With the riding crop tucked under her arm, she left by the servant’s door and passed through the door in the walled kitchen garden to cross the gravel drive to the stable mews. She held a finger to her lips and the groom, Simon, chuckled. “Looks like snow, Miss Hetty.” The big, fair-haired man fetched The General from his box. Hetty trusted Simon with her secret. She would trust him with her life if it should come to that.
Simon led the chestnut out and put her father’s saddle on him. The General whinnied and dug at the ground with a hoof, eager for a canter. Hetty patted his nose. “You don’t mind a bit of snow, do you, fellow?”
“The General will be glad of some exercise, and knowing you ride like the very devil, I daresay you’ll return before the weather turns.”
She grinned. “I’ll be back in time for tea, Simon. Rest assured.”
If only her father had such confidence in her on horseback. Since a fall from a horse had caused her mother’s death in India, he insisted she ride the small mare he’d purchased for her. She adjusted her seat on the saddle which was more comfortable than the sidesaddle. And safer.
Hetty rode past the cream-colored walls of the thatched manor house, its barren garden in winter slumber. The General sailed easily over the gate, and they continued down the lane. Simon was right. Ominous gray clouds edged with silver piled up on the horizon, and there was a hint of snow in the air.
Confident that the snow storm was hours away, Hetty took her usual route across country where she was less likely to be seen. The General knew the way, taking the right fork with little urging. They always enjoyed a gallop along the straight road to the first bend in the narrow country lane. The General obliged, his powerful legs lengthening his stride.
Hetty threw her head back and laughed out loud. How good it was to have the sleek and elegant thoroughbred, carrying her swiftly over the ground. To be free with the brisk breeze washing away the sluggish disposition that overtook her when she was too long in the house.
Her rides had been curtailed after her father began to attend to business by correspondence. But a matter with Lloyds needed to be dealt with in person and demanded his presence in London.
At the thought of Aunt Emily’s intriguing poetry recitals and her neat townhouse, which was just a stroll from Hyde Park, Hetty huffed a regretful sigh. So close to museums, art galleries, and shops, indeed, all that London had to offer.
The General cantered over a meadow, drawing glances from cows chewing the cud, and splashed through a shallow stream.
Her father purchased the farm, Malforth Manor, set on twenty-five acres, for his retirement. He enjoyed the quiet country life, while Hetty, at seventeen years old, was ready to tackle the world. Five years had passed since they’d returned from India, each more uneventful than the last. The one bright spot in her life was when her godfather, Eustace Fennimore, came to dinner and regaled them with stories of London life. But that only made her more restless. A very popular man, revered in local society, Eustace was a close friend of her father’s. For a time, they were in the same regiment in India.
Her mother’s death affected her father very deeply. It seemed to Hetty inadvisable to depend on another human being so completely for your happiness that one was devastated when that person was no longer there.
To relieve the boredom of living in Digswell, she’d taken to writing poetry. She still clung to the hope she might one day live like Aunt Emily and become a renown poetess.
Above her, a sparrow hawk making lazy circles in the sky suddenly swooped on its prey. Hetty rode on, composing her latest poem. She quoted a few lines aloud. The General pricked up his ears. “What do you think, Gen? Needs work, doesn’t it.”
An hour passed before she turned the horse toward home. Distracted by her thoughts, she’d ridden farther than she intended. The storm bank began moving swiftly with a fierce wind behind it. Forced to take the village road, she urged The General into a gallop.
Malforth Manor was still some miles away. She would be lucky to reach home before the storm hit. She eased the horse into a trot as they approached a sharp bend in the road, the way ahead hidden by a stand of elms.
Once around the corner, Hetty gasped and reined in her horse.
A man lay sprawled on the road.
Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse closer and made a quick search of the landscape. A horse disappeared over a hill with its reins trailing. An accident then. Hetty dismounted but still approached the man with caution.
A gentleman. Beneath the open folds of his multi-caped greatcoat the brown coat revealed the skill of the tailor and the cream, double-breasted waistcoat looked to be of fine silk. Tight-fitting, buff-colored, suede pantaloons encased his long legs. His mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.
Barely a leaf stirred. It was oddly still, and the air seemed hushed and quiet as death before the coming storm. It matched her mood as she stood wondering what to do about the problem before her.
He moaned.
Hetty squatted beside him. “Are you all right, sir?”
When he failed to answer, she seized one broad, hard shoulder and attempted to roll him onto his back. Blood tricked from a nasty gash over his forehead and into his dark hair.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
His eyelids fluttered.
She shouldn’t stare at him while he remained unconscious, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away. His dark looks reminded her of a painting she’d seen of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably handsome face, his olive skin more tanned than one usually saw in an English winter. A hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the suede leather glove, relieved that his pulse was strong. An expensive gold watch swung from its chain having escaped his pocket. Not robbed then. It was likely that he’d hit his head on a tree branch and knocked himself unconscious. But how did he come to be on the road?
