by Alyssa Drake
He needed to get a grip on himself. Benjamin needed him, Edward needed him, Morris was a viable threat, and Thomas Reid was no coward. Let her come. Rising, he mounted the horse, turning back toward the house. It was time to go home.
“I knew, if I waited long enough, you would return to the barn.” Alana’s soft brogue floated through the morning air, breaking through the mist eddies dancing across the courtyard. She reclined on a mound of hay, neatly stacked just inside the stable door. Wrapped tightly in an old overcoat, two frayed pant legs were visible from just above her knee. Her wild, auburn hair tumbled freely about her face, framing it in constantly shifting flames—an effect caused by the rising sun. Thomas’ chest squeezed painfully—even after eight years apart, her mere presence shredded his heart to pieces.
“You’re trespassing.” Sliding from the saddle, he landed lightly on his feet, keeping the horse between them. He couldn’t trust his body to listen to his commands.
“Cruelty is not in your nature, Thomas. I don’t believe you to be so unkind.” Alana arched her eyebrow curiously. Scooting forward, she extracted a piece of hay from the edge of the bale, placing it between her teeth.
“It’s been a long time, Mrs. Dubois. How do you know who I’ve become?” he growled, his eyes drinking in her lithe form. She looked exactly as she had the afternoon he proposed—vibrant. The years had only improved her beauty.
“People do not change.”
“Then you are still the same person who abandoned her fiancé the night after you agreed to marry him.” Another cruel barb, he knew, yet he couldn’t keep the bitterness from seeping out of his mouth. Had she suffered as he had? Dropping his gaze, he worked the saddle straps loose.
“I came to speak with you about that evening, to explain myself, to apologize. I was afraid…” She gnawed on the stalk, waiting for Thomas to respond. He raised his head, silently staring. “Have you anything to say?”
“Does Aidan know you stole his clothes again?” asked Thomas, returning to the saddle straps.
“They are Patrick’s garments,” she replied with a sniff. Straightening her legs out, Alana smoothed the worn material on her right leg, revealing her bare ankle. She had no stockings on her feet! It wouldn’t be the first time she forewent underclothes. The ache in Thomas’ chest flared as memories poured into his mind.
“You are improperly dressed for society.” Thomas glared at her over the horse’s spine, his face a mask of stone. Angry, stay angry. It loosened the excruciating constriction around his heart.
Alana sighed, removing the blade of hay from her lips. “My penchant for men’s clothing never bothered you before. If I remember correctly, you quite enjoyed my lack of feminine restriction.”
Biting his tongue, Thomas swallowed his seething retort. Removing the saddle from the horse, he turned away from Alana, resting it over a nearby stall gate. His soft hand stroked over the horse’s muscular flank, sliding up its neck. Cooing softly, Thomas caressed the horse’s muzzle. “Why did you return?” His eyes flicked to Alana’s face.
“I wanted to repair the damage caused by my abrupt departure,” replied Alana, sliding from the hay bale. “I visited several times over the past few years, but you refused to receive me each time.”
“I have no desire to see you.” He unclasped the bridle, sliding the bit carefully from the horse’s mouth. The stallion smacked his lips on the metal.
“That’s all you have to say to me after eight long years?”
“You left me,” Thomas hissed through a clenched jaw. Slamming the tack down on top of the saddle, Thomas snatched up a groom’s towel from a bucket near the gate. “You disappeared for years, Alana. Three years of silence, of waiting, of wondering. I thought you were dead. Then I discovered you were married… to a Frenchman.” He spat the last word in disgust, whipping the cloth in her direction.
Returning to the stallion, Thomas wiped the towel gently over the horse’s coat, stooping to rub down its legs. Ignoring Alana, he flipped the rag over his shoulder and retrieved a currycomb from the same bucket, his calloused hands drawing circles over the horse’s chestnut hide. As he brushed, he focused on the soothing scratching sound emanating from the comb, forcing Alana and this unpleasant conversation from his thoughts.
A soft touch on Thomas’ shoulder caused him to jerk. He glanced up angrily and glared at the fingers resting on his sleeve. Alana tentatively withdrew her hand under his withering glare.
