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distance as possible between her and Moreland
Abbey. She had not run far when she was forced to stop. Struggling
to catch her breath, she dropped to a walk once more, but a wave of
nausea washed over her. She came to a complete halt then, struggled
to will it away and finally lost the battle and dropped to her
knees.
    She’d no more than finished being violently
ill when someone offered her a handkerchief. She didn’t even glance
up. “Go away!”
    “ No. You are
ill.”
    Demi squeezed her eyes
closed when she recognized his voice. It needed only that in a very
long day of trials. She would not have cared if Jonathan Flemming
had stood by while she wretched, in fact the more she repelled him
the better she liked the thought. But the stunningly gorgeous and
perfect Lord Wyndham? The object of her secret devotion? Was she to
have no memories
even to look back upon with fondness? She took the handkerchief he
offered almost angrily and wiped her face and mouth. “I’m fine now.
Thank you! Please go away.”
    Instead of answering or retreating, he
grasped her arm and hauled her to her feet. To her surprise,
instead of turning toward the house, he glanced around and headed
toward the nearest tree. Demi followed him numbly, wishing the
ground would open up and swallow her, but even that solace was
denied her. They reached the tree without incident. Once there, he
shrugged out of his coat, draped it around her shoulders and urged
her to sit.
    She sat, huddling in his coat, absorbing the
warmth that remained from his body, and the wonderful scents that
adhered to it. She’d never been particularly fond of the smell of
tobacco, or horses, and yet, mingled with the other scents that
were his alone, she found it made her feel comforted and edgy at
the same time, and strangely warm all over. It occurred to her that
she would most likely forever afterward think of him whenever she
smelled that particular blend of tobacco.
    Which would be marred by the additional
memory of having spilled her lunch in the grass first. She dropped
her face into her hands, wondering what she had done to deserve
having such horrid things happen to her.
    “ You’re certain you’re not
coming down with something?” he asked, settling beside
her.
    “ I could not be so
fortunate,” she muttered morosely.
    He chuckled. She felt him digging in the
pockets of the coat he’d thrown over her shoulders. She was
beginning to wonder what he was about when he pulled a small flask
from one pocket, removed the lid and nudged her shoulder. The
pungent aroma of strong spirits wafted past her nose. She looked
down at the flask, knowing very well she had no business even
considering taking a sip of the vile mess, which he most certainly
knew as well.
    She took the flask, held her breath and took
a large sip. It burned her mouth, her throat and finally her
stomach as it hit bottom. It snatched the breath out of her lungs
so that she sat gasping for several moments. It also scoured the
taste of sickness from her mouth, however, and as the burning
slowly cooled, warmth seemed to spread outward from the pool of
lava in her belly. “Thank you,” she managed to say hoarsely after
several moments.
    Hooking the ball of his fist beneath her
chin, he caught her chin with his thumb and forced her to look up
at him. Reluctantly, she did. “I had pegged you for a fighter.”
    She gave him an indignant look and lifted
her chin away from his hold.
    Shrugging, he capped the flask and dropped
it into the pocket of his coat once more. “I couldn’t help but
notice that you didn’t seem particularly pleased about your
engagement.”
    She blushed, but she didn’t want pity, and
she had no desire to become grist for the local gossip mills--not
that she could imagine Lord Wyndham taking part in such a thing,
but all the same it would not do to openly oppose the match. Mr.
Flemming might be angered enough to withdraw his offer, and the
lord only knew what her aunt would do in that