B006DTZ3FY EBOK

by Farr, Diane

  "Thank you!" she gasped.

  He steadied her, then let her go, pulling out a handkerchief to dust his gloves. "What a troublesome chit you are, Clo," he remarked. "I suppose you’ll want me to retrieve that boot for you. It’s ruined, you know."

  Chloe gazed mournfully at her stranded boot, which looked absurdly small stuck by itself in the thick paste of mud. "Is it?" She wished again that her vocabulary were more extensive. "Blast!" she muttered. It seemed inadequate. "I suppose there’s no point in retrieving it, then."

  Gil chuckled. "It won’t beggar you to buy a new pair of boots. I wish you’d let me choose ’em for you."

  Chloe sniffed and tossed her head, discovering in the process that portions of her hair were thoroughly caked. "In the village, no doubt, where the impropriety of you choosing boots for me would set everyone in a bustle."

  "No. In London, where no one would bat an eyelash."

  That made her laugh. "I know you, Gil. You’d choose the most expensive boots you could find."

  "Why not? You’re swimming in lard. Do you good to spend a little of it. On yourself, Clo! Not on one of your godforsaken charities, and not on your father’s horses, and not on Brookhollow! And, by the by, I hope you’re properly grateful that I haven’t laughed at you yet."

  "Oh, I am," she assured him. "Do I look as silly as I feel?"

  "Yes," he responded promptly.

  Her lips twitched. "Beast."

  Gil had a famously infectious grin. "Very well; what would you like to hear? You look quite fetching, for a girl who is covered in mud and blue with cold."

  She did, actually. Chloe Littlefield was a little dab of a thing, and never spent an extra farthing on her appearance, but no matter how deplorably she was dressed she always looked just like a Dutch doll. The look was misleading, as Gil knew well. A keen intelligence was tucked beneath those flaxen ringlets, and that sweetly-rounded chin had been known to assume a very stubborn tilt from time to time.

  He watched as Chloe stepped gingerly to a slightly dryer patch of ground and cast an anxious glance at the sky. "I feel half frozen, and it’s going to rain again. We’d better start for home."

  "Where’s Thunder?"

  Her sudden scowl looked ludicrous on that doll-like face. "After we parted company, Thunder took off for parts unknown. The stupid creature is probably miles away by now. He’s very fast; I’ll grant him that."

  "Well, dash it, Clo—! Are you expecting me to put you up on my gray?"

  She flushed. "I beg your pardon, but what else are we to do?"

  Gil eyed her in dismay. She was filthy. As if reading his thoughts, Chloe began to chuckle.

  "If you wish to wrap a blanket round me first, I’ve no objection."

  "Yes, that’s all very well, but I didn’t bring a blanket!"

  She patted his arm sympathetically. "Poor Gil! You weren’t cut out for the role of knight errant."

  He shook his head glumly. "No. But you can’t walk, I suppose, with only one boot."

  She gave a little spurt of laughter. "I’m so sorry."

  "I don’t suppose my boots would fit you?"

  "No, Gil. I should think it highly unlikely."

  He sighed. "So would I. Very well! Up you go." He turned to seize Chloe round the waist, but then paused. "Most of the mud is on your backside. I say, would you mind riding face down? I could put you across his rump, you know. On your belly."

  She was so tiny, she had to tilt her head back to stare at him. "Would I mind what?" He saw the exact moment when she realized he had been funning. The china-blue eyes, round even when they weren’t filled with astonishment, suddenly crinkled into laughter. "Gil, you unconscionable wretch! You don’t mind sharing your horse with me at all."

  He grinned. "Well, I wouldn’t go that far! It will pain me to see you scattering dirt across this beauty’s flanks. Not to mention the effect you will have on my new saddle. But here’s for it! Up you go."

  He tossed his wet friend into the saddle with some difficulty, and took the reins from her. "I’ll lead him, thank you."

  She chuckled again. "Yes, no sense in marring that jacket of yours by sharing a saddle with me. It’s very smart, by the way."

  "Thank you," said Gil politely. "You’d stare if you knew what I paid for it."

