Suddenly, strong arms pulled her back, slamming her against a rock-hard chest.

Rhys held her against him, his arms encircling her, as the carriage thundered past, making the ground tremble beneath the horse’s powerful hooves.

Helene’s senses seemed to come alive at the moment. The fright at almost being run down. The glory of being held by him. “Rhys,” she whispered.

He abruptly released her. “Take more care, Helene,” he said gruffly.

He blamed her? She had not seen the carriage coming. No one could have.

He seized her arm and led her across the street, letting go of her the minute they were on the pavement again. What? Did he think she could not safely cross a street now?

Madame Desmet was several paces ahead of them. Helene glanced at Rhys, whose expression seemed to have soured.

Had touching her been that abhorrent to him? Even to save her life? Helene felt tears of anger sting her eyes. She blinked them away, determined not to allow his animosity to affect her. She had come to terms with what she had done in not marrying him. Why couldn’t he?