She didn’t hesitate; if she had, he might not have had the balance to seize her, lift her, and haul her to him. To crush her in his arms and hold her tight while with his knees he slowed his gray.

Freed of her rider, reins flapping, the black mare flew on across the intersection and along the northern side of Grosvenor Square.

Belatedly, Henrietta’s groom came racing up; he’d been dawdling far in the rear. “I’ll get the mare!” he yelled and urged his own mount on.

James heard him through a buzzing in his ears. His arms were locked, convulsively tight. His lungs felt starved, and his pulse still pounded. Fear was a dull roar in his mind, even though the firm warmth of Henrietta in his arms, against his chest, assured him that she was safe. Still his.

Gulping in air, Henrietta clung to the solid pillar of male strength that was James, but as his horse halted, she drew her head from James’s chest and looked toward the Square, where both the mare and her groom had vanished.

One of her hands had come to rest, fingers spread, on James’s chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel his heart thumping heavily, running a race in rhythm with hers. There were other people around, shocked merchants and delivery boys who had witnessed the drama, but her senses had drawn in; nothing around them felt real.

She looked up—just as James looked down.

They stared, desperately searching each other’s eyes as if to reassure themselves she was indeed there, safe in his arms.

Then he swore beneath his breath, bent his head, and kissed her.

Hard. Voraciously.

Forget Miss Fotherby.

Henrietta closed a hand about his nape and kissed him back.

Henrietta was still shaking when James helped her into her parents’ front hall.

The butler who had opened the door to them looked shocked.

“Miss Cynster’s horse bolted and she was nearly thrown.” As the butler hurried to close the door, James studied Henrietta’s face. “Her groom’s gone after the animal. Please summon Lady Cynster and Miss Henrietta’s maid.”

The butler snapped to attention. “At once, sir . . . ah, Mr. . . .”

Henrietta pulled herself together; falling apart in a crisis never helped. Dragging in a breath, she bludgeoned her brain into cooperating. “This is Mr. Glossup, Hudson. He’s a friend of Simon’s, which is why he probably seems familiar.”

“Ah, yes.” Hudson drew himself up and bowed regally to James.

“Mama will still be upstairs. If you would send word to her that there was an . . . ah, incident, and tell her I’m resting in the back parlor. No need to summon Hannah—I’m not about to faint.” She made the statement with gritty determination, yet even as the words left her lips she felt a wave of weakness wash over her again.

James, one hand clamped about her elbow, had been watching her face. Now he muttered something harsh, bent, and swept her up into his arms.

Instinctively clutching his lapel, she blinked in surprise but felt too weak to protest. From Hudson’s shocked face, she realized that spoke volumes.

“Where’s the back parlor?” James demanded.

She waved limply down the corridor. “That way.”

He carried her, trailing riding skirt and all—a feat she found quite impressive—down the corridor. Hudson came fussing behind; he opened the door and held it while James angled her into the room, then with swift strides carried her to the chaise before the windows and lowered her gently onto the comfortable cushions.

“Tea.” The request was the sum of her contribution to her own recovery, but tea always helped and was the prescribed remedy for overset nerves. And her nerves, she decided, were definitely overset—far more than they had been when she’d been tipped into the river.

This time death—horribly violent death—had felt much closer.

“At once, miss.” Hudson looked at James, who’d crouched by the chaise and—Henrietta belatedly realized—was chafing her hands. “I’ll summon her ladyship.”

Without looking at Hudson, without taking his gaze from her face, James nodded curtly.

Hudson left.

Henrietta tried a smile, but even she could tell it came out rather wan and weak. Drawing one of her hands from James’s clasp, she lightly touched his hair, gently brushing the rumpled locks into better order. “Thank you.” She met his eyes. “That was . . . frightening.”

Tags: Stephanie Laurens The Cynster Sisters Duo Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net