Page 22 of Not a Fine Gentleman
Ouch. She hissed in her breath and returned her attention to the obstacles in the road. Horseshoes, that’s what she needed. How lovely to be separated from the road by a piece of metal. Never mind that it would be heavy.
“We’re almost there,” Jackson said.
As they rounded a bend in the road, an inn came into view. She almost wept. At last!
He waited for her to catch up. “Is it your feet? It’s no wonder.” He gestured downward. “Those flimsy shoes are impractical for walking in this kind of terrain.”
“Oh, truly?” she snarled. “It’s a pity I failed to adequately pack my trunks before I fled a vile man threatening my life!” She stomped ahead of him, chewing on her lip to keep silent. Tears stung her eyes as each step drove stones and thorns into her feet.
“Margaret.” Exasperation touched his voice. “You can’t keep walking like this.”
Through clenched teeth, she ground out, “Do not address me in such a familiar way!”
Laughter wove through his tone as he said, “I thought it only fitting since we slept together last night.”
She swung to face him. “How dare you imply that!”
He grinned. “Technically, that’s all we did. I might consider more tonight.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “If you beg me.”
Squaring her shoulders, she resumed walking. “You are a crude, vulgar, boorish oaf, and I wouldn’t have you if my life were at stake.”
He chuckled. “You are haughty, proud, and remarkably easy to ruffle.”
She refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer. They walked a few more minutes, all the while, Margaret bit the insides of her cheeks. The inn seemed farther away than ever.
He grabbed her arm. “Stop. Your feet are bleeding.”
She wrenched out of his grasp and kept moving. Against her better judgment, she glanced behind her at the trail her bleeding feet left behind. Taking several breaths, she braced herself to resume her walk. “It’s not far. I can make it.”
“I can carry you.”
She jerked back. The idea of such an intimate embrace shocked her clear through. She’d never been so close to anyone other than Hennessy, and it had been years since they’d touched. If she allowed Jackson to touch her or carry her, he’d view her as weak. She refused to be weak. She must be strong—it had kept her from crumbling. If Connor Jackson viewed her as weak, he might attempt to trifle with her.
Worse, what if she liked being in his arms?
“No.” She put her hands up to ward him off.
He gestured ahead. “It’s another quarter of a mile. How can you hope to walk in that condition?”
“Force of will.”
If only a cart or carriage would happen along. Honestly, a swayback nag would have been acceptable—anything to spare her feet.
“Don’t be so stubborn.” Exasperation rang through his tones.
“I’m… you….” She continued to grasp for another answer. “You can’t carry me that far. As you said, it’s a quarter of a mile.”
“I’ve certainly carried heavier loads for longer distances.”
She folded her arms and loaded her defensive ammunition. “What are you—a mule?”
“I’ve been called worse, although women don’t usually think of me in those terms.” He grinned rakishly.
With a huff of disgust, she said, “I refuse to be thrown over your shoulders and carried like some kind of tavern wench.”
“Very well, then I’ll carry you like a sack of flour.” He reached for her.
Taking a step away, she shook her head but hissed in her breath as her sore foot encountered yet another rock. Or maybe both feet were so damaged that even smooth earth caused pain.
