Then the horse slipped—not badly, just enough to send mud cascading beneath its hooves. Genevieve reacted quickly, too quickly. Midnight recovered; she did not. Nathaniel watched her lose balance: her right foot slipped from the stirrup; the stallion shifted sideways. Genevieve managed to stay mounted—barely.
By the time Nathaniel reached her, she was breathing hard.
"What are you doing here?" she called over the wind.
"Looking for you!"
"Why?"
"Because there is a storm!"
Genevieve blinked rainwater from her eyes. "I noticed!"
"Clearly not enough!"
The answer surprised a laugh out of her. "That sounded almost angry."
"It was!"
She shook her head. "The drainage trench failed."
Nathaniel stared at her. "Genevieve—"
"What?"
"You nearly fell."
For a brief second, something passed through her expression—not fear, but recognition, as though she understood why that mattered. Then she looked away. "I am fine."
Lightning flashed again, this time much closer. Thunder followed almost instantly. Nathaniel glanced toward the sky. "We need shelter."
"The manor is three miles away."
"Then somewhere closer."
Genevieve pointed toward a line of trees. "There is an old hunting lodge."
Rain intensified; neither argued further. Twenty minutes later, they reached the lodge. The small stone building stood hidden among dense woods. Time had weathered the structure, but it remained sturdy. Genevieve pushed open the door; they entered together. Wind rattled the shutters; rain hammered the roof. Inside, however, the lodge remained dry and surprisingly comfortable. A stone fireplace occupied one wall; old furniture rested beneath protective cloths; the air smelled faintly of cedar and dust.
Nathaniel immediately began building a fire. Genevieve removed her soaked riding gloves.
"You have done that before."
"A few times."