Daring Lords and Ladies

by Emily Murdoch

  “Once more, my fine friend,” she coaxed the horse still higher along a narrow twisting road leading into the surrounding hills. The rain had slowed, but it had not abated. It worried her that the man remained immovable throughout their ordeal. His inaction announced the seriousness of his injuries. “If only we could find— ”

  Angel pulled up on the horse’s reins.

  “Do you smell that, boy?” she asked as she reached over the man to brush her hand against the animal’s neck. “That is smoke.” Intuitively, she set the animal in action again. “Please God,” Angel prayed aloud. “Permit us to find shelter soon.”

  Within minutes, she guided the stallion along the muddy drive leading to a small farmhouse. Light streamed through the largest of the windows, and Angel felt her shoulders relax.

  “Greetings to those in the house!” she called as she drew near. She would have preferred to climb down from the large animal she rode and to cover her exposed legs before she took the acquaintance of the house’s occupants, but there was always the possibility her “saviors” could turn into “true sinners.” So she adjusted the soaked material over one leg before plastering a smile on her lips.

  The door opened cautiously. An elderly gentleman holding a one-shot volley frowned at her. “What be yer business?”

  Angel breathed a bit easier when a white-haired woman wedged in beside the man in the half opened doorway.

  “I require assistance,” she said with a calm she did not know she possessed. “The rainstorm swept my carriage and horses from the road and killed my coachman. I—” She gestured to the man slumped forward on the horse. “I mean we are lost, and the road is washed away.”

  The man did not appear convinced. “What be the problem with yer man?”

  Angel thought to correct the farmer’s mistake, but then she thought of the ramifications if others learned she rode a horse astride while seated behind a complete stranger. Her father would have an apoplexy if he heard of her indiscretion.

  “My husband,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster, “rode beside the carriage. In an attempt to rescue me, he suffered an injury to his shoulder and a blow to his head. He managed to remount the horse, but then he collapsed. Please, sir. I must see to his injury. I beg your assistance.”

  Before the man could question her further, the woman shoved past him to rush to the horse.

  “Put that gun away, Mr. Wendt,” she chastised, “and hep the lady to the ground.” She caught the horse’s bridle. “Dunt’ch worry, missy, we knows our Christian duty.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Angel said with true relief. She lifted her leg over the horse’s back and permitted Mr. Wendt to assist her to the ground. It was only when she scrambled under the horse’s neck to untie her supposed husband’s wrist that she realized the rain had subsided to a thick mist clinging to the ground and bushes.

  Wendt said nothing, but it was easy to recognize his disapproval of his wife’s accepting them into his house.

  Mrs. Wendt waved away her husband’s displeasure. “It be well-advised to tie yer man,” the woman observed, as she held the horse in place.

  “I feared he might fall from the horse, and I would never be strong enough to lift him to it again,” Angel admitted as she rubbed the man’s skin where the ribbon had cut into it.

  “Walk the animal closer to the door,” Mr. Wendt instructed. “The ways yer man’s arm sits askew we shan’t be carrying him far without doing him more harm. Mae, you bring that tall chear closer to the door so I kin pull this stranger from the saddle and drag him to the chear.”

  The woman scrambled to do her husband’s biding, while Angel countered the horse’s movement by taking a firm hold on her riding partner’s leg.

  “Whenever you are prepared, Mr. Wendt, I shall assist you.”

  The farmer nodded curtly before easing the injured man from the animal. As if he understood the dilemma, the horse did not move, permitting them to brace his master’s weight against his side. Wendt laced the man’s good arm over his shoulder and dragged the dead weight toward the open door. Angel lifted each of the man’s legs up the stoop before Wendt gave another gargantuan tug to clear the door’s frame and to drop the injured man into the chair. Angel and Mrs. Wendt caught the stranger before he could slide from the chair.

  “Now what?” she asked, for she expected Wendt held a plan for them.

  “We move the chear closer to the fire. Mae will make a pallet there, and you and I will lift him to the floor. Then you women may tend ’im while I sees to the horse.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Angel said with relief. “My father is quite wealthy. I will see you are repaid for your kindness.”