  "Oh, I’ve no doubt I would. And this horse is new, isn’t he? What’s his name?"

  "Wager. He’s new since you’ve seen me last, but I’ve been riding him round London for the past few weeks. He’s a great one for attracting the ladies! I hope the two of us will soon be as famous as Lord Sheringham and his Gullcatcher."

  She patted the animal’s glossy neck. "He’s certainly showy."

  "Like his owner?"

  Chloe’s eyes sparkled mischievously. "I didn’t mean to imply that he was only showy. I daresay he possesses other virtues."

  "Ah. Unlike his owner." Gil shook his head reproachfully. "I’ll tell you what, Chloe: it’s a good thing you have no social ambitions. Never met a more rag-mannered wench!"

  An ominous pattering sound began overhead. Rain was spattering the thick foliage overarching the path. Gil greeted this development by muttering one of the words missing from Chloe’s vocabulary. "And so much for my natty new jacket. Where are we, Clo?"

  "Miles from anywhere, I’m afraid. Don’t you know? What brought you into Dobson’s Thicket?"

  "You did, of course. Look out! I’m coming up." Gil gathered the reins in one hand and hauled himself into the saddle in front of Chloe. She clutched him round the waist. He was so tall, her face was completely muffled against the back of his coat.

  "Gil, do you mean you were following me?"

  "Tracked you like a Red Indian," he said, not without pride.

  "Gracious! Whatever for? I didn’t even know you were home."

  "Wanted to see you," he explained. A flash of lightning caused Wager to dance nervously and Gil steadied the animal, murmuring soothing blandishments. The crack of thunder followed almost immediately, and, with a roar, the heavens opened. Streams of water soon began to pour through the tree branches and strike them.

  "I say, Clo!" shouted Gil above the racket. "Is there shelter anywhere about?"

  "Barlow’s cottage is less than a mile ahead," she shouted back. "There’s nothing else, as far as I know."

  "Good old Barlow," muttered Gil. His clearest memory of the cottager was unpleasant; Barlow had caught him stealing apples as a child. The consequences had been painful, and Gil had never forgotten it. But he urged his horse forward.

  By the time they trotted into the clearing where Barlow’s neat cottage stood, the day had turned nearly as dark as night and the downpour had become fierce. There was no light in the cottage. This was an ominous sign. Gil and Chloe slid off the horse, huddled on Barlow’s small porch, and pounded on the door. There was no answer.

  Chloe suddenly looked guilty and bit her lip.

  "What is it?" demanded Gil, his heart sinking.

  "I just recalled that Barlow’s sister was taken ill last week. I believe he’s gone to visit her."

  With a despairing moan, Gil closed his eyes and leaned dramatically against the door. To his surprise, it moved. He straightened hastily as the door swung slowly open.

  "Oh, thank goodness!" exclaimed Chloe, darting inside.

  But Gil remained on the stoop. He peered apprehensively into the dim interior. "I say, Chloe, are you sure we ought to go in?"

  "Whyever not? If Barlow were here, he’d take us in. We’d do the same for him. Anyone would! And of course we’ll repay him for anything we use."

  Gil’s sense of foreboding did not diminish. "I don’t know," he said uneasily. "Devilish queer fellow, Barlow. Rather keen on the idea of private property."

  Chloe gave a little peal of laughter. "You’re remembering those apples, aren’t you? Silly Gilly! That was simply ages ago."

  Gil winced. For the thousandth time, he wondered bitterly why his parents had burdened him with the name Sylvester Gillil
and. The unfortunate juxtaposition of his Christian name and his surname had given rise to much merriment in his youth. Not, unfortunately, shared by him. But he had learned long ago that to show emotion upon being addressed as "Silly Gilly" only encouraged its use.

  "Very well," he said darkly. "On your head be it." And stepped into the cottage.

  Two daunting facts struck him at once. The cottage consisted of one room only. And it was spotlessly clean. Chloe was bustling blithely about, heedless of her muddy skirt dripping on Barlow’s meticulously-kept floor. Gil shuddered. Chloe had thrown open Barlow’s cupboards without a thought, and was busily rummaging about. She was such a generous little soul, it was clearly inconceivable to her that anyone might object to her making herself at home.

