Between a Rake and a Hard Place by Connie Mason Page B

and eased her to the ground. She took a hobbling step.
    On a forced march in the military, Jonah had ridden himself raw once, but that had been after two days and nights in the saddle with few breaks. Serena had barely been on horseback for an hour. “Wait a moment. You shouldn’t be this sore.”
    â€œIf I’d had my sidesaddle I wouldn’t be. And I’d have kept pace with you in it too,” she said, a bit of her usual vinegar returning. “But honestly, how do you bear squeezing your horse the whole time?”
    â€œThe whole time?” He snorted. “You mean you’ve been tensing your muscles constantly since we began riding?”
    â€œYou said I had to if I wanted my horse to walk on.”
    â€œOnly to get started.” He tried mightily not to laugh but failed. “Once the horse has started moving, you relax and ride normally.”
    â€œYou didn’t say that,” she said with a sniff, and then walked stiff-legged toward the door. “How was I supposed to know? This lack of explicit instruction is exactly what went wrong with the cigar. You failed to—oof!”
    Jonah scooped her up.
    â€œPut me down.”
    â€œA lady who’s been squeezing the stuffing out of a horse for an hour deserves not to have to walk.” He bent to turn the knob and then gave the front door a nudge with his foot. It swung open and he carried her into the main room of the lodge.
    All the furnishings had been covered with white sheets against the dust. He bore Serena to the nearest sofa-shaped object and lowered her to her feet. Then he pulled off the sheet, wadded it up, and tossed it into a corner.
    â€œSit,” he ordered.
    â€œI’m not a child. I don’t require being ordered about.”
    Jonah gave a derisive snort. “I thought you wanted explicit instruction.” Then he softened his tone. “Please sit, Serena. How am I to tend your injury otherwise?”
    Her knees seemed to collapse at that, and she plopped onto the softly bristled velvet. “My injury?”
    â€œYou have pulled a muscle, several probably, through overwork.”
    â€œI see,” she said, shifting uneasily.
    She must be in real pain.
    â€œAnd how do you propose to tend it?”
    He knelt beside her. “A massage is often the best course of action.”
    This time it was Serena who snorted. “Do not imagine I will allow you to massage me…there.”
    â€œWould you rather explain to Miss Braithwaite how you came to be crippling about when next we see her?”
    Serena bit her lower lip and he knew he’d struck a chord. She might enjoy adventures, but she didn’t relish appearing foolish because of them. He decided to press his advantage.
    â€œAll you have to do is lie still and let me work your sore muscles until they relax. You’ll thank me this evening when you are able to sleep without pain.”
    â€œIt’s terribly indelicate.”
    She was weakening. “Serena, I’ll be as delicate about this as I possibly can.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t have to…to look at the area while you…do whatever you must do, would you?”
    Hell, yes, he wanted to say. Of course he had to look at her. He burned to look at her. But if a promise not to look meant she’d let him touch her inner thighs, he’d count that a small price to pay.
    â€œI will keep my gaze on your lovely face at all times,” he promised.
    â€œAll right. But I’m leaving on every stitch of my clothing except for my coat,” she said. “You’ll have to do your massaging through the fabric.”
    She undid the silver frogs on her pelisse and shrugged it off her shoulders. Then she lifted her legs onto the sofa, carefully arranging her skirts so even her ankles were discreetly covered, and lay down. She closed her eyes, as if that would put a bit more distance between them. Then they shot open again suddenly, her expression