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  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Put your hands in mine. Hold fast. Then don’t struggle, just let yourself relax and let me pull.’

  ‘I can...’

  ‘You can’t do anything,’ he told her. ‘If you struggle you’ll make things harder. You can wiggle your toes if you like; that’ll help with the suction, but don’t try and pull out. If you were Horace I’d be putting a chain under you but Horace isn’t good at following orders. If you stay limp like a good girl, we’ll have you out of here in no time.’

  Like a good girl. The patronising toerag...

  He was saving her. What was she doing resenting it? Anger was totally inappropriate. But then, she had been stuck for almost an hour, growing more and more furious with herself. She’d also been more than a little bit frightened by the time he’d arrived. And cold. Reaction was setting in and she was fighting really hard to hold her temper in check.

  ‘Where’s a good wall to kick when you need it?’ Finn asked and she blinked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’d be furious too, if I were you. The worst thing in the world is to want to kick and all you have to kick is yourself.’

  She blinked. Laughter and empathy too? ‘S...sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. Horace gets tetchy when he gets stuck, so I’d imagine you’re the same. Hands—put ’em in mine and hold.’

  ‘They’re covered in mud. You won’t be able to hold me.’

  ‘Try me,’ he said and held out his hands and waited for her to put hers in his.

  It felt wrong. To hold this guy’s hands and let her pull... Jo Conaill spent her life avoiding dependence on anyone or anything.

  What choice did she have? She put out her hands and held.

  His hands were broad and toughened from manual work. She’d guessed he was a farmer, and his hands said she was right. He manoeuvred his fingers to gain maximum hold and she could feel the strength of him. But he was wincing.

  ‘You’re icy. How long have you been here?’

  ‘About an hour.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He was shifting his grip, trying for maximum hold. ‘Am I the first to come along? Is this road so deserted, then?’

  ‘You’re not a local?’

  ‘I’m not.’ He was starting to take her weight, sitting back on his heels and leaning backward. Edging back as the planks started to tilt.

  The temptation to struggle was almost irresistible but she knew it wouldn’t help. She forced herself to stay limp.

  Channel Horace, she told herself.

  ‘Good girl,’ Finn said approvingly and she thought: What—did the guy have the capacity to read minds?

  He wasn’t pulling hard. He was simply letting his weight tug her forward, shifting only to ease the balance of the planks. But his hold was implacable, a steady, relentless pull, and finally she felt the squelch as the mud eased its grip. She felt her feet start to lift. At last.

  He still wasn’t moving fast. His tug was slow and steady, an inch at a time. He was acting as if he had all the time in the world.

  ‘So I’m not a local,’ he said idly, as if they were engaged in casual chat, not part of a chain where half the chain was stuck in mud. ‘But I’m closer to home than you are.’

  He manoeuvred himself back a little without lessening his grip. He was trying not to lurch back, she realised. If he pulled hard, they both risked being sprawled off the planks, with every chance of being stuck again.

  He had had experience in this. With Horace.

  ‘Horace is heavier than you,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. Did you say...two hundred pounds?’

  ‘I did, and I’m thinking you’re not a sliver over a hundred and ninety. That’s with mud attached,’ he added kindly. ‘What part of Australia do you come from?’

  ‘S... Sydney.’ Sometimes.

  ‘I’ve seen pictures.’ Once more he stopped and readjusted. ‘Nice Opera House.’

  ‘Yeah.’ It was hard to get her voice to work. He’d released her hands so he could shift forward and hold her under her arms. Once more he was squatting and tugging but now she was closer to him. Much closer. She could feel the strength of him, the size. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her face. The feeling was...weird. She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to struggle.

  Sinking won.

  ‘We...we have great beaches too,’ she managed and was inordinately proud of herself for getting the words out.

  ‘What, no mud?’

  ‘No mud.’

  ‘Excellent. Okay, sweetheart, we’re nearly there. Just relax and let me do the work.’

  He had her firmly under the arms and he was leaning back as she forced herself to relax against him. To let him hold her...

  The feeling was indescribable—and it worked!

