He’d apologized most correctly, disentangled himself from her, and climbed up the seat to wrest open the door above them. He’d crawled through and then bodily pulled her out. George rubbed the wrist he’d gripped. He was disconcertingly strong—one would never know it to look at him. At one point, almost her entire weight had hung from his arm and she wasn’t a petite woman.

The coachman gave a shout, which was snatched away by the wind, but it was enough to bring her back to the present. The mare he’d been unhitching was free.

“Ride her to the next town, Mr. Coachman, if you will,” Harry Pye directed. “See if there is another carriage to send back. I’ll remain here with her ladyship.”

The coachman mounted the horse and waved before disappearing into the downpour.

“How far is the next town?” George asked.

“Ten or fifteen miles.” He pulled a strap loose on one of the horses.

She studied him as he worked. Aside from the wet, Harry Pye didn’t look any different than he had when they’d started out this morning from an inn in Lincoln. He was still a man of average height. Rather lean. His hair was brown— neither chestnut nor auburn, merely brown. He tied it back in a simple queue, not bothering to dress it with pomades or powder. And he wore brown: breeches, waistcoat, and coat, as if to camouflage himself. Only his eyes, a dark emerald green that sometimes flickered with what might be emotion, gave him any color.

“It’s just that I’m rather cold,” George muttered.

Mr. Pye looked up swiftly. His gaze darted to her hands, trembling at her throat, and then shifted to the hills behind her.

“I’m sorry, my lady. I should have noticed your chill earlier.” He turned back to the frightened gelding he was trying to liberate. His hands must have been as numb as her own, but he labored steadily. “There’s a shepherd’s cottage not far from here. We can ride this horse and that one.” He nodded at the horse next to the gelding. “The other is lame.”

“Really? How can you tell?” She hadn’t noticed the animal was hurt. All three of the remaining carriage horses shivered and rolled their eyes at the whistling of the wind. The horse he had indicated didn’t look any more ragged than the rest.

“She’s favoring her right foreleg.” Mr. Pye grunted, and suddenly all three horses were free of the carriage, although they were still hitched together. “Whoa, there, sweetheart.” He caught the lead horse and stroked it, his tanned right hand moving tenderly over the animal’s neck. The two joints on his ring finger were missing.