  He couldn’t bear to watch. "I’m off to do something about Wager," he announced, and ducked back out into the storm. Gil found shelter for his dripping animal in Barlow’s cow shed, removed the saddle, and rubbed him down as best he could. Since the only material to hand was hay, he was forced to rub Wager vigorously with handsful of the stuff. This took a good long while, but the exertion certainly kept Gil warm while it lasted.

  The rain did not abate. By the time Gil returned to the cottage, Chloe had a fire crackling on Barlow’s hearth and had put the kettle on. But what caused him to stop dead on the threshold was the sight of Chloe herself. She had somehow contrived to strip off her wet clothing and bathe while he was gone. A large tin basin containing a wet sponge and a cake of still-foaming soap gave mute testimony to her accomplishment of this feat. Her hair was piled anyhow on top of her head, the damp tendrils around her face curling riotously. Her pink and white skin glowed from scrubbing. And she was artistically wrapped in a kind of white toga.

  The overall effect was deceptively angelic. Gil felt the hairs stand up on his neck.

  "What are you wearing?" he demanded.

  Chloe looked very pleased with herself. "It’s a bedsheet."

  "Good God!"

  "What’s the matter?"

  "D’you mean to tell me you’ve torn up the man’s sheets?"

  "No such thing! It’s merely tied." She raised her bare arms to show him how well it was tied. The toga did not slip, but the swell of Chloe’s plump breasts above the tightly-tied swatches was unnervingly evident. As he stood in the doorway and goggled at her in dismay, she broke into laughter. "Gil, do stop staring! Come in and close the door. You’re letting the rain in."

  "You’re not dressed. It’s indecent."

  "Pooh! I’ve seen ballgowns that are far more revealing than this. The sheet is made of linen, and ever so thick. There’s another, too, if you’d care to get out of your wet things."

  "What, prance about in a sari? No, thank you." But he sneezed as he came in and closed the door behind him. "This adventure will be the death of me," said Gil gloomily. "Mark my words."

  "Well, I do think you ought not to stay in those wet clothes. We don’t know how long we may be stranded here."

  Water was streaming from his person onto Barlow’s floor. His clothing was sticking to him, but pouring rivulets down his boots. The boots, at least, would have to go. Gil surrendered to the inevitable with a sigh. He plopped unceremoniously onto the floor and began tugging on his footwear, hoping grimly that this rough-and-ready treatment would not ruin their shape forever. There seemed little point in searching Barlow’s humble home for a proper bootjack.

  "Why the deuce did you take Thunder out today, anyhow?" he grumbled, wrestling with his boots. "And why did you take him so far? You might have known it would rain. It has done so every day for a se’nnight."

  Chloe was carefully spreading her wet riding habit over the back of a wooden chair. "Yes, but the morning was so sunny! I couldn’t bear to stay indoors another moment. I thought I should go mad." The golden head bent low over her task. "Don’t scold me, Gil. You know how it is in that house," she said softly.

  He did. Without another word, he finished yanking off his boots and placed them outside, on Barlow’s small, but relatively dry, front porch. As soon as he had closed the door again he padded over to his friend and patted her shoulder comfortingly, ignoring the fact that it was disconcertingly bare. "You always mean well, Chloe. I suppose today is not your lucky day."

  She peeped up at him impishly. "This isn’t my ill luck at work, it’s yours. I’m here through pig-headedness. Wiggins told me the horse was too strong for me, but I would take him! So, you see, this situation serves me right. But I fail to see why you became entangled in my mishap."

  "Following you," said Gil simply. His sodden clothing was wretchedly uncomfortable. He stood with his back to the fire and gingerly lifted his coattails, hoping the warmth would reach him eventually.

  Chloe glanced curiously at him. "Did you follow me all the way from Brookhollow?"

  "Yes, and I had the devil’s own work to do so! You had left not ten minutes before I arrived in search of you, and Wiggins pointed me in the direction you had taken. I never guessed you would go so far, or I wouldn’t have trailed you like a gudgeon. It was easy enough to see where you had gone, especially with the ground so muddy, but I was beginning to think I would never catch you."

