He slowed, then halted at the opening of the track. As if uncertain of his welcome.

That uncertainty was so far removed from his customary arrogance that it struck her to the heart.

He was hurting, too.

The twins were nearly upon her; she switched her gaze to them. The pair had their hands up, waving above their heads, apparently wanting to seize her hands.

Summoning a weak smile, she released her hold on the rail to either side. Balancing precariously — it would only be for a second — she held her hands out to them, one to each side.

They reached her. Two small palms struck each of hers.

Instinctively she’d shifted her weight back, expecting them to catch and pull, but neither did.

The unexpected impacts rocked her back.

To her utter amazement, she felt herself tipping.

She shrieked.

Arms wildly flailing, she toppled back off the rail.

Heard Breckenridge shout her name as she went down.

Oof!” She landed in a heap on a cushion of green.

The ground beyond the fence was slightly lower than the track. Dragging in a breath, she blew hair from her face. An instant’s thought confirmed she hadn’t broken any bones, that the grass by the fence, less clipped by the animals, had been sufficiently thick to save her. She was shaken and winded, but not much else. She struggled up onto her elbows and saw two pale, horrified faces staring through the slats.

She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m not hurt.”

The ground reverberated as Breckenridge raced up. Gathering her skirts, she got her feet under her, raised her voice, and said, “I’m all right.”

Straightening, she glanced again at the twins’ faces. .

They weren’t looking at her.

They were transfixed by something behind her, and looking increasingly terrified. .

Nerves suddenly jumping, senses prickling, she slowly turned, and looked across the paddock — at the massive, shaggy-coated highland bull that, head ominously lowered, huge, sharp horns pointing her way, evil yellow eyes fixed balefully on her, was pawing the ground twenty paces away.

The monstrosity snorted violently.

Even as she registered the bunching of the bull’s muscles, Breckenridge vaulted the fence and landed beside her. “Quickly.”

He grabbed her, hoisted her, and swung her over the top of the fence.

She stumbled as he released her but immediately whirled.

The bull had started his charge; the furious thuds of his heavy hooves racing toward the fence shook the ground.

Breckenridge flung one arm over the top railing.

She seized his sleeve with both hands and hauled. “Hurry! Hurry!”

He rose up one rung—

The bull struck.

The fence rocked, shuddered, bowed.

Breckenridge gasped, eyes going wide, blind with pain. .

Her gaze on his face, Heather lost her breath.

She glanced down and saw a blood-tipped horn protruding through the slats. “Oh, no.”

With a hideous snort, the bull yanked and pulled back.

Breckenridge’s eyes closed. He started to slump.

No!” The bull was circling. Climbing halfway up the fence, Heather grabbed the back of Breckenridge’s jacket, yanked desperately. “Come on! You have to get over.”

With an horrendous effort, he gathered himself. His muscles were quivering as he managed to climb up another rung.

Hauling, tugging, Heather looked at the twins, standing with eyes wide and mouths open. “Help me!”

Marcus broke through the shock first. He came rushing up, climbed the fence on Breckeridge’s other side, grabbed and hauled, too.

Then Lucilla was there, but rather than try to assist directly, she climbed up further down the fence, pointed an imperious finger at the bull, and started singing a strange little ditty.

Heather glanced at the bull — with immense relief saw the beast watching Lucilla, distracted and no longer about to charge. “Thank God. Or the Lady.”

Breckenridge was rapidly losing strength. Even with Marcus’s and her help, he’d only managed to reach the second rung down from the top of the fence — then he sagged, and tipped over it. She flung her arms around him, with Marcus battled to slow his descent, then he was lying in a sprawl on the thinly grassed track.

And she finally saw the jagged wound in his right side. “Oh, God.”

Blood was pouring from the gaping tear. Falling to her knees, she slapped her hands over the gash, pressed hard. One glance at his face, at his pinched eyelids, at the white lines bracketing his mouth, told her he was still conscious.

She flung a glance at the twins. “Race to the house and get your mother and Algaria. Tell them what happened. Quickly!”

