She swallowed nervously, taking the tiniest step in his direction. He was still on the ground, not quite on his back and not quite on his side. There was mud on his boots and on his breeches. And on his coat.

Honoria winced. He wasn’t going to like that. Marcus had never been overly fastidious, but it was a very nice coat.

“Marcus?” she asked hesitantly.

He scowled. Not specifically at her, but still, it was enough to confirm her decision not to tell him about the dead leaves in his hair.

He rolled slightly to one side until he was more squarely on his back, then he closed his eyes.

Her lips parted, and she almost spoke, but then she waited. He took a breath, then another, then a third, and when he opened his eyes, his expression had changed. He was calmer now.

Thank God.

Honoria leaned a little forward. She still thought it prudent to tread carefully around him, but she did think he might have calmed enough for her to venture, “May I help you up?”

“In a moment,” he grunted. He scooted himself into an almost-sitting position, then grabbed his calf with his hands, lifting his injured leg up and out of the mole hole.

Which, Honoria noticed, was significantly bigger now that he’d stepped in it twice.

She watched as he gingerly rotated his ankle. He flexed his foot forward and back, then side to side. It was the latter that seemed to cause him the most pain.

“Do you think it’s broken?” she asked.

“No.”

“Twisted?”

He grunted his assent.

“Do you—”

He speared her with such a ferocious glare that she shut her mouth immediately. But after about fifteen seconds of wincing at his pain, she couldn’t help herself. “Marcus?”

He hadn’t been facing her when she said his name, and he didn’t turn around when he heard it. He did, however, stop moving.

“Do you think you should take off your boot?”

He didn’t reply.

“In case your ankle is swollen.”

“I know”—he stopped, let out a breath, then continued in a slightly more controlled tone of voice— “why to do it. I was just thinking.”

She nodded even though he still had his back to her. “Of course. Just let me know, ehrm . . .”

He stopped moving again.

She actually took a step back. “Never mind.”

He reached forward to touch his injured ankle through his boot, presumably to test the swelling. Honoria scooted around so that she could see his face. She tried to discern the extent of his pain by his expression, but it was difficult. He looked so at the edge of his temper that one really couldn’t tell much beyond that.

Men were so ridiculous that way. She realized that it was her fault that he’d twisted his ankle, and she understood that he was going to be at least a little bit irritated with her, but still, it was obvious he was going to need her help. He didn’t look able to come to his feet on his own, much less walk all the way back to Fensmore. If he were thinking sensibly, he would realize this and allow her to come to his aid sooner rather than later. But no, he needed to snap about like a wounded tiger, as if that might make him feel he was in charge of the situation.