A gust of chill wind caused a shiver, forcing her to take note of the sky. Ash-gray snow clouds hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”
Hetty stood and looked around. The road ran along the boundary of the Fortescue estate. There was a small hut over the hill among the trees, used for storage and hunting. She used to peer inside when she roamed the woods, but she hadn’t been there for years and had no idea what state it was in now. The first icy flurries of snow drifted down, sending a shaft of urgency through her. What to do? Her godfather, Eustace, spent part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, Rosecroft Manor, but that was miles away.
The hut was the only option. But trying to get the man at her feet onto a horse would be almost impossible.
He was a big man, tall and muscular. Could she move him? She glanced at the deserted road with the hope that someone might come along to help. Unlikely for anyone to out in the storm. Unless it was the vicar, and she’d rather not meet him.
She might manage to drag him under a tree then ride for help. As she considered this, the snow grew heavier. It settled over the ground, and the prone man and touched her face with icy fingers. She couldn’t leave him out in the open, prey to the elements while she rode for help. She was halfway between home and Digswell village. By the time she rode in either direction, the man would be dead or certainly near to it. Somehow, she had to move him off the road and under shelter.
Hetty bent down, wrapped his limp arm around her shoulders, and caught a whiff of expensive bergamot. She took hold of his firm waist and tried to pull him toward the trees, but he was too heavy. She eased him down again. She removed her coat, and shivering, tucked it around him.
The wind gathered force. It howled through the trees and whipped the snowflakes into chaotic spirals of white.
Panicked, Hetty took hold of the man’s arms and made another attempt. Fear made her strong. In small spurts, she backed closer to the scant shelter of the nearest tree. She broke into a sweat despite being without her coat in the frigid air.
Severely wind
ed and gasping, Hetty reached the tree. It was a victory of sorts but afforded little protection.
As she was attempting to prop him up against the trunk, he opened eyes of a startling light blue. He stared uncomprehendingly at her.
Hetty grabbed her coat and turned her back to button it. “You’ve suffered an accident, sir.” She lowered her voice. “We’re in a snow storm. I need to get you under cover. Can you help?”
He nodded. With a grimace, put a hand to his head.
“If I help you onto the horse, do you think you could stay in the saddle?”
“You are kind, sir. But that is something I shall not know until I try, n’est pas?”
French! Was he a spy? It seemed unlikely for the war was over. She didn’t fear him. His baritone voice sounded woolly, and she doubted he could manage much.
“What is a Frenchman doing in Digswell?” Hetty queried in a gruff tone, relieved because he hadn’t seen through her disguise. She’d almost forgotten it herself because his blue eyes were so distracting.
“Oui. So, I have reached Digswell? Do not be afraid. I am not your enemy.”
She ran over and grabbed his hat, dusted it off, and handed it to him. “I’m not afraid, monsieur.”
“Bon.” He settled the brown beaver over his black hair.
She whistled to The General, and the stallion came to nudge her hand.
With the use of the tree, the trunk behind him, he slid to his feet. “I am as weak as a bébé.” He clamped his jaw, his eyes filled with pain, but succeeded to keep on his feet. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Have you seen my portmanteau?”
“No, monsieur.” Aware of his big hand, Hetty moved toward the sixteen-hand horse. They shuffled forward. The General obligingly waited, although his big dark eyes showed a lot of white. She took hold of the reins. “If you put your foot in the stirrup, I shall help you, monsieur.”
His black eyebrows rose. “I am no feather-weight!”
The wind howled around them while The General shuffled about. “We don’t have much time. The weather is worsening. Please try.”
The Frenchman seized the pommel. He placed his foot in the stirrup, leaning into her. She fought not to crumple under his weight. He staggered, and they almost fell. On the second attempt, he managed with a grunt to throw his leg over. He slumped in the saddle, his body sagging over the stallion’s neck.
“If you can hang on, monsieur, I’ll take you to a nearby shelter.”
He closed his eyes, and she feared he would pass out again, but she wasn’t about to wait for that to happen. Hetty grabbed the reins and led the stallion off the road, up through the bushes, and into the woods. How fortunate that The General was sweet tempered.
The frigid wind moaned high through the tall pines. She shivered.
“You’re a good lad,” the man muttered through clenched teeth.
“Not far now.” Hetty worried about the furor her male garb would cause when she rode to the village for help. A terrible scandal would erupt. Her father would be furious and disappointed in her. But it couldn’t be avoided. A man’s life was at stake. She knew only too well how risky it was to ride around like this, one of the reasons she liked to do it. Hetty imagined she would have to leave the village forever. Perhaps enter a convent? No, that wouldn’t do, for the nuns would find her very difficult to live with.
Her scattered thoughts served to keep her composed as she trudged through the sludge underfoot. Her feet were completely numb, but at least, the Frenchman managed to stay in the saddle, although his chin rested on his chest.
Hetty sighted a roof through the trees. “There’s the hut ahead. I’m sorry, this must be hard. You can rest soon.”
She hoped the hut still had a roof. The baron left England well before she was born after he’d shot and killed some lady’s husband in a duel. It was said he’d escaped to France. Her godfather, a distant cousin of Fortescue’s, remained in charge of the property ever since.
