[i]For one glorious, heaven sent moment, the rogue imagined the satisfying [/i]*thud*[i] of carriage wheels over an unseemly large rut in the middle of the roadway, the sensation made only more delightful by the slightly wet snap of something vulnerable - and hopefully vital - crunching beneath...[/i]

Antoinette gasped in shock, pulling the carriage brake swiftly at nearly the same instant she reined in the palfry, halting the pliant, dapple grey mare in her tracks. "Oh! Oh Oncle Nathaniel, please, take the reins! A man, he is hurt, the poor soul!"

[i]In a just world, she'd have thought to put Sir Greene's hateful black stallion to harness today, just for a bit of fun. That ebony hellion that despised the whole human world, and would kick a man in the head with a sharp, iron shod hoof the instant opportunity presented itself... [/i]

The gentlewoman lay the reins in her uncle's lap as she slid swiftly from the seat of her carriage. She gathered up the pale green satin skirts in her hands, stepping lightly over the cobblestones to the fallen man. [i]"Quelle horreur![/i] Monsieur, are you hurt?" she exclaimed, her voice thick with fright and genuine concern. The young lady was joined in an instant by the Commander, dismounting from his own bay the moment she lit from her carriage seat, an impatient scowl crossing his face as he eyed the fallen privateer skeptically. 

A scowl he was quick to make disappear the instant the kindly, tender Antoinette looked helplessly to him over her shoulder. "Robert, you can help me get him up?"

"Of course, Miss Greene."

In a sumptuous halo of Spring green skirts, Antoinette knelt beside the poor man tossed so unceremoniously to the street by her own carriage. She could not help but note he still held that precious book of his up above the dirt and grime, a thing obviously more dear to him it seemed, than his own flesh and bones. This would be a sight Sir Greene would approve of most heartily, and she so dearly wished he could have seen. Antoinette pulled back the veil of lace over her face, searching the man's eyes for any sign of hurt - beyond that of his bruised pride, of course. 

[i]The rogue's steely grey gaze promised a painful, lingering death if he decided to play the grinning fool Monsieur-Jax-finds-his-wet-nurse at this very moment... [/i]

"Here now, let us help you. The good Commander and I will get you to your feet. Can you stand?" she asked him breathlessly, the flawless Parisian accent as warm and gentle and full of promise as a tropical sunrise. Antoinette slipped one hand about the man's shoulders, beneath the long, thick tendrils of dark blonde hair that fell about his shoulders, the other providing a steady cradle at his elbow as well.