“Hold on,” he gasped, twisting her behind him. “I need my arms for swimming.”
She grabbed his slender waist and finally found her voice. “Which way? I’ll help kick.”
“Left is closer.”
But the river wouldn’t allow it. Every time they progressed, the churning water swept them back, or they hit a rock or were dragged under. She was ready to discard her unwieldy skirt, when the river whipped around a sharp bend, flinging them near the right bank.
Recognition sent a burst of energy jolting through her system. Sadie lived nearby. Were they really more than a mile downstream? A quarter mile further was…
“Waterfall!” she shouted, twisting to kick toward the right. The river would tumble over rocky cascades until it shot down a twenty-foot fall.
He renewed his efforts. One lunge. Two. His right hand grabbed an exposed tree root where the river had eroded the bank.
Anchoring her left hand in his waistcoat, she managed to catch a second root, though without her split-leather riding gloves to provide purchase, she never would have succeeded. Only desperation bent her icy fingers.
“Gra—”
His voice turned to a grunt of pain as a branch brushed past her shoulder to slam into his, right where her head had rested seconds before.
His grip loosened, but her hand in his waistcoat kept him from being swept away.
“Don’t swoon!” she screamed. His weight nearly jerked her arm from its socket as the water twisted him around. The branch must also have grazed his head, for his eyes had crossed. Her foot found purchase on a deeper root, and she pulled him closer to the bank.
He shook his head as if trying to realign his brains, then gritted his teeth and caught a root. But his left arm refused to move. He stared at it in a daze of incomprehension.
She managed to hook her arm through the jumble of roots so she could hold him with both hands. “Can you climb up there?” she asked, afraid she knew the answer. The bank extended two feet above the water at this point.
“I don’t—” His woozy voice confirmed her fears.
“Concentrate!” She pulled him nearer the bank and shook him. “Wedge your feet in somewhere.”
One leg moved, proving he was still conscious.
“Good,” she said when his foot found a hold. “Now hook your right arm through here.” It was the left that was injured. “I will tie it down while I crawl out,” she continued. “Don’t you dare swoon because I can’t lift you. This cold will kill us both if we don’t find shelter.”
She used his cravat to bind his arm in place, terror overcoming her stiff fingers enough to untie its knot – though not until she’d loosened it with her teeth. Climbing out was no easy matter. The river sucked at her skirts and more than one root broke when she rested her weight on it.
She considered fetching Sadie but dared not leave him alone. Between cold and injury, he might lose consciousness. Shivers already interfered with her own abilities as the wind sliced through her wet clothes. Every minute made it harder to work. And delay could prove disastrous in other ways. The bank was rapidly eroding under this tree. How much longer would it remain upright?
Anchoring her foot, she leaned over the side.
“Are you ready?” She had to repeat the question twice before he responded.
His head tilted, and he stared at her. “What—”
“You must climb up here. I will help as much as I can, but there is no way I can lift you.” She checked to make sure his arm was still securely hooked around the root, then untied his cravat. “Can you raise your left arm?”
She watched him assimilate the question, then fight to move. Pain etched deep creases across his face, but he managed to drag the arm up until she could grasp the hand.
“Now pull yourself up until you can get both feet anchored.” She hoped he could do it without her assistance, for pulling on the injured arm would increase his pain. But in the end she had to help. He was gasping for breath by the time he stood against the bank with his shoulders at ground level. She switched her hold to his good hand.
“Help me!” she demanded, bracing against the tree to pull.
His foot found a higher root and pushed upward. The combined forces catapulted him onto the bank
“Ouch,” he moaned as he hit the ground.
“Just a little more,” she urged, dragging him forward until his feet had also cleared the edge. “Good. Now stand up. You’ll die if you stay out here. There is a cottage just beyond those trees.”
“Cottage,” he muttered, but he must have understood because he lurched to his feet. “Cottage,” he repeated, swaying dangerously.
“Lean on me.” She draped his good arm over her shoulders to take some of his weight. They were nearly of a height, which made the job easier.
But Sadie’s cottage was a hundred yards away. More than once, she despaired of making it. His weight sagged more heavily with every step. Her teeth chattered so badly, she couldn’t shout. When no one answered her knock, she thrust propriety aside and pushed her way in.
The gentleman collapsed two steps beyond the threshold.