Their way was slowed by dense underbrush and fallen trees blocking the trail. Hetty pulled her coat free of brambles again, alert to shove the man upright if he slipped sideways. He managed so far to remain in the saddle, a hand resting on her shoulder. He uttered a string of what she assumed were French curse words. She was relieved that she didn’t understand them, but to hear a man curse made her aware of just how difficult her situation was. She was alone in a forest with a stranger and a Frenchman. Well, there was no one to blame but herself, for his was not the light touch of a dance partner at a ball. It was the hard hand of a man whose countrymen had fought and slain many English. Perhaps he’d been a soldier in Napoleon’s army. She was eager to ask him what brought him here. But that would have to wait.
Chapter Two
In the failing light, Hetty led the horse to the old hut which was wedged between two aged oak trees. She feared it was a ruin, but on closer inspection, the roof and walls seemed to be intact, although covered in creeper. The lean-to at the side, where wood was stored, would provide shelter for The General.
She brought the horse to a halt, and the man slid off and sank to his knees. “Zut!” He rubbed his eyes with an impatient hand. “Give me your arm. I think I can make it inside.”
She braced herself and helped him stand. He leaned against her and staggered to the doorway.
“Merci beaucoup. I am most obliged to you.”
He wavered, one hand against the wooden planks of the hut as she wrestled with the door. The wood was damp and swollen, and the door stuck fast. Frustrated and aware of the large man who struggled to remain on his feet beside her, she put all her weight behind a kick. It flew open with a bang.
He took two unassisted steps into the room, then collapsed onto a pile of horse blankets, sending dust into the air. As she was about to check on him, he groaned and turned to nod at her.
Hetty darted out to tie The General’s reins to a branch and gave him a pat before returning inside.
The interior of the hut was sparsely furnished with a bench along one wall with shelving and a narrow cot against the other. Logs were stacked beside the fireplace, plus a box of tapers and a flint on the shelf above. The wherewithal to light a fire, heartened her. If the tapers weren’t damp, she’d find kindling and get the fire started.
The man lay with an arm over his eyes.
“Sir?” She touched his arm, and he raised his head and looked at her. Once again, she was caught by the contrast between his tan skin and blue eyes, a foreign and exotic blue like the Mediterranean sky she’d seen in paintings. “I’ll need two of those blankets for my horse. May I?” He rolled to one side with a soft moan.
“Sorry, your head must pain you.”
“It’s like my head is on a blacksmith’s anvil and the blacksmith is pounding it,” he murmured as Hetty eased the blankets out from under him.
She sneezed. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and there was the lingering odor of game birds. A few odd feathers fluttered about in the draught and cobwebs swayed from the ceiling. Outside, the storm gathered pace, and the shutters began to bang against the two small window frames. Aware she must go outside, she seemed caught by the sight of him lying there and was unable to drag her gaze away. She turned briskly to the door. “We need kindling and I must tend to my horse. Would you like me to help you onto the bed?”
“Non, merci. See to your horse.”
The General tore at a patch of grass while the trees whipped around him. Under the slope of the roof, she removed the saddle and threw the blankets over his back, then secured them around his neck. A trough nearby was almost full of rainwater but iced over. She found a sturdy branch and hammered at the ice until it broke, aware it would form again. She would have to check on it later.
She patted the horse’s neck. “I hope you’ll be all right here, Gen. If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself and neither would Papa.”
Already, the pines were dusted white like sugar on a confection, and a blanket of snow cov
ered the ground. She tried not to dwell on how long she would have to stay here and continue the pretense. Alone with the Frenchman, she had no choice. Her disguise would protect her, she hoped.
Hetty shivered as she left the shelter of the lean-to, and a fierce icy wind numbed her face. She took the opportunity to answer a call of nature and darted behind one of the broad oaks. The wind slapped at her naked derriere like an unwelcome hand. She did up her breeches and gathered up an armful of small branches and pine cones, still reasonably dry. Hetty returned to the hut which was just as cold inside as out. She levered the door shut against the force of the wind with her foot.
He’d managed to move and sat on the cot with his head in his hands. He looked up as she entered. “Wood. Bravo.”
She’d struggled to get used to the cold after living in the Indian climate for years. Her father believed the cold to be healthy; it thickened the blood. He instructed servants not to light fires unless it was freezing. Hetty didn’t enjoy a cold bedchamber, so she often lit a fire herself. There was a trick to it, she’d discovered, and she was good at it. But there was no coal here. Relieved that the taper lit, she knelt before the fireplace. The kindling caught with a small hopeful flame. It spread, a comfortable sight that would soon remove the chill from the small space.
Hetty sat back on her heels and turned to him. His long fingers prodded his scalp and raked through his coal-black hair. Which fell back into neat waves. “Any better?”
“Oui. My head aches a little.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He moved his feet as if about to rise and then had thought better of it. “I forget myself.” He bowed his head then winced. “I am Guy Truesdale.”
Hetty recognized the name immediately. “You are a relative of the baron?”
The Baron's Betrothal Page 2
