"Agree to write my story. Then I will help you."
"You're beginning to sound like a broken record." A gust of wind blew down her back. "Okay, look. It's getting cold and my ankle hurts. I'm tired and wet and want to go home. Hopping along by myself is going to take forever. Help me home and tell me your story on the way."
"No. You have to agree to write my story."
Kara snarled. "Okay, okay. I give. I'll write down your story, however absurd it may be. Now give me a hand."
Shivering in the light rain, Kara looked down to rebalance herself and saw his boots first. Worn, black leather boots that laced along the side of his leg almost to his knee. Not fashionable boots that a man might wear to play polo or some other civilized sport, but old-style work boots made for and used in hard labor.
Her eye continued upward. The boots didn't fit the rest of his clothing. Black jodhpurs of a material she couldn't fathom in the darkening light, a brocaded waistcoat of an indeterminate shade of something dark, a light-colored cravat tied in an intricate set of loops, all covered over with an open black greatcoat that flapped in a strong wind she did not fee ...
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