The fire had burned down to ashes. Obviously Sadie was not home, but Elizabeth had no time to wonder where she’d gone. They had to get warm. She was chilled to the bone, and he could be no better. Shifting his legs, she slammed the door, then shakily built a fire, piling on peat to heat the room as fast as possible. Tearing off her clothes, she dried herself, then borrowed Sadie’s oldest gown.
Her rescuer lay where she’d left him, no longer shaking. But one touch proved he was far from warm. Even her numb hands could feel his icy skin.
“Let’s take a look at you,” she murmured, turning him onto his back and wiping his face with his sodden cravat.
He was truly unconscious, though the scrape extending upward from his left ear did not appear serious. But blood seeped through the shoulder of his jacket, staining the water collecting beneath him.
How had he held himself together long enough to reach the cottage?
It was a question she didn’t have time to contemplate, so she shoved it aside with all the others – his identity, his reason for being in the river, Sadie’s whereabouts…
The chill was dissipating, but his lips had taken on a bluish tinge she could not ignore. Cold could kill. As could damp. He was afflicted with severe applications of both. She hesitated another moment, but the facts were clear. Unless she got him warm and dry, he would die. And the impropriety of stripping him was no worse than helping the midwife.
She started with his jacket, rolling him onto his stomach so she could remove it more easily. Tugging on his injured arm made her cringe. Yet he was no dandy. The jacket slid off without protest.
The waistcoat was more difficult, for she had to turn him over to unbutton it, then turn him back to remove it.
She paused to catch her breath. His shoulder was still bleeding, so she had to remove his shirt. But its neck opened only far enough to provide clearance for his head. The only way to get it off was to raise his arms. She briefly considered cutting it, but there was no replacement until he reached his destination. He must be a traveler, for she had never seen him before. But while a search of his pockets turned up a well-filled purse, she could find no card case.
As she slid off the shirt, a spasm of pain twisted his face, accompanied by a wrenching groan. He was still conscious on some level, though he did not respond to her voice. Rolling him onto his stomach, she examined his wound.
Thank God she had moved her head before the branch hit. It had struck him end-on, its broken splinters driving deep into his flesh. Some had pulled out. Others remained.
At least he had not broken anything or dislocated the shoulder. She had seen such an injury when a rider fell on a jump, and had watched as another rider popped it back into place. But she lacked the strength to perform such a maneuver.
“You’ve amassed quite a collection, sir,” she told him, pulling out splinters. “
You are fortunate that it is not worse.”
She didn’t have any of her salves – nor could she find Sadie’s – but a cupboard yielded a partial bottle of brandy, which she poured over the wound. Then she wrapped the shoulder in a strip of linen.
Arranging more peat on the fire, she turned back to her patient.
Relief weakened her as she washed away the mud and blood. His head was even less injured than she’d thought, being mostly scrapes. Again, she doused them in brandy.
“You will be quite presentable once that swelling goes down,” she murmured, noting that his brown hair was nearly the same color as those chocolate brown eyes. While not conventionally handsome, his features were even, and faint lines near his eyes hinted that he smiled regularly.
She considered wrapping him in a sheet, but he was shuddering again, his teeth clattering together. Water pooled under his boots and pantaloons.
“I do wish you could do this yourself,” she grumbled. But she had no choice. He must get dry.
The boots would never be the same, but cutting them off would leave him barefoot. Yet tugging did not budge them, for they fit like a second skin. She finally braced her foot against one sole for leverage, then jerked as hard as she could on the other. The boot came loose without warning, slamming her into the wall.
“Dratted men with their dratted fashions,” she grumbled, rubbing her backside. “Why couldn’t he have been wearing shoes?”
She was more careful with the next one, but it made no difference. When it finally popped loose, she again slammed into the wall.
“How do their valets manage this every day? No wonder Sheldon always looks so dour,” she muttered. Sheldon attended Fosdale.
Keeping the image of flying valets firmly in mind, she quickly unbuttoned his pantaloons and tugged them down. They were knit almost like stockings, so they came off easily. She reached for the tie of his drawers, then shook her head. This was far enough.
Drying him off as best she could, she rolled him onto a rug and dragged him nearer the fire, tucking another rug around him.
By the time she had arranged their clothing near the hearth, she was again exhausted. But her mind had already leaped ahead to the consequences of this day.
