Helena expected one of grooms to take her home.  To her dismay, Kit appeared around the corner of Allworth House, driving a gig at a snail’s pace towards her while she stood in foot-tapping impatience on the bottom step of the main entrance.  He drew up beside her at last and she eyed the weary-looking cob in the shafts suspiciously.  It was old enough to have grey in its cheek.  Surely Allworth had better cattle than that in his stables.

A footman handed her up and she settled beside a stony-faced Kit, keeping her head turned away as he clucked the horse into motion.  Any relief Helena felt as they left the house behind was swamped by her indignation at her tight-lipped companion.  Irritably, she reached up and retied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin.  While she had waited in the hall for Kit to arrange to convey her home, her fumbling fingers had made a poor job of her first attempt.  Her second was little better.

At least she did not look a pauper.  Her dove grey travelling dress was not new but it was of fine wool and showed no signs of wear, and her wine-red pelisse with its silver-embroidered, black frogging was of excellent quality.  Kit would not know they were the sole such items she possessed.

The fresh air was clearing her head and the churning of her stomach eased a little.  Ignoring Kit, she studied the countryside as the old horse dawdled down the long avenue from Allworth to the road.  The first green buds were on the tall trees that stood like sentinels on either side and beneath them bluebells nodded their heads in the breeze.  Home soon.  She held the thought close.  Peace and safety.

The feeling was fleeting.  Her ordeal was not over.  There was one more humiliation to endure, one final embarrassment before she reached sanctuary.

The gig passed the ornamental gates and turned sluggishly onto the road.  Kit slapped the reins across the horse’s rump, but apart from a baleful look back at him the cob did not react and they wandered along at the same pace as before.  From the sound of annoyance he made, Kit seemed just as frustrated as Helena at their slow progress.  She dared a sideways glance at him.  Full daylight did nothing to improve his pallor, though he sat upright as he drove.  She seemed to remember him being stooped forward the day before.  She remembered him too as a young man of fashion.  Though he had never desired to be a dandy or join the ranks of the Corinthians, Kit had never been less than perfectly turned out.  Now he was wearing a pair of old breeches and worn and unpolished top-boots.  His jacket was threadbare at the cuffs and at the collar.  At least he was clean-shaven.  Unconsciously, Helena tilted her nose towards him, seeking the scent of the cologne he had always used.  His head turned at her movement and she quickly looked ahead, only to discover they were approaching the place where her carriage had been waylaid.  Her chest tightened and her mouth went dry.

Kit reached into his coat pocket, drew something out and offered it to her.  It was her muff-pistol.  For a second she eyed the stubby, twin-barrelled little weapon, then reached out and curled her fingers around its ivory grip.  The hardness was comforting, the weight seeming to strengthen her.  It was warm.  Kit’s warmth, she realised.

She put the pistol in her reticule.  When she looked up again they had passed the spot and her fear had gone.

“Thank you,” she said, stiffly.

“I cleaned and reloaded it myself,” Kit told her.

Helena could not resist.  “I am honoured, my lord.”

The sarcasm was enough to deflect his attention back to the road but Helena’s heartbeat still quickened.  The turn-off they must take was drawing near.  She held her breath as the moment lengthened and the old horse plodded on.  Swallowing her pride at last, Helena lowered her head and closed her eyes.  “We must turn here, my lord.”  She cringed inwardly at the hoarseness in her voice.  The gig stopped and she opened her eyes, knew Kit was staring at her and glimpsed his arm lift and point ahead.

“But Merrifields is this way.”

“I don’t live at Merrifields,” Helena said quietly, eyes fixed on the reticule in her lap.

“You don’t?”  Kit sounded bewildered.

She shook her head, glad the poke of her bonnet hid her blush.  “I live at East Hallow Farm.”

Silence followed.  Helena peeked from under the bonnet’s brim but Kit had lifted the reins and set the horse down the lane.  At that moment, when he asked no questions, she could almost have forgiven him.  She looked ahead.  The farm was visible above the hedge.  Smoke rose sluggishly from its chimneys.  They should be swept.  In her mind she was already sitting in her own parlour, planning, working at last for herself.

“No need to go into the yard,” she said.  “You can turn more easily in the space in front of it and set me down there.”

“Very well.”  Instead of following her directions he pulled up and turned to face her.  “My lady -.”

Helena held up a hand.  “Sir, I don’t -.”

“Please, just listen for a moment.  I promise I will say nothing to tax you.  I know you are fatigued and I would not tire you further.”

Helena looked keenly at his face and saw nothing but candour.  Her gaze strayed homeward.  Reluctantly she gave a single nod.

Kit’s thin smile held none of his earlier cynicism.  “We did not meet again in the easiest of circumstances, and I know you have taken no pleasure in our re-acquaintance.  I do not profess to fully understand what I have done to cause you to take me in such dislike.”  He ignored her snort of derision.  “I do wish you to understand that I have always held you in the most noble regard.”