  Wendt’s eyebrow rose, and immediately Angel recognized her mistake.

  “Why your father, Mrs...”

  Angel flushed with color. She glanced at the pale pallor of the injured man. It was the first time she had looked upon his full countenance. Despite the bruising and the dirt, he was the most handsome man she had ever encountered. Without thinking of the consequences, she knelt before his slumped sideways stance to capture his hand. It was important for her to touch him. A long pause followed before she realized Wendt waited for her response.

  “We are newly joined.” She chose her words carefully. She would not complicate the situation with more untruths than necessary. “Naturally, I would think of my father’s care first.”

  “Leave the lady be,” the woman Wendt called ‘Mae’ warned. “Kin’t ye see how much she worries over her gent.”

  Mr. Wendt scowled, but he did as the woman suggested. “As wet as ye two be, it might be best if ye undress him before ye wrap him in a blanket. Kin ye hep the lady, Mae, or do ye wish me to do it?”

  “His missus and I will do well if’n ye kin lower him to the floor,” the woman assured him.

  Angel’s throat tightened. Even though she had observed more than one of her father’s workers without their shirts during harvest season, this man was different. He was beautifully perfect. Yet, Mae expected Angel to be familiar with this particular man’s body.

  “Hang yer cloak close to the fire, Mrs...”

  Angel came close to responding with “Lovelace,” but she managed to use her mother’s maiden name of Copley.

  “No frettin’, girl. You and I kin handle a man of Mr. Copley’s stature, kin we not?” the woman said with a sly grin.

  Angel swallowed her dread, or was it her passion? “Yes, ma’am. I am grateful for your kindness.” She asked, “Is it Mrs. Wendt?”

  The woman’s smile widened. “Been Mrs. Wendt nigh upon forty years.”

  Angel deposited her dripping cloak on the knob beside the fireplace. “After we see to Mr. Copley, I will wring this thing out.”

  In spite of the years clearly marking Mr. Wendt’s countenance, the man was not weak of body. He scooped Angel’s “husband” from the chair and set him upon the floor. Meanwhile, she and Mrs. Wendt eased the stranger to a reclining position.

  “I’ll be hangin’ this in the barn where it won’t mar Mrs. Wendt’s floors,” the farmer said as he stripped Angel’s cloak from the hook. “I’ll return once I’s see to the horse.”

  Angelica nodded. “Thank you again, sir.” She watched the man go. Wendt did not trust her—did not believe her story. It would be necessary for her to practice more care in what she revealed. Her reputation was in poor repair without being linked to a stranger whom she claimed as a husband. In regret, she turned to face the still smiling Mae Wendt.

  “Let us begin, Mrs. Copley. We ’ave a fine makings of a man to undress before Mr. Wendt returns.”

  Chapter Four

  Angel diverted her eyes from where Mrs. Wendt worked the man’s trousers from the stranger’s narrow hips. Angel accepted the role of support, bracing the gentleman’s weight while Mrs. Wendt wrestled free first his boots, then his coat and waistcoat, as well as his shirt from his body. Unfortunately, for Angel’s sensibilities, the heat of his back muscles warmed
her touch and seared the blood in her veins.

  “Yer man be a handsome one, Mrs. Copley,” Mrs. Wendt said, appearing to take great pleasure in removing “Mr. Copley’s” clothing.

  Angel would have found it all quite amusing, if she were not blushing to the roots of her hair. She always considered herself well versed in the ways of the world, after all, she often viewed the workers on the railroads and the surrounding homesteads in various stages of undress—a fact that would shock many of the ton if they knew and would solidify her reputation as an uncivilized hoyden, but this situation was beyond the pale. She would look upon a strange man, as a woman might look upon her husband.

  Mrs. Wendt did not exaggerate. The man was magnificent. Dark hair covered his chest and a trail of small tight curls led the way to the waist of his trousers. With difficulty, Angel swallowed against the dryness in her throat. His arms and legs were firm, the muscles well defined. As foolish as the idea arrived, she shook off the image of the man appearing larger in stature without his clothes than he had with them.