“Sebastian passed two years ago,” she whispered, her voice hiccupped.
A rumble grew in Thomas’ throat, his entire body vibrating with fury. He spun to face her, tossing the brush into the bucket with a clang, his fingers curling tightly. “Is that why you returned to Wiltshire? Are you husband-hunting? In need of financial support?”
As the spiteful words left his lips, he regretted them. His harsh, bitter tone echoed in the stable, grating on his ears. Alana swallowed, valiantly holding back the tears gathering in the corners of her bright eyes. Brushing her fingertips across her cheek, she narrowed her eyes.
“I have no want for money or a man,” Alana shot back, “and I would never come to you for assistance with either situation.”
“How very fortuitous for you,” said Thomas, a snarl in his voice. “Most women are not in the same position.” He inhaled a slow calming breath, forcing his hands to relax, and turned his back on Alana, peering into the bucket. Extracting a dandy brush, he turned back to the horse, speaking to its coat. “I am pleased to hear you have done well for yourself. However, that does not excuse your sudden appearance in my stables.”
“Please allow me to explain my past actions, then I will take my leave,” said Alana, stepping toward him.
“I do not owe you that courtesy,” Thomas replied sourly over his shoulder. Following the same path he used with the currycomb, Thomas flicked the little brush across the stallion’s gleaming coat.
“I never stopped loving you.” Alana twisted her hands in front of her waist.
Thomas flung the brush at the bucket. “I don’t believe you.”
“What can I do to prove it to you?”
“You can leave.” Scowling, Thomas led the horse into a stall.
“You will forgive me one day, Thomas Reid.” Her statement echoed through the barn, met by a chorus of soft whinnies.
When Thomas popped out from the stall, Alana had disappeared. Peeking out the open stable doors, his eyes swept the courtyard, catching a glimpse of a figure in white, stealing across the grounds. Miss Clemens, her head ducked, raced past him, the ribbons on her hat streaming behind her like little yellow flags. She clasped the wayward bonnet to her head as she dashed toward the barn, unaware of Thomas’ concealed location. Disappearing around the side of the stables, Miss Clemens tripped, a soft curse word floating into the barn. Thomas grinned. Miss Hastings was most definitely a delightful influence over Miss Clemens.
Slinking around the side of the stables, he watched Miss Clemens vanish over the first rise. Curious, he stole along behind her, hiding in the shadows. Where could she be heading as such an early hour?
Chapter Two
Fifteen minutes prior…
As soon as the first beams of morning cracked the horizon, Daphne rose from her perch in the library window and arranged the drapes to cover her hiding place. She had remained in the window several hours after witnessing Miss Hastings’ and Lord Westwood’s midnight exodus. Wherever they were heading, Miss Hastings glowed at the prospect of escape, and a rather large piece of Daphne’s heart wished she could run away with them.
Miss Hastings’ departure left Daphne alone to defend herself against the horrible Miss Alice Shirely and her cruel remarks. Without Miss Hastings’ sharp tongue, Miss Shirely would shred Daphne to tiny pieces within minutes. Daphne swallowed, her eyes dancing over the library—so many changes in such a short time; disowned by her mother, sequestered to the Westwood Estate, threatened by a madman… She chewed the side of her thumb, overwhelmed by the uncerta
inty plaguing her future. What if she ended up alone? Would Aunt Abigail keep her on, a permanent spinster with no prospects? If Lord Westwood and Mr. Hastings captured Mr. Morris and his accomplice before their murderous plan was completed, would she be sent back to town to finish the season? How could she face her mother again? She shuddered as the noxious voice wrapped around her.
* * *
“Ungrateful child. You would be fortunate to receive a proposal from any man.” Her mother’s vicious words echoed in Daphne’s mind, slurred and nasal, as memories from her last birthday flooded her mind.