Helena looked sharply at him.

“And I always will,” he finished softly.

His eyes were searching her face for some reaction but she willed it to remain immobile.  She cared nothing for his regard, noble or otherwise.  Her gaze went to the farm then back to the intensity of the dark eyes watching her.  Helena inclined her head.

“Thank you, my lord.  Now, will you please take me home?”

Kit urged the cob off the rutted lane and into the open ground in front of East Hallow Farm.  The gig turned slowly and he took the chance to look the place over.  It was as neat as any working farm should be, built as three sides of a square with a big stone house on one side of the yard, stables and byre on the other, both joined at one end by storehouses, dairy and buttery.  Though Helena had been away, the smoke from the chimneys showed someone was in residence.

The horse balked a bit in the turn and Kit wished he could curse aloud the groom who thought the sorry beast was all he could handle.  But that would only provoke his passenger, and he had had enough of her ill-mannered, hoydenish behaviour for one day and was tired of making allowances for it.  Her frigid response to his attempt to at least part on speaking terms was the limit as far as he was concerned.

As he drew the gig to a halt, Helena was already rising from her seat.  Kit got down quickly and went to the other side of the gig to help her dismount.  Couldn’t the silly chit wait?  Was she really so anxious to be free of him that a few seconds made a difference?  He could see her stockinged ankle as her foot groped for the brass stirrup fitted to the gig to aid mounting and dismounting.  Irked by her impatience, he reached up, clasping his hands around her waist and made to swing her lightly to the ground.

He almost managed it.

From the way she stiffened Kit knew he had taken Helena by surprise.  He heard the catch in her breath as he whirled her off her feet.  Her hands sought his shoulders to steady herself and her weight leaned into him.

His arm betrayed him.  ‘Damn and blast the thing!’ he swore and landed Helena much more heavily than he intended.  She stumbled and Kit stumbled too, while cramping pain shot through his weakened limb.  Even so, he would have kept his footing had not Helena landed full on his chest just as he raised his foot to step back and brace himself.  He heard her indignant squeak as he tumbled backwards, still holding her, and landed with a thump on the turf beside the lane.  An instant later, Helena landed on top of him and drove the breath from his body.  She seemed too stunned to move and Kit lay winded, yet very conscious of the warm weight of her pressing down on him and her face inches from his own.  He looked into the liquid darkness of her eyes.  A second later he saw their fire ignite.

“You provoking man,” Helena hissed through clenched teeth.  Then she wriggled.

Kit felt her weight shift on top of him.  They were belly to belly, her arms flung out to the sides seeking purchase on the grass, her thighs rubbing his as she tried to get her knees under her.  Alarm surged through him as quickly as desire.  He wanted to kiss her.  God, he wanted more than that!  And the physical sign of it was about to become as obvious to Helena as it was to him.  Her body shifted, and for a second Kit hoped she would manage to slide off and he could roll away and hide his arousal.  Then she slipped back, her stomach bumping his and increasing the sensation he was helpless to suppress.

“Helena,” he gasped, “please stop… squirming around.  You’re making… things worse.”

She had the heel of one shoe caught in the hem of her petticoat, defeating all her efforts to get up.  In desperation, Kit reached out to roll her off him.  Considering his luck so far that day, it was inevitable that one of his hands would land below and to the rear of her hip.  In his aroused state he was slow to realise that the warm, firm roundness he had grasped was no place for a gentleman to touch a lady.  Only when Helena’s struggles stopped abruptly did he jerk his hand away.  By then it was too late.

Her mouth was close to his, warm breath caressing his cheek as she panted from her exertions.  For a moment her long lashes fluttered down and her lips parted as if in invitation.  Then her rich brown eyes were looking dazedly into Kit’s.  He could not turn from them, though he knew she could not fail to see the desire in his own.  He watched her realisation dawn, saw it change to shock, to anger, to disgust.

With a ripping of petticoats Helena was on her feet and backing away in a heartbeat.  As she had risen, one of her hands had pressed down on Kit’s chest.  The scar tissue protested and Kit gasped in pain, a sound he knew she would misinterpret.

Disbelief was on Helena’s face by the time Kit struggled to his feet, and rightly so.  No man of honour would ever behave in so reprehensible a fashion to a lady, especially when he had given her his protection.  That no gentleman would expect to find himself in such a position with a lady was no excuse.  That too had been his fault.

Cheeks flaming scarlet and eyes ablaze with rage, Helena glared at him.  He quailed under her fury.  The evidence of his misconduct was still plainly outlined in the front of his breeches and he saw Helena’s gaze flicker to the offending area, as though she needed confirmation that something so outrageous had really happened.  When she raised her eyes they were filled with contempt.  Her chin came up.

“A noble regard.”  Her voice was distorted by anger and heavy with scorn.  She turned and stalked away.

“Helena, forgive….”

She spun on him and the weight of her outrage humbled Kit to silence.

“Never!” she spat.  “Never!”