  His head nestled against her shoulder, but up close Angel could see the fine lines, which would one day mark the corner of his eyes. She wondered what color those eyes were. She could not recall from their earlier encounter, but she assumed them dark, as his hair was the shade of a moonless sky. His chin was firm—his cheekbones high.

  He reminded her of someone with whom she recently accepted an acquaintance, but in her exhaustion she could not pinpoint who it would be.

  “How long have ye been married, missy?” Mrs. Wendt asked as she tugged the man’s trousers over his knees. Inexplicably, Angel’s breath caught, and she hastily averted her eyes. Mercifully, he wore his small clothes, disguising his manhood. The woman spread a blanket over the lower half of the man’s body, and Angel breathed easier.

  With care, she lowered the gentleman’s shoulders to the floor. Angel paused before responding, wondering what was best to share. “Only days, ma’am.” She could not admit to a long-standing relationship with the man. The bright red flush to her complexion would announce her lack of knowledge of the gentleman. “In many ways, I would say I know little of the gentleman you recognize as my husband.”

  “Never ye mind, Mrs. Copley. It takes very little time fer a smart woman to know her man.” She chuckled as she retrieved the stranger’s damp clothes to hang them near the fire to dry. “Most men think that—” Mrs. Wendt gestured to the nakedness of the outstretched man upon the floor, “—means ye know them.” Angel attempted to conceal another flush of pink staining her skin. “Men pride themselves on provin’ their manliness,” Mrs. Wendt continued as if she and Angel had known each other for years. The conversation was both exhilarating and embarrassing at the same time. “Ye just mark my words, Mrs. Copley. Every decision yer husband makes will be to prove himself a man.”

  Angel shot a glance at the stranger. She could not imagine this particular man would ever consider himself lacking in essentials. Just looking upon him in silent repose stole her breath.

  “What should we do about Mr. Copley’s injuries?” she asked at last.

  Mrs. Wendt frowned. “When Mr. Wendt returns, I be askin’ Ellwood to set yer man’s shoulder. Might be best to do so before he reaches full consciousness. If’n he be’d awake, Mr. Copley would never tolerate us moving him about so.”

  “Is there a physician or a surgeon whose services we can procure for Mr. Copley?” Angel did not like to think upon the idea Mr. Wendt might injure the stranger further.

  “None to speak of,” Mrs. Wendt assured her. “Dun’t ya be a worryin’. Mr. Wendt has him sum skills cum to doctorin’.”

  Angel chewed her bottom lip. “What do we do for Mr. Copley’s head injury?”

  “Watch yer husband close. His head be of more danger than his shoulder. We’ll put cool cloths soaked in ’avender water on his head and keep him still. Yer husband be young and strong, but like all men, he won’t accept his weaknesses.”

  Angel supposed Mr. Wendt’s ignoring his wife’s protestations had become a customary argument in the Wendt household. She shot a glance at the main door. “I would feel better if Mr. Copley knew some relief. Perhaps I should see to Mr. Copley’s horse while Mr. Wendt tends to—to Mr. Copley.” She could not think of the man as her husband and stumbled over the words. “I am accustomed to being about horses. My father owns a line of fine animals.” Angel did not want to mention the animals were thoroughbreds with long bloodlines.

  Mrs. Wendt nodded her understanding. “And what of yer mother? Did she object to a lady bein’ around her husband’s cattle?”

  Angel silently reminded herself not to share too many details of her life. “My mother has passed.”

  “I see,” the woman said with renewed curiosity. “Ye do what is best fer you and yer husband, Mrs. Copley. While I’s wait fer Mr. Wendt, I’ll find ye sum dry clothes to wear.”

  Angel looked down at her ruined carriage dress. “Thank you, ma’am.” With a worried look at the man resting in repose upon a blanket on the floor, Angel rushed from the room. She required a few minutes to organize her thoughts and determine how best to proceed. She had made a mistake by telling the Wendts of her pretend marriage. What would the gentleman say when he discovered her perfidy? “What a cake I created!” she moaned to the thickening mist. “I must discover a means to bring the stranger to health and to convince the man not to refute my story, as well as to arrive at the Duchess of Devilfoard’s party without anyone knowing of this diversion beyond my carriage accident.” She rubbed her cheeks with her dry hands to drive away her exhaustion. “My poor Papa will think me a madcap!”

