Page:Wildwildheart00reesiala.pdf/37

“He’s a stallion,” answered Marsh shortly. “They’re nearly always dangerous.”

“Oh!” said Ann.

She felt, if possible, more foolish than ever. She rose, trying to disguise the fact that it was not very easy to use her wrenched ankle.

“Have you hurt your foot?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said airily, and achieved a somewhat painful smile.

“Get up on my horse.”

“Get up…” repeated Ann. How was she to get up?

Marsh solved the problem by lifting her bodily and swinging her up into the saddle. She sat astride looking down at him, a trifle bewildered by her sudden elevation.

“I suppose you can ride.”

“Of course I can’t. I’ve never been on a horse in my life.”

“Where have you lived then?”

“In a London suburb.”

“Don’t they usually ride there?”

“Certainly not.”

He was annoyed at her tone. It was as though he should have known that people who lived in suburbs didn’t ride.

“You’d better hang on to the front of the saddle then, if you think you’re likely to fall off,” he said curtly.

“It must be wonderful to ride as you do.”

Ann’s voice was soft, her own humiliation quite forgotten as she thought of horse and rider soaring so easily over that wickedly treacherous-looking barrier.