Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,6
himself, but how to offer it?
“Sir, I would feel so much better if you were here beside me,” she said. “Could you hold out your walking stick? I can grasp one end and pull you this way.”
His lips thinned. He was clearly suspicious of her suggestion. But she was glad to see he was no fool. He lifted the walking stick and turned it, so the muddy end was in his hands. So he hadn’t just been born a gentleman, but he had a sense of chivalry as well. He held the top of the stick—the end with the pewter handle—out to her. It was just to the right of where she stood, and she had to adjust her location to grasp it. “I have you,” she said. “Now I shall pull.”
She did just that, pulling him toward her as he lifted his feet and moved through the muck to the firmer ground. At one point her hands slid and she thought she might lose her grip, thus causing her to go flying into the mud beside him. Fortunately enough she managed to hold on as he reached the slight slope at the edge of the bank. He’d have to pull harder to make it up the slope and she compensated by digging her heels in and leaning back.
Too late, she realized the man had anticipated having to exert more effort to climb up the slope, and being a gentleman, had not wanted to disturb her footing. He had actually lessened his pull on the stick. Which meant when she pulled harder, he came tumbling forward and crashed into her, sending them both sprawling on the leaf-strewn ground.
For just a moment Pru lay still, the breath knocked out of her and her head ringing a bit from being jounced on the ground. Then she realized her breath hadn’t been knocked out at all, but the earl’s son was lying on top of her and squishing the air out of her lungs. He swore, and she had a sudden image of what the two of them must look like. She probably had leaves in her hair and dirt on her nose, and he was covered to the knee in mud and trying to find a way to push off her. Oh, dear. If Mr. Higginbotham were to see her now, he would deliver a fiery sermon, indeed.
The whole situation struck her as amusing, and she giggled.
“You find this humorous?” the earl’s son said in that gruff tone of his.
For some reason the fact that he took it all so seriously only made everything seem even funnier, and she started laughing.
“Stop that at once!” Mr. Pope ordered, finally managing to wriggle off her.
Well, Pru never could obey an order. She had an allergy to authority, her father always said, and she only laughed harder. Try as she might to quell her guffaws, they only grew. “I’m sorry,” she said between laughs. “I don’t know why I should find this so amusing.”
“Neither do I.” He struggled to his feet and then reached down, feeling for his walking stick. It was on the other side of her, so she handed it to him. He held out a hand, and she quelled her chuckles long enough to take it and allow him to assist her to her feet. He looked quite disreputable now. His black hair had leaves in it and fell so that it almost obscured both of his blue eyes. His clothing was rumpled and dirty, and what must have been once-lovely boots were ruined by the mud.
“I should see you home,” he began, but Pru interrupted.
“No, that’s not necessary.” And then she wished she had not spoken because she sensed he had been about to give an excuse as to why he couldn’t see her home, and she was curious to hear it.
He grunted and looked about. “I find I am all turned around. If you could point me in the direction of Wentmore, I should be obliged.”
He was rattled, and she understood completely. She was a bit churned up inside herself after that unexpected tumble. Still, that didn’t explain what she did next. Perhaps it was his stiff demeanor, so out of place in a garden while covered with dirt. She grasped his shoulders and bodily turned him to face the path leading back to the estate. He stiffened at her touch and seemed happy to step away when she said, “This way.”