  * * *

  The pain ripped through Hunt’s upper body. Someone held him in a tight vise, and, despite his best efforts, a growling scream escaped his lips. “Aarrgghh!”

  “Easy, boy.” A gruff voice warned. “Yer shoulder be injured.” The stranger lowered Hunt to a hard rough surface.

  Curious, Hunt opened his eyes a slit. For a second, he thought to turn his head to assess his situation, but a second round of shooting pains, this time through his head, quashed that idea.

  “Where?” he murmured.

  “Where be ye?”

  This time it was a woman’s voice off to his left, but Hunt refused to seek a countenance to accompany the voice. An image of the dark cell upon the Continent rose. No women there, his mind reasoned. You are no longer a prisoner.

  “Yes.” He squeezed his eyes shut attempting to recall how he came to this place, but a swirl of undefined images was all he could muster.

  “You and yer wife be in a carriage accident during the storm.” It was the woman again.

  “Wife?” he managed through dry lips. He held a distant memory of the rain. Hunt thought of his wet clothes before realizing he wore nothing but a blanket.

  “Dun’t ye be fretting. Mrs. Copley be in the barn with yer horse. She be glad to know ye woke.”

  Hunt searched his memory for a wife, but instead his head experienced another explosion of blackness, and he squeezed his eyes closed to demand a release. The movement, slight as it was, was enough to permit him to fall into the darkness.

  * * *

  Angel rested upon a makeshift pallet on the floor beside the stranger, but she had yet to close her eyes. The Wendts had left her to “tend her husband” some three hours prior, and, with each tick of the clock, worry claimed Angel’s every thought. Mrs. Wendt assured Angel the man asked after her when he regained consciousness, but with absolute certainty, she knew Mrs. Wendt to be mistaken. If the gentleman asked after her, the stranger most assuredly did not refer to her as his wife.

  “Unless he thought to protect my reputation,” she whispered.

  Angel turned upon her side to look upon the man. In the glow of the dying embers, his skin took on a bronzed sheen, as if he had worked in the fields without a shirt. It was a powerfully seductive image, and she could not resist the urge to touch him. Her fingertips traced along his rib cage, skimmi
ng his skin. She could not shed the idea she knew this man.

  “Fate?” she murmured. As if it the most natural of positions, she snuggled closer. Wrapping her fingers around his upper arm, she rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Please, God, bring him health. Return this man to the loving arms of his family.”

  * * *

  They raced across the open fields, the dark clouds and the rumble of thunder giving chase.

  “Hurry,” Lucifer called as lighting split the upper branches from a nearby tree.

  Angel glanced behind her to see the draping rain covering the ground and turning it to rushing water, which crept ever closer to the hoofs of their frightened horses. Angel kicked the horse’s flanks, and the animal responded with a jumping lurch forward.

  “The house!” her lover called over the pounding staccato of the rain.

  Angel had no time to give him more than a nod. The wind ripped at her stylish riding habit and hat, but her horse matched Lucifer’s, stride for stride, as they approached the small cottage. Lucifer dismounted before his horse came to a halt and ran toward her. He scooped her from her seat and bolted toward the cottage’s open door. Even with a note of apprehension from the continued thunder and lightning, her heart joined his in anticipation.

  Excited, Angel clutched at his cravat to hide her happy tears. She would never complain of the worst nature tossed at her, as long as she was in this man’s arms.

  He stopped barely inside the door while the rain pounded upon the threshold. “What brings you so much joy?”

  “You,” she said in earnest. “These are the happiest moments of my life—the times with you. The world fades away. There is no storm. No duty. We are alone and can speak freely of our love.”

  He sat her upon her feet before lifting her chin with his fingertips. “Am I your love?” Lucifer whispered close to her ear.

  Angel went upon her tiptoes to kiss his jaw line. “How could you doubt it?” The rasp in her voice no longer surprised her.