The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [37]
“You’re obviously not as proficient a horsewoman as you claimed, else you would have been more alert.”
As a verbal blow, it was the very best thus far, for it struck a killing blow to a pride inborn in her. She was not just a competent horsewoman; she was the best. She had ridden since before she could walk. She was beyond the best and above the best as well.
Her voice was as cold as the gaping shred in her pride. “Since your stallion is so ill-mannered as to take exception just because you fling yourself about on his back, yes, you are doubtless right.” She turned away from him and began the long walk back to the hall.
Douglas watched her go.
He should apologize.
He should take her up on Garth.
Well, hell.
Her riding costume was dusty and he saw a rip beneath her right arm. A good length of the hem had come unstitched and dragged behind her in the dirt. Her riding hat lay in the middle of the road and her hair was falling down her back. She was limping just a bit.
He cursed, quickly mounted Garth, and went after her.
Alex heard him coming. She kept walking. At this moment, she hoped he would rot, every beautiful inch of him. Suddenly he swooped down, catching her around her waist, and lifted her up to sit sideways on the saddle in front of him.
“I’m sorry, damn you.”
“That was most romantically done. Mrs. Radcliffe couldn’t have penned a more dashing performance.”
“Just because I didn’t wish to argue with you or dismount again . . . What damnable drivel!”
“I could have walked,” she said mildly. “It isn’t all that far.”
“You look like a ragamuffin. You look like a serving wench who’s enjoyed half a dozen men but didn’t please them sufficiently and got no coin for her labors.”
She said nothing, merely sat with that straight back of hers, looking off toward the side of the road.
“I suppose I’ll have to buy you a new riding habit now.”
“It would appear that I didn’t have to wheedle even a tiny bit.”
“Since it was somewhat my fault—your fall, that is—I shall make reparations. Still, you should have been more alert, more prepared for the unexpected.”
Alex was mild-tempered. She was patient and long-suffering; she knew how to endure; she knew how to hold her tongue to avoid distasteful scenes. She was never reckless. Even when her mother was at her pickiest, Melissande at her most demanding, she’d merely smiled and gone about her business. But with Douglas, her husband . . . how dare he continue to insult her riding ability? She simply couldn’t help herself. She twisted against his arm, pushing at him with her entire weight. Caught unawares, Douglas went over the other side. He would have saved himself had Garth not decided that the extra weight on his back demanded that he make his master realize he wasn’t to be treated like a common hack. Garth reared and twisted in the air. Alex managed to retain her balance, clutching wildly at Garth’s mane. Douglas lost everything. He hit the road with a loud thunk, landing on his back, winding himself. The reins were dragging the ground and Garth immediately sidestepped away from his master.
Like Alex, Douglas just lay there, waiting to see if anything was broken, if anything had shaken itself loose.
He opened his eyes, still not moving, and said, “I will beat you for that.”
“Tony said that you were a gentleman. Gentlemen do not beat ladies nor do they make such bullying threats.”
“Being a gentleman pales when one is confronted with a wife one doesn’t know, doesn’t want, never did want, never even knew existed, a wife who is violent, heedless, without control.” He drew breath to continue on this fine monologue when the ground shook and he watched, speechless, dust flying into his open mouth, as the female rode Garth—his stallion—away from him.
He nearly forgot to whistle.
Garth, thank heavens, heard him, stopped dead in his tracks, whipped about and trotted back to his prone master.
Alex was grinding her teeth. She stared down at Douglas, who was now sitting up in the middle of the road.
“I believe,” she said clearly, “that you,