Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,59

exchanged a look that no one but the two of them would understand. It was shared between two scorned fools, and they began to clap.

The rest of the guests joined in slowly until the clapping was deafening. When it started to die down, Asher cried out, “Brava!” to ensure those around him would believe they had just witnessed an amazing performance rather than the possibility of barely veiled truth.

As the guests in his row began to disperse, Pierce leaned toward Asher. “I’m sorry, Brother,” Pierce said. “What will you do now?”

That was a fine question and one to which Asher did not yet have the answer. He would figure something out to save his company, though. He had to.

“I’ll leave after the foxhunt,” Asher said. He would give Guinevere the warning about Kilgore and then depart. He couldn’t stand to stay and see whether she succumbed to Kilgore or not.

Not long later, after dodging her mother, sister, and Lilias, Guinevere found herself upon a horse and chasing a fox as if her life depended on it. The judgmental faces of the other guests, the hurt look on Lady Constantine’s face, Asher’s dispassionate expression, the shocked faces of Lilias and Vivian, and Mama’s appalled look drove Guinevere to urge her horse faster and faster and deeper into the woods that surrounded Farthingate Manor. What had she done? What had she been thinking? Could she even make it right for her sisters?

Her horse’s hooves pounded against the hard dirt of the forest floor, jarring her each time they made contact. Her very thoughts felt as if they were rattling around in her head. She was aware she was riding recklessly, but she did not care. She started to feel numb, and she welcomed the feeling. She led her horse charging through a stream, the water splashing up and over her skirts as she went, and then she drove the beast up a steep incline before sending it plunging down the opposite bank through thick limbs and over fallen branches. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She didn’t see the low-hanging branch until it was too late. She ducked, managing to avoid being hit in the forehead by it, but one of the limbs snagged the top of her hair, yanking her backward.

She cried out, flailing her arms as she lost her balance. She was thrust forward once more, and then a strong hand settled against her back and steadied her. As her mind cleared, she registered Asher atop his own panting horse alongside her. He snatched her reins from her hands and pulled her horse to a stop.

Glowering at her, he said, “What the hell are ye doing?” His broad shoulders heaved with his breath. “Trying to get yerself killed?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, the shock of him, of her intense attraction to him, running through her body.

“Then why are ye riding yer horse like ye are hell-bent on dying?”

Everything Kilgore had told her burned in her mind. She wouldn’t shout it at Asher as she wanted to. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing how hurt she was. “It is none of your concern why I do what I do, Your Grace. I am not your concern.”

“Ye are correct,” he replied, the words sharp and brittle as he ground them out between his teeth. “Ye are not my concern, and sitting here now, I don’t know why I’ve bothered. Ye have clearly chosen yer path. Goodbye, Guin,” he said, turning his horse to depart.

Her heart plummeted and her mind cried out, making her cringe from her own weakness to want a man. She pressed her lips together, feeling as if she were dying as he turned his horse from her, but then he cursed and stilled. Her heart thumped wildly, waiting to see what he was doing.

After a long moment, he turned his horse back around and led it to where they were side by side, facing each other. “Ye damn well deserve what ye get, but damn it if I can allow myself in good conscience not to warn ye.”

His nearness, the heat of him, the overwhelming smell of him—grass, whisky, and smoke from a fire—made it almost impossible to form a coherent response. “Warn me?” she finally managed, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Aye,” he growled, his leg brushing hers. The desire that flared in her at the simple touch dismayed her. “Kilgore will never come to heel for ye. Ye are a conquest,