He pulled in the reins.
Something flashed, pale and low on the ground.
Apollo screamed and twisted sideways.
Instinctively, he threw himself forward, but he felt the horse’s rump go down, its hind legs breaking away, a horrible, uncontrolled motion that whipped the powerful body beneath him up, up, and over the tipping point.
They were going to flip.
For a blink, the world froze, clear and sharp like a shard of glass. An expanse of blank sky, a flutter of mane above him.
The horse would crush him.
He yanked his feet from the stirrups but the ground was hurtling toward him at brutal speed. The face he loved most in the world looked back at him before darkness fell like an axe.
* * *
Beneath the small desk, Annabelle’s feet had turned to lumps of ice in the draft. She should go to bed. It was nearing midnight, and the oil lamp was burning low. But she knew she would not sleep. If she only looked at her surroundings, she could have pretended she was still a student with a bright future ahead; the desk, the rickety chair, the narrow cot were much like her room at Lady Margaret Hall. But that was where the similarities ended. There were no books and folders on the desk. Only a sheet of paper with three lonely lines:
Go back to Chorleywood
Become a governess up north
Marry Jenkins
Her present options to keep a roof over her head all while staying on a morally upright path.
Of course, she had come up to Oxford to avoid any such fate: Chorleywood, underpaid and vulnerable, or married to a man she didn’t love.
Two weeks. Mrs. Forsyth had given her two weeks to find a new occupation. I’m a chaperone, she had said pointedly. I’m to keep women from getting into trouble, not associate with troubled women.
The future was a black maw, ready to swallow her whole.
She pressed her palms to her face, trying to shut out the ugly faces of her fears leering back at her. “I’m a soldier at heart,” she whispered. “I can do this . . .”
A sudden commotion in the hallway downstairs had her sit up straight. Agitated voices clashed as Mrs. Forsyth’s Maltese barked hysterically.
Alarmed, she came to her feet. It sounded as though a man was arguing with Mrs. Forsyth.
And then male boots stomped up the stairs, the force of it making the floorboards shiver.
She clutched her nightgown to her chest, reflexively casting her glance around the room for a weapon.
Bam bam bam.
The door shook as it was pounded with a fist.
It did not shock her half as much as the man’s voice.
“Annabelle!”
“Sir!” Mrs. Forsyth objected shrilly.
Sebastian. Sebastian was here.
Bam bam bam.
She moved toward the door on unsteady legs.
“Sir, desist,” Mrs. Forsyth shrieked, and then Sebastian burst into the room, sending the door flying back against the wall with a bang.
Everything stopped: the noise, time, her heart. The vital urgency radiating from his body had blasted the very air from the room. He stared at her wordlessly, and holy hell, he was pale.
With two long strides, he towered over her and pulled her into his arms.
The wintry cold still clung to his clothes; his thick coat was rough against her face.
She stood motionless in his embrace, hardly daring to trust that he was real. She hadn’t expected to see him again, certainly not to ever be in his arms once more.
“My love,” he said, his voice a rumble in his chest beneath her ear.
How cruel. Her fourth option, her most desired option, her everything, was right here, when all she was trying to do was the right thing, which was decidedly not option four.
“Miss Archer, who is this—?” Mrs. Forsyth appeared in the door and gave an outraged squawk when she saw the couple embracing. “I object, I most utterly object to this,” she cried. “No gentlemen are allowed in the house, I laid out that rule very clearly indeed, why, this is not to be borne—”
Sebastian half turned and slammed the door shut in Mrs. Forsyth’s enraged face while keeping one arm tightly around Annabelle.
She disentangled herself from his grip. “What is happening?” she asked, and then, “Oh God, is it your brother? Is he—”
“No,” he said. There was a hard, metallic look in his eyes that made her feel entirely off balance.
She took a small step back. “Montgomery, you worry me.”
A stern line appeared between his brows. “Don’t call me that.”
“Very well,” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sebastian. Surely there would be a more appropriate time—”
“I came to ask you to marry me.”
She looked at him blankly.
“Marry me,” he repeated, taking a step toward her.
She gave an uncertain laugh. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“You laugh,” he growled. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his greatcoat, over his heart. “Put an end to this misery, Annabelle. Marry me.”
She tugged, and alarm tingled up her spine when he didn’t let go. “What has got into you?”
“I fell off the horse this eve.”
Her free hand flew to her mouth. “No.”
“There was a pheasant,” he said, “a small pheasant, hiding in a furrow. Apollo spooked and slipped. He is fine.”
Her gaze darted over him, searching for signs of injury. “What about yourself?”
There was a pause. “I thought I was going to die,” he said quietly.
The blood drained from her face as an icy hand reached for her heart.
“As you see, it was not yet my time,” he said. “The ground was softened from rain, and my hat took the brunt instead of my head.”
The feeling of terror that had kept her frozen to the spot subsided, and she flung her arms around his neck.
“Hush,” he said as his arms slid around her protectively, “I’m here now.”
She only clutched him harder and tried to burrow into him, wanting to tear the heavy topcoat off him, and all the layers of wool and cotton that kept her from feeling the pulsing warmth and strength of his body.
He pressed his mouth into her hair. “Marry me, Annabelle.”
Her head jerked back. “Please. Please, do not say such a thing.”