The grey eyes regarded him with a steely stare. “And you’re surprised?”
He grinned and put up a hand to straighten her bonnet for her. “Good thing this is tied on.” A wave of faintness swept over him and his hand dropped.
“Are you all right?”
“A bit dizzy. Give me the reins.”
“No! I’ll take the reins. You hold onto me.”
Irritation rose up. “Listen, you troublesome wench —”
But Delia was not paying attention. She had the reins in her hands and Tiger was already in motion. “Hold onto me, Giff!”
Curse the wench! But he did as she bid him, reaching his arms about her and holding her to him. “Head west.”
“How do I know which is west?”
“Follow the sun.” He felt her raise her head.
“I see it. Come up!”
Tiger turned and took his orders from Delia’s instruction. Aware the stallion only obeyed because his master was atop, Giff allowed himself the indulgence of letting the girl take charge. She was capable enough, he had to give her that.
Delia felt as if every nerve in her body was afire. She’d never been so scared or so elated. She’d never felt soalive.
Weymouth had vanished from her horizons. The only future was the immediate need to get Giff to safety. For no consideration in the world would she leave him now. Why those men were after him she had no notion, and cared less. If they got him, he was doomed. And wounded as he was, they would surely get him if she did not play her part well.
Grateful for a mount as intuitive as Tiger, she urged him from a walk to a trot, despite the acute discomfort. The leg over the pommel had gone numb, which was probably a mercy. As long as she wasn’t obliged to dismount. It would likely collapse under her. Giff was leaning heavily against her back and she was already saddle sore. And, to crown all, she felt damp with sweat in too many places. Moreover, she stank. Likely they both did.
None of it mattered. A part of her mind was still in a state of disbelief. Such things didn’t happen to Delia Burloyne. Even if she came awake and found it all a dream, at this present there was nothing more important than keeping her prince safe.
A gleam of water ahead drew her attention.
“Giff, there’s a stream or brook coming up.”
She felt him raise himself a little. He sounded groggy. “How wide?”
“I can’t tell yet.”
She nudged Tiger with her left foot and clicked her tongue. He speeded up, seeming to know exactly how to course a path through the trees without danger to his passengers. Delia kept her gaze trained on the water, which looked to be more of a river than a stream. Abruptly, as they left the shelter of the trees, the environment became less alien. Delia pulled up.
“It must be a tributary of the Frome. We can’t be all that far from Dorchester.”
Giff seemed to rouse himself, releasing his hold on Delia and sitting up straighter. “We must cross. Follow upstream. There’s bound to be a bridge or a shallow place for Tiger to pick his way over.”
Delia turned the horse’s head in the right direction. He understood at once and proceeded along the bank, which at least bore fewer obstacles than had the dense forest.
“Wait! Pull up!”
Instant fright gripped Delia as she tugged on the reins. “What is it? Do you hear them?”
His voice came faintly. “Flask — in the saddlebag — brandy…”
Help! Was he going to fall off? Alarmed, Delia dropped low over Tiger’s withers and dove a hand into the bag at his side, scrabbling for the feel of something hard. She found it. Cool to the touch and shaped right.
Dragging it out, she found herself in possession of a flat silver flask. “Here, take it!”
“Open it!”