  For finally the mud released its grip. Even then, though, he was still in control. He had her tight, hauling her up and back so that she was kneeling on the planks with him, but she wasn’t released. He was holding her hard against him, and for a moment she had no choice but to stay exactly where she was.

  She’d been stuck in mud for an hour. She was bone-chillingly cold, and she’d been badly frightened. Almost as soon as the mud released her she started to shake.

  If he didn’t hold her she could have fallen right off the planks. No, she would have fallen. She felt light-headed and a bit sick.

  He held and she had to let him hold. She needed him.

  Which was crazy. She didn’t need anyone. She’d made that vow as a ten-year-old, in the fourth or fifth of her endless succession of foster homes. She’d yelled it as her foster mother had tried to explain why she had to move on yet again.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she’d yelled. ‘I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.’

  Her foster mother had cried but Jo hadn’t. She’d learned to never let herself close enough to cry.

  But now she was close, whether she willed it or not. Her rescuer was holding her in a grip so strong she couldn’t break it even if she tried. He must be feeling her shaking, she thought, and part of her was despising herself for being weak but most of her was just letting him hold.

  He was big and warm and solid, and he wasn’t letting her go. Her face was hard against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart.

  His hand was stroking her head, as he’d stroke an injured animal. ‘Hey there. You’re safe. The nasty bog’s let you go. A nice hot bath and you’ll be right back to yourself again. You’re safe, girl. Safe.’

  She hadn’t been unsafe, she thought almost hysterically, and then she thought maybe she had been. If he hadn’t come... Hypothermia was a killer. She could have become one of those bog bodies she’d read about, found immaculately preserved from a thousand years ago. They’d have put her in a museum and marvelled at her beloved bike leathers...

  ‘There was never a chance of it,’ Finn murmured into her hair and his words shocked her into reaction.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Freezing to your death out here. There’s sheep wandering these bogs. I’m thinking a farmer’ll come out and check them morn and night. If I hadn’t come along, he would have.’

  ‘But if you’re not...if you’re not local, how do you know?’ she demanded.

  ‘Because the sheep I passed a way back look well cared for, and you don’t get healthy sheep without a decent shepherd. You were never in real danger.’ He released her a little, but his hands still held her shoulders in case she swayed. ‘Do you think you can make it back to the road?’

  And then he frowned, looking down at her. ‘You’re still shaking. We don’t want you falling into the mud again. Well, this is something I wouldn’t be doing with Horace.’

  And, before she could even suspect what he intended, he’d straightened, reached down and lift
ed her into his arms, then turned towards the road.

  She froze.

  She was close to actually freezing. From her thighs down, she was soaking. She’d been hauled up out of the mud, into this man’s arms, and he was carrying her across the bog as if she weighed little more than a sack of flour.

  She was powerless, and the lifelong sense of panic rose and threatened to drown her.

  She wanted to scream, to kick, to make him dump her, even if it meant she sank into the bog again. She couldn’t do anything. She just...froze.

  But then, well before they reached the road, he was setting her down carefully on a patch of bare rock so there was no chance she’d pitch into the mud. But he didn’t let her go. He put his hands on her shoulders and twisted her to face him.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘I...no.’

  ‘You were forgetting to breathe,’ he said, quite gently. ‘Breathing’s important. I’m not a medical man, but I’d say breathing’s even more important than reaching solid ground.’

  Had her intake of breath been so dramatic that he’d heard it—that he’d felt it? She felt ashamed and silly, and more than a little small.

  ‘You’re safe,’ he repeated, still with that same gentleness. ‘I’m a farmer. I’ve just finished helping a ewe with a difficult lambing. Helping creatures is what I do for a living. I won’t hurt you. I’ll clean the muck off you as best I can, then put your bike in the back of my truck and drive you to wherever you can get yourself a hot shower and a warm bed for the night.’

  And that was enough to make her pull herself together. She’d been a wimp, an idiot, an absolute dope, and here she was, making things worse. This man was a Good Samaritan. Yeah, well, she’d had plenty of them in her life, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t be grateful. He didn’t need her stupid baggage and he was helping her. Plus he was gorgeous. That shouldn’t make a difference but she’d be an idiot not to be aware of it. She made a massive effort, took a few deep breaths and tugged her dignity around her like a shield.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed, tilting her face until she met his gaze full-on. Maybe that was a mistake. Green eyes met green eyes and something flickered in the pit of her stomach. He was looking at her with compassion but also...something else? There were all sorts of emotions flickering behind those eyes of his. Yes, compassion, and also laughter, but also...empathy? Understanding?