They’d turned before she’d uttered the final word. They pelted back along the track, then around the corner of the stable toward the manor’s back door.

She refocused on Breckenridge, on the blood welling between her fingers. Her palms side by side barely covered the wound. She needed material to staunch the flow.

With no shawl, and no hands free to undo his cravat, she grabbed the loose side of his jacket, bundled it up, and pressed it down — then let go, leapt to her feet, stripped off her lawn petticoat, and shook it free as she fell back to her knees. She wadded the material, lifted aside his coat, and pressed the makeshift pad firmly over the wound.

Better. She leaned on the dressing and the bleeding slowed.

She glanced at his face. From the set of his lips, knew he was still conscious. Was it better if he remained so? Staring at his face, at the angles and planes now beloved, she felt a chill touch her soul.

He might die.

“Don’t misunderstand, but how dare you risk your life? What the devil did you think, to leap over like that? You could have stayed safe on this side and just helped me over.” Even to her ears, her tone bordered on the hysterical.

Beneath her fingers, the white lawn started to redden.

She sucked in a shaky breath. “How could you risk your life — your life, you idiot!” She leaned harder on the pad, dragged in another breath.

He coughed weakly, shifted his head.

Don’t you dare die on me!”

His lips twisted, but his eyes remained closed. “But if I die”—his words were a whisper—“you won’t have to marry, me or anyone else. Even the most censorious in the ton will consider my death to be the end of the matter. You’ll be free.”

“Free?” Then his earlier words registered. “If you die? I told you — don’t you dare! I won’t let you — I forbid you to. How can I marry you if you die? And how the hell will I live if you aren’t alive, too?” As the words left her mouth, half hysterical, all emotion, she realized they were the literal truth. Her life wouldn’t be worth living if he wasn’t there to share it. “What will I do with my life if you die?”

He softly snorted, apparently unimpressed by — or was it not registering? — her panic. “Marry some other poor sod, like you were planning to.”

The words cut. “You are the only poor sod I’m planning to marry.” Her waspish response came on a rush of rising fear. She glanced around, but there was no one in sight. Help had yet to come running.

She looked back at him, readjusted the pressure on the slowly reddening pad. “I intend not only to marry you but to lead you by the nose for the rest of your days. It’s the least I can do to repay you for this — for the shock to my nerves. I’ll have you know I’d decided even before this little incident to reverse my decision and become your viscountess, and lead you such a merry dance through the ballrooms and drawing rooms that you’ll be gray within two years.”

He humphed softly, dismissively, but he was listening. Studying his face, she realized her nonsense was distracting him from the pain. She engaged her imagination and let her tongue run free. “I’ve decided I’ll redecorate Baraclough in the French Imperial style — all that white and gilt and spindly legs, with all the chairs so delicate you won’t dare sit down. And while we’re on the subject of your — our — country home, I’ve had an idea about my carriage, the one you’ll buy me as a wedding gift. . ”

She rambled on, paying scant attention to her words, simply let them and all the images she’d dreamed of come tumbling out, painting a vibrant, fanciful, yet in many ways — all the ways that counted — accurate word picture of her hopes, her aspirations. Her vision of their life together.

When the well started to run dry, when her voice started to thicken with tears at the fear that they might no longer have a chance to enjoy all she’d described, she concluded with, “So you absolutely can’t die now.” Fear prodded; almost incensed, she blurted, “Not when I was about to back down and agree to return to London with you.”

He moistened his lips. Whispered, “You were?”

“Yes! I was!” His fading voice tipped her toward panic. Her voice rose in reaction. “I can’t believe you were so foolish as to risk your life like this! You didn’t need to put yourself in danger to save me.”

“Yes, I did.” The words were firmer, bitten off through clenched teeth.

She caught his anger. Was anger good? Would temper help hold him to the world?

A frown drew down his black brows. “You can’t be so damned foolish as to think I wouldn’t — after protecting you through all this, seeing you safely all this way, watching over you all this time, what else was I going to do?”