Polly heard the shout but not the words. All her energies were concentrated now on keeping in the saddle. She maintained a nonstop flow of soothing words as she clung to Tiny's neck, hoping that her reassurance would communicate itself to the petrified animal, locked in its own world of pure instinctual response. Polly saw the danger from the tree branches just in time. She ducked her head below the level of Tiny's neck as the branch snapped overhead. A nut of nausea lodged in her throat at the thought of what could have happened; she clung grimly to the mare's mane, deciding that the fun had gone out of this adventure. But she could sense that the horse was beginning to lose the spurt. Her neck was lathered, her breath coming in great tortured sobs.
They broke out of the spinney into the meadow beyond. Sulayman drew level with the mare; Nicholas swung sideways, catching the bolter's rein above the bit. Hauled thus unceremoniously to a stop, Tiny reared up; Polly, her precarious balance finally overset, flew from the mare's back to land with an agonizing, jarring thud on the base of her spine.
"Why did you do that?" she demanded on an angry sob, tears of pain and frustration welling in her hazel eyes. "Everything was all right until you did that!" Her hat had shot from her head under the force of her fall. Her skirts were heaped about her as she sat upon the hard ground, every bone in her body groaning in complaint under the jarring that made her head ache and her behind throb with the bruising. She glared up at him, tears running down her face, weeping with pure anger that Nick should have caused this fall, and so proved her incapable of managing anything more lively than the sluggish piebald.
"She was going to stop in a minute, anyway," she wailed, dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "I knew exactly what I was doing-"
But Nicholas had swung himself from Sulayman in the midst of this impassioned tirade and put a stop to it by seizing her upper arms, yanking her to her feet. "How dare you frighten me like that!" he raged. "Those trees would have
broken your neck!" He shook her with all the frenzy of a terrier with a rat, giving vent to the pent-up anguish of the last minutes. "You are my life, Goddamn it! Never have I been so afeard!"
"P-please stop!" Polly begged, when it seemed as if her head would leave her shoulders, and her body, already shaken to its core by the fall, screamed its protest at this further assault.
Nick pulled her against him, wrapping her in his arms in a convulsive hug that was as violently expressive of fear and relief as the shaking. "God's grace, Polly. How could you do that to me?" he whispered into the fragrance of her hair.
"But it was all right, love," Polly cried against his shirt-front. "There was nothing to be afeard of. It would have been perfectly all right if you had left well alone. Tiny was tiring; she would have stopped soon enough. I did not want to draw back roughly on the rein in case I hurt her mouth."
Nicholas paused as the world settled again on its axis. The sun still shone, the river still flowed, hawks flew, and the earth continued on its accustomed circuit. Tiny was windblown, catching her breath in sobbing gasps, but she would recover. Polly was whole, pliant, and warm beneath his hands. She had given him the fright of his life, but he, too, would recover.
He drew back to look at her, her hair tousled, eyes wide, glistening, tears streaked on that flawless complexion, mouth opened to continue her indignant defense and accusations. "Are you hurt?" he asked in his customary calm tones. "That was quite a tumble."
"My arse," Polly muttered with a sniff, rubbing her aching rear. "It is all your fault."
"It seems that there is natural justice in this world, after all," Nick said, a tremor of laughter in his voice. "You'll not be up to sitting a horse again for a while, in that case." He turned from her to remount Sulayman. Reaching over, he took Tiny's bridle, drawing it over her head to hold it loosely with his own. " 'Tis to be hoped your injuries do not
preclude your walking," he observed. "It cannot be above four miles to the house."
Polly stared, for the moment speechless, as he turned both horses and set off homeward. "You bastard!" she yelled, then followed the insult with the more colorful examples of the vocabulary that had informed her growing. Nick's only response was to doff his hat, waving it in cheerful salute as he rode way. She picked up her own hat from its resting place on a spiky thornbush, dusting it off vigorously against her skirt, before cramming it back on her head. Then she limped after the fast-disappearing rider and horses, muttering curses and imprecations with all the vituperative malice of an entire coven of witches.
George Villiers, motionless within earshot, hidden by the screen of trees at the edge of the spinney, remained in seclusion for a good five minutes after the close of that fascinating and enlightening confrontation. It was always pleasing to have one's suspicions confirmed. It was with a most satisfied smile that he rode back to join the hunt.
The morning was far advanced by the time Polly arrived back at Wilton House. She was hot, and the walk had done nothing to improve her bruised muscles and spine, and even less for her temper. Unwilling to be seen in her bedraggled, dusty state by any guests, she used the back stairs to reach the peace and privacy of her chamber.
"Lor', Polly! Whatever's amiss?" exclaimed Susan. "Ye looks as if ye've been dragged through a hedge backward."
"Just as I feel," Polly groaned, sitting gingerly on the bed to pull off her boots. "If you love me, Sue, contrive some hot water and a tub. I am one enormous bruise."
"Whatever've you gone and done?" Susan, consternation wrinkling her round, placid countenance, bent to help with the boots.
"Oh, everything has gone awry!" Polly sighed. "And what is so infuriating is that it was not my fault." Thoughts
of Nicholas brought an alarmingly ferocious glint to her eye. "I need a bath, Sue. Can ye contrive it?"
"Aye." Susan bustled to the door. "There's a footman who's monstrous willing to oblige." A flush deepened the already healthy coloring, and Polly forgot her own ills for a minute.
"Willing to oblige you, is it, Sue?"
"Well, I dunno about that," the other girl mumbled, and whisked herself out of the room.
Polly took off her habit; mindful of the imminent arrival of Sue's swain with hot water and a tub, she put on a wrapper. She went to the door connecting her chamber with Kincaid's, pressing her ear to the keyhole. No sound came from within. He had probably returned to the hunt, sending his groom back to the stable with Tiny, thus advertising to all and sundry that the filly's rider had been unhorsed. She blinked away angry tears at the injustice.
Susan and the footman appeared, laboring under the weight of a round wooden tub and steaming brass kettles. Polly observed the two with interest, looking for the signs of an understanding between them. Nick, she knew, would be more than generous with his wedding gift, if such an understanding existed and could be brought to fruition. Sue's heightened color and a certain complacent air of the footman's seemed to lend credence to the idea. She would sound out Nick, Polly decided, before remembering that she had no intention of ever again exchanging as much as two words with the odious man!
"Thank 'ee, Oliver," Susan said with another fiery blush, holding the door for him. The footman grinned and chucked her beneath the chin as he went out.
"So that's the way the land lies," Polly commented with a teasing chuckle.
"Oh, give over," Sue said, still blushing. She hefted one of the jugs, pouring its contents into the tub. "Are ye gettin' in 'ere or not?"