  As if he understood what had caused her to fear.

  Whatever, she didn’t like it. He might be gorgeous. He might have saved her, but she needed to be out of here.

  ‘I can take care of myself from here,’ she managed. ‘If you just walk across to the road, I’ll follow in your footsteps.’

  ‘Take my hand,’ he said, still with that strange tinge of understanding that was deeply unsettling. ‘You’re shaky and if you fall that’s time wasted for both of us.’

  It was reasonable. It even made sense but only she knew how hard it was to place her hand in his and let him lead her back to the road. But he didn’t look at her again. He watched the ground, took careful steps then turned and watched her feet, making sure her feet did exactly the same.

  Her feet felt numb, but the leathers and biker boots had insulated her a little. She’d be back to normal in no time, she thought, and finally they stepped onto the glorious solid road and she felt like bending down and kissing it.

  Stupid bogs. The Irish could keep them.

  Wasn’t she Irish? Maybe she’d disinherit that part of her.

  ‘Where can I take you?’ Finn was saying and she stared down at her legs, at the thick, oozing mud, and then she looked at her bike and she made a decision.

  ‘Nowhere. I’m fine.’ She forced herself to look up at him, meeting his gaze straight on. ‘Honest. I’m wet and I’m dirty but I don’t have far to go. This mud will come off in a trice.’

  ‘You’re too shaken to ride.’

  ‘I was too shaken to ride,’ she admitted. ‘But now I’m free I’m not shaking at all.’ And it was true. Jo Conaill was back in charge of herself again and she wasn’t about to let go. ‘Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. I’m sorry I’ve made you muddy too.’

  ‘Not very muddy,’ he said and smiled, a lazy, crooked smile that she didn’t quite get. It made her feel a bit...melting. Out of control again? She didn’t like it.

  And then she noticed his feet. His boots were still clean. Clean! He’d hauled her out of the bog and, apart from a few smears of mud where he’d held her, and the fact that his hands were muddy, he didn’t have a stain on him.

  ‘How did you do that?’ she breathed and his smile intensified. ‘How did you stay almost clean?’

  ‘I told you. I’m an old hand at pulling creatures out of trouble. Now, if you were a lamb I’d take you home, rub you down and put you by the firestove for a few hours. Are you sure I can’t do that for you?’

  And suddenly, crazily, she wanted to say yes. She was still freezing. She was still shaking inside. She could have this man take her wherever he was going and put her by his fireside. Part of her wanted just that.

  Um...not. She was Jo Conaill and she didn’t accept help. Well, okay, sometimes she had to, like when she was dumb enough to try jumping on bogs, but enough. She’d passed a village a few miles back. She could head back there, beg a wash at the pub and then keep on going.

  As she always kept going.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ she managed and bent and wiped her mud-smeared hands on the grass. Then she finished the job by drying them on the inside of her jacket. She gave him a determined nod, then snagged her helmet from the back of her bike. She shoved it onto her head, clicked the strap closed—only she knew what an effort it was to make her numb fingers work—and then hauled the handles of her bike around.

  The bike was heavy. The shakiness of her legs wouldn’t quite support...

  But there he was, putting her firmly aside, hauling her bike around so it was facing the village. ‘That’s what you want?’

  ‘I...yes.’

  ‘You’re really not going far?’

  ‘N... No. Just to the village.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be fine?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she managed and hit the ignition and her bike roared into unsociable life. ‘Thank you,’ she said again over its roar. ‘If I can ever do anything for you...’

  ‘Where will I find you?’ he asked and she tried a grin.

  ‘On the road,’ she said. ‘Look for Jo.’

  And she gave him a wave with all the insouciance she could muster and roared off into the distance.

  Copyright © 2016 by Marion Lennox

  ISBN-13: 9781488003127

  Wedded for His Royal Duty

  Copyright © 2016 by Linda Susan Meier

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