wise, sensible, proper, and other words found in the index of an etiquette manual. It was only that the prospect of blistered heels from her damp shoes weighed heavily on her mood.
She summoned a bright smile. “I wish you good luck,” she told Devon pleasantly. “If you happen to meet Hippolyta, would you please pass on my regards?”
“Tell her yourself,” Devon said without glancing back as he arranged the stirrup.
The words struck Beth like a punch to the stomach. Her smile became so bright it might have served as a lighthouse, warning against hidden rocks.
“Well,” she said. “Goodbye.”
She waited a second, perhaps a second and a half, before concluding he was going to ignore her. Then widening her smile to a degree that hurt, she turned away.
Devon caught her by the wrist, and she looked back at him confusedly. A similar confusion creased his face.
“I meant, ‘tell her yourself when we catch up to her.’ ”
Beth’s mind went blank, all its protocols lost in surprise. “Oh.”
Devon angled his head, regarding her with a mix of amusement and incredulity. “Did you think I’d just abandon you in Dover?”
“Why not?” she asked. “I’d abandon you, were the situation reversed.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Besides, if I left you here, you’d probably blunder into a group of smugglers and be so busy apologizing for having disturbed them that you’d fail to notice they’d tied you up and shipped you off to scrub floors for some crime lord in Australia.”
“I wouldn’t mind going to Australia,” she said primly. “I’ve always wanted to see the fanged emu.”
Devon rolled his eyes, but he was grinning, and Beth warmed at the sight of it. Before she could chide him (or, God help her, giggle) he set his hands on her waist and lifted her into the saddle. Astonished, disoriented, steamy, Beth caught hold of the saddle horn to keep her balance. Devon swung up behind her, and as his body pressed against hers, she went from steamy to flaming hot faster than an active volcano.
“I…sorry…I can ride astride,” she said.
“Sure,” Devon answered easily. He waited while she squirmed, shuffled, and tugged at her long skirts, trying to rearrange herself without revealing too much leg.
“Um,” he added after a moment, clearing his throat.
“Er,” he said shortly thereafter.
Then suddenly he was dismounting, his boots hitting the ground with a decided thump. Confused, Beth looked down at him as he pressed his forehead against the horse’s flank.
“Is something the matter?” she inquired.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just need a minute.” His voice was rather trembly, and Beth thought with some alarm that he might be falling ill.
“Perhaps you ought to sit down,” she said.
“No, no. It’s only a muscle spasm.”
“Oh. In that case, you should massage it.”
He laughed.
While she awaited his recovery, Beth gnawed her gloved thumbnail, squinting northward and trying to estimate how long the journey to Canterbury would take and what birds they might see along the way. But her thoughts were interrupted by a shout; looking up, she noticed the French fishermen beside the dock, talking excitedly as they pointed to her.
“Oh! Hello!” she called out, waving.
Cursing, Devon instantly hoisted himself up behind her in the saddle and reached for the reins. “We need to leave,” he said. “Now.”
“But it’s our friends! And this is a perfect opportunity to clarify that you’re not an angry husband.” She went to wave again, and Devon caught her arm.
“There’s no time.”
Just then, the fishermen began to sprint toward them, roaring and brandishing a thin, pointed object.
“I beg your pardon,” Beth said, “but there is always time for good manners. Besides, I left my umbrella behind, and they clearly want to return it.”
“That’s not your umbrella,” Devon said. “That’s a bloody fishing spear. Hold tight.” He flicked the reins, urging the horse to gallop. “Gee-up!”
Nothing happened.
He flicked the reins again. “Gee-up!”
The horse lifted its head, perused the neighborhood for a moment, then began to stroll forward.
“Arrête, agresseur de femme!” the fishermen roared, drawing closer.
Beth twisted, trying to look over Devon’s shoulder at them. “They’re saying ‘Wait, kind lady!’ ”
“Yeah, somehow I doubt that,” Devon muttered. Knocking his legs against the horse’s sides, he thus inspired it to shift up from a stroll into an amble.
“Nous allons te tuer!” shouted the fishermen.