  "Well, I’m very grateful that you did. Only think what might have become of me if you had given up and turned back. I daresay I would be in that stupid wood yet, huddled under a tree and half drowned by now." Chloe carried a petticoat over to the basin and wrung it energetically. Bare toes peeped from beneath the hem of her bedsheet as she walked, but it was so voluminous on her diminutive frame that a train of bulky linen dragged behind her.

  Gil grinned. "Is that modish ensemble comfortable?"

  She tossed a saucy smile over her shoulder. "It’s a deal more comfortable than wet wool, at any rate."

  "Well, if informality is the order of the day, would you mind if I took off my jacket?"

  "Heavens, no! Haven’t I been telling you you should? No sense standing on ceremony with me, Gil. We’re practically family."

  He gingerly removed his jacket and spread it on Barlow’s other chair. There were only two in the tiny cottage, both pulled up to the wooden table in the center of the floor. Gil lifted the clothing-draped chairs and set them closer to the fire. "I dare not remove my breeches," he remarked. "You might take advantage of me."

  Chloe giggled. "Well, if that’s what’s worrying you, I should think you’d be in less danger if you did. A man looks far more attractive in wet breeches than wrapped in a bedsheet."

  Gil turned to her with mock sternness. "And just how many men have you seen wrapped in bedsheets, Miss?"

  Her cheeks reddened, but she laughed at him. "None, of course! I was only trying to reassure you."

  "Hm!"

  "Gil, I really would feel terrible if you caught cold. And I can’t think what has turned you so prudish all of a sudden." She removed her wrung-out petticoat from the washbasin and draped it over Barlow’s dinner table, apparently completely unconcerned with the immodesty of displaying her undergarments to a bachelor.

  He glared at her, exasperated. "Nothing sudden about it. We ain’t children any longer."

  "Ain’t?" she repeated, distracted by this linguistic lapse.

  "It’s the fashion," he explained. "But don’t you follow it! Bad grammar is thieves’ cant—all the crack in London, but not for females. Where was I?"

  "Preaching decorum."

  "So I was!" He resumed his stern demeanor. "If you have a fault, Chloe, it’s that you are too trusting by half. Don’t you know what people would think, if they knew we had paraded round Barlow’s cottage dressed in his bedsheets? Don’t you know what they would say of us?"

  Chloe placed her small fists against her hips and sniffed at him. "I’m not completely birdwitted."

  "Well, then?"

  She sighed, rolling her eyes. "If you have a fault, Gil, it’s that you simply aren’t practical! You and I both know that you would never touch me. What does it matter what people might say? No one will know.
"

  "I daresay old Barlow will be able to add two and two. He’s always been fly to the time of day."

  "Barlow is a dear. If he does figure it out, he won’t say a word. He would no more harm me than you would."

  Gil groaned, but his groan ended in another sneeze. Chloe marched to a cupboard and withdrew Barlow’s sole remaining sheet. She tossed it to Gil. "Not another word! I shall turn my back on you until you tell me to turn round."

  He caught the sheet. She turned her back. But Gil still hesitated. "You’re absolutely certain old Barlow is away?"

  "He left only yesterday, I believe, so if he’s gone for a visit he can’t possibly return for days yet."

  "And we are going to buy him a new set of sheets?"

  "Of course."

  He sighed. The wet breeches were deucedly uncomfortable. And she was right; it was highly unlikely that any harm would come of it. Lord knew they had done far worse things together, and never been caught. He grinned reminiscently as he peeled off his nether garments. "You always were a fearless little thing. Remember the summer when I taught you and Tish to swim?"

  Chloe’s white shoulders shook. "Poor Tish! You had no mercy."

  "Yes, but much you cared! You nearly drowned, trying to follow my lead. I was trying to teach you a lesson. A lesson you badly needed! You frightened me half out of my wits that day."

  "You weren’t trying to teach me a lesson. You were trying to put me in my place. I knew it, too! I couldn’t let you win, Gil."

  "Let me win? No such thing, you impertinent little snip! You may turn round now."