His black brows flew up, then he nodded and hunkered down, placing long strong fingers on the pad. Honoria withdrew her hand and stood.

Briskly, trying not to think about what she was doing, she crossed to the other side of the lane. Facing the trees, she lifted the front of her skirt and tugged at the drawstring securing her lawn petticoat.

"I don't suppose you've a penchant for underdrawers?"

Stifling a gasp, Honoria glanced over her shoulder, but her devilish rescuer was still facing in the opposite direction. When she didn't immediately answer, he went on: "It would give us even more bulk."

Honoria's petticoat slithered down her bare legs. "Unfortunately not," she replied repressively. Stepping free, she swiped up her offering and stalked back across the lane.

He shrugged. "Ah, well-I can't say I'm a fan of them myself."

The vision his words conjured up was ridiculous. Then Honoria's wits clicked into place. The look she cast him as she dropped to her knees should have blistered him; it was wasted-his gaze was trained on the wounded man's face. Inwardly humphing, Honoria ascribed the salacious comment to ingrained habit.

Folding the petticoat, she combined it with the shirt; he removed his hand, and she applied the thick pad over her earlier insignificant one.

"Leave the sleeves hanging. I'll lift him-then you can reach under and tie them tight."

Honoria, wondered how even he would cope with the long, heavy weight of their unconscious charge. Amazingly well was the answer; he hefted the body and straightened in one fluid movement. She scrambled to her feet. He held the youth against his chest; with one sleeve in her hand she ducked and felt about for the other. Her searching fingertips brushed warm skin; muscles rippled in response. She pretended not to notice. Locating the wayward sleeve, she pulled it taut, tying the ends in a flat knot.