The quiet conversations in the drawing room paused, all eyes turned toward her mother, who grinned, clinking her fork against her glass. “It is customary for the mother of the birthday girl to make a speech before lunch can be served.” She paused and took a long drink from her wine goblet, sucking at the rim with a smack of her lips, her malice-filled eyes sliding toward Daphne. Clearing her throat, Mrs. Clemens addressed the room. “Nineteen years ago, I was forced to endure the excruciating torture of childbirth.”
Daphne rouged, dropping her face into her hands. “Mother, please stop,” she whispered through her fingers.
Her mother waved dismissively. “I had hoped, like her beautiful sister, she would marry a fine gentleman. However, you have not, have you?” she sneered, twisting toward Daphne again. “You have remained in my house, a continual reminder of your failure, and a constant burden on your father and me.”
Across the room, Miss Shirely smirked. The girls surrounding her laughed, following her direction. Their amusement floated toward Daphne, submerging her in humiliation. Miss Shirely tilted her head, her eyes locking on Daphne. Slashing her hand through the air, Miss Shirely silenced the laughter and gestured for Mrs. Clemens to continue her speech.
“You are a great disappointment, Daphne—a pox on your grandmother’s good name. I pray each day for a man to blindly ignore your flaws and take you off my hands. However, I doubt your father would offer a dowry high enough as necessary to entice a suitor’s interest. Therefore, to the first of many more birthdays with you.” Mrs. Clemens drained her glass, somehow refilled during her cruel speech. Her bright eyes danced over the crowd, hungrily enjoying the shock and glee on her guests’ faces. A nasty grin graced her face as she turned once more toward her victim. “Happy birthday, Poppet.”
Daphne stood, rooted to the carpet, seething with embarrassment and rage, her hands balled into fists as she vibrated uncontrollably. Alice’s tinkling laugh echoed through the silent room. “Happy birthday, Poppet,” Alice gurgled. Her cronies echoed the false sentiment, their mirth ringing in Daphne’s ears.
She was not going to cry. She was not going to cry. Daphne squeezed her eyes shut tightly, counting silently in her head. She was not going to cry… yes, she was.
Daphne fled the drawing room as the first tear betrayed her, blazing a hot trail down the side of her cheek. Laughter followed her retreat, chasing her from the party into her bedchamber. She flung the door closed and collapsed on her bed, permitting sobs to wrack her body until she could no longer see through her puffy eyes.
* * *
Now, on this bright morning in March as Daphne stood in the center of the empty library, combating the ghost of her mother, she chose to flee again. Grasping a bonnet and shawl, she rushed from the house, an apparition of melancholy. Rocks scattered in her wake as Daphne raced across the courtyard toward the sunrise, one hand clamped to her head to prevent the errant bonnet from escaping. A horse whinnied uneasily to her right, disturbed by the noise of her shoes crunching on the gravel. She stumbled, her shoes slipping on the rocks. Muttering under her breath, she dashed around the stables, hoping the sound of gravel scattering wouldn’t wake anyone in the house.
When she reached the tree line, she slowed her pace, breathing deeply to calm her pounding heart, her hands resting on her hips as she walked. No destination in mind, she wandered aimlessly until she recognized her surroundings. The nearly imperceptible trail which crossed her path was the same one Mr. Reid used when they had returned from fishing. The bubbling sound of the stream tickled her ears. Lured by the water, Daphne turned left, stepping onto the trail. She hesitated. Would Mr. Reid be angry she returned to his private spot?
He would have to find her first.
With a grin, Daphne continued down the path. Mr. Reid was correct—due to his haphazard path, there was no possibility of either Daphne or Miss Hastings remembering how they arrived at the stream. However, he didn’t make the same decision regarding the journey back to the chateau—his stomach had betrayed him. He had followed the most direct course home, not realizing Daphne would recall the route they used.
Humming as she walked, Daphne slowly picked her way through the underbrush. A few moments later, she burst through a group of elderberry bushes and smiled—Mr. Reid’s secret fishing location. The brook babbled happily, casting shimmers of speckled light across the riverbank. Daphne neared the edge of the embankment and peered down thoughtfully at the water.
She debated removing her shoes and stockings, but twenty years of enforced behavior prevented her from acting on the indecent impulse. She huffed, stomping along the riverbank, her eyes on the tempting, cool water, annoyed by her inability to act impetuously. The sun’s warmth brushed lightly over Daphne’s face, accompanied by a soft breeze, which tickled the yellow bonnet ribbons. Untied, they swung freely.
In the near distance, the river twisted, a sharp bend which corralled Daphne and forced her to turn back toward the estate. She sighed, reluctant to return to the expected activities of a young lady. As she approached the bend, she spied a fallen log stretched across the bank. Chewing the side of her thumb, she made an uncharacteristically illogical decision. She was going to cross the river.
Carefully, she slid one boot across the rough bark, which crunched softly under her shoe. Leaning forward onto her foot, she hopped slightly, testing the sturdiness of the log. The fallen tree trunk remained immobile, buried deeply in the mud on the opposite embankment. Daphne inhaled quickly, sucking in a shaky breath. She forced her shoulders back in an awkward rolling motion and placed a second foot atop the log. Slowly, she crept across the wooden cylinder, her arms outstretched as she walked. She swayed slightly, dipping her arms to the left, then right to maintain her balance.
Beneath her feet, the water cascaded over tiny pebbles which glittered like diamonds under the stream’s bubbly current. Mesmerized, Daphne paused midway, staring at the dazzling lights in awe. She longed to trail her fingers in the cool stream and debated lying down on the log to stroke the enticing water.
“What the devil are you doing!” A deep voice broke her concentration.
Daphne’s head snapped up. She wobbled from the sudden movement, flapping her arms wildly to regain her balance. Managing to remain upright, Daphne squinted, searching the opposite side of the bank for the origin of the voice. Mr. Reid crashed through the trees and underbrush, his face twisted in irritation.
“You’re trespassing!” he bellowed, reaching the far end of the log.
“I am a guest of the Westwood Estate.” Her gaze slid over the irate man who, on closer inspection, was not Mr. Reid, but closely resembled him, had he possessed brilliant blue eyes and several years. Daphne edged toward the man, a curious tone in her voice. “I was unaware I was trespassing; I thought this land belonged to the estate. I apologize for my intrusion.”
“I did not realize Aunt Katherine had guests. Please forgive my gruffness.” His voice softened considerably. “Allow me to introduce myself—Mr. Asher Reid.”
He offered a jerky bow which Daphne responded to with an equally awkward curtsy, teetering forward on her toes, frantically waving her arms again. “Miss Daphne Clemens,” she said mid-flap.
One foot raised precariously off the log, Daphne tilted backward to redistribute her weight evenly. She shrieked. Mr. Reid raced forward, his arms outstretched. Grasping his arm, Daphne struggled to right herself. However, her mome
ntum was too great, and she tumbled into the river. Icy water shocked her skin. Kicking her shoes against the muddy river bottom, Daphne’s shot upward, her head breaking the surface in time to witness Mr. Reid’s fall from the log.
He crashed into the frigid water with a grunt. Not three seconds passed before he emerged sputtering obscenities, his brown hair plastered to his head. Wiping the dripping strands from his eyes, he glared at Daphne, who treaded water several meters out of reach.
“Perhaps now, you would like to explain what you were doing on top of that old log,” he growled, coughing several times.
“I was attempting my first adventure,” Daphne replied, offering a sheepish grin.
Mr. Reid grimaced. “How is that working for you?”
“This is not quite the direction I anticipated from my experiment,” said Daphne through chattering teeth, the frosty caress of the stream causing violent shivers to wrack Daphne’s body.
“I think it best to continue this discussion on dry land.” In one swift stroke, he closed the distance between them. Not waiting for Daphne’s confirmation, he enveloped her in his iron grip and dragged her through the mild current. Hoisting her onto the riverbank, Mr. Reid crawled up behind her, collapsing in the mud.
Daphne sat forward, coughing three times. Scraping the damp, loose tendrils from her face, she glanced down at Mr. Reid. Rolling onto his back, he closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. After a moment, his head lolled sideways, and he opened his eyes, glaring at her, irritation etched into his forehead. Daphne guiltily glanced away. She gasped when she realized their location.