The situation was frightfully compromising – something Fosdale would never ignore. He would demand marriage. And her rescuer’s circumstances were good enough that he could not refuse. She couldn’t gauge his wealth from his purse – a traveler would naturally carry money – but his boots were better made than any Fosdale or her brother wore, and they fit perfectly. His jacket was ruined, but the fabric had been tightly woven with a smooth finish. Even his shirt was softer than any linen she had encountered in her four-and-twenty years. He was a gentleman, and a chivalrous one at that. He must have seen her fall and jumped in after her, which made him more than chivalrous. It would take a most unusual man to risk his life for a stranger. But such a one would demand marriage.
She swore.
Much as she appreciated his help, he deserved more than being tied to an independent bluestocking who could never make him happy. She owed him her life, for without his help she would never have stayed afloat long enough to escape the river. But the best way to repay his kindness was to leave.
She nodded. As soon as her clothing dried, she would walk to the village. Sadie was probably visiting Mrs. Harper. The two were close friends, and Sadie often stayed over if poor weather made walking home difficult.
Sadie could tend this man. Her age and status would make it unexceptionable. When he woke, he would assume that Sadie had cared for both of them. The subject of marriage would never enter his mind.
It would work. She would walk to Ravenswood and claim to have been thrown when Aster shied at a falling tree. She needn’t worry that the horse would arrive home first. Even if he survived the flood, he would remain on the other side of the river. He refused to cross bridges without a very firm hand on the reins.
But it was doubtful that anyone would question her. Despite the loss of her cloak, the storm would explain the state of her clothing. And nobody much cared what she did anyway.
Rising, she turned the clothes, then sighed. The heavy wool would take at least two hours to dry enough that she could stand donning it. In the meantime, she could only pray that the rain would cease. Sadie did not have an extra cloak she could borrow, and the air was growing colder.
She added peat to the fire, then set her mind to imagining how a scene like this might play out in a novel. It was an exercise she often used to pass the time without appearing bored, like when the vicar’s wife called.
But this time, it failed her. The exertions of the day had left her wearier than she thought. Within five minutes, she was asleep.
* * * *
A moan awakened her. When she realized that dawn light peeped through the east window, she swore and jumped to her feet. A wave of dizziness nearly knocked her down. Her muscles protested further movement. Every joint was stiff, reminding her of yesterday’s exertions. Pain exploded through her shoulder where rocks and debris had left their marks.
First things first, she decided grimly, refueling the fire. Her habit was dry, so she could change clothes. And she could still carry out her plan if she hurried. Even if Sadie didn’t return before he awoke, he would have no way to identify her. He could not have seen her clearly.
She was separating her apparel from his when his eyes opened.
He grimaced.
“Are you in pain?” she asked, then mentally kicked herself for the stupidity of the question. If she was stiff and sore, he had to be worse.
He merely blinked, as if the words made little sense.
She checked his forehead for fever, sliding her hand beneath the bandage. Thankfully, it was cool. “What is your name, sir?”
His mouth moved twice before sound emerged. “Randolph.”
“Don’t try to move, Mr. Randolph,” she warned as he started to turn. “You need to rest that shoulder.”
“Who—”
“Who am I?” she interrupted. “Anne.”
“Anne,” he repeated, closing his eyes.
She sighed in relief. He was certainly well enough that she could leave him. And using her second name would protect her from exposure. If she could coax him back to sleep, he might not remember her at all.
“Rest, Mr. Randolph,” she crooned. “Sadie will return shortly.”
* * * *
Randolph gingerly opened his eyes. The room was unfamiliar, its ceiling so low that he could probably touch it if he were standing. Heat beat uncomfortably against his right side. He tossed away the rug someone had tucked close about him, then winced as pain stabbed through his left shoulder.
“Damn,” he muttered as memory returned. Forcing himself to sit up, he took in his state of undress, the clothing hanging over benches near the fire, and the bandages wrapping his shoulder and head.
He remembered jumping into the river. The lady had been valiant, but her riding habit had made rescue nearly impossible. He recalled grabbing a tree, but little after that. His impulse might easily have killed him. The current had been far stronger than he had anticipated, and the water had chilled him until every movement required Herculean effort. All in all, he had been a prime fool, as Whitfield would say.
Had his mission been successful, or had someone else fished him out?
Sedge. Dear God, he hoped Sedge had followed orders!
But Sedge was no fool. He would already be leading a search party along the riverbank. Surely they would check any dwellings, which meant that they had not yet reached this point.
Struggling to his feet, he began the painful process of forcing his battered body into the remains of his clothes. He was buttoning his waistcoat when a lady emerged from the next room.
“You shouldn’t be up, Mr. Randolph,” she scolded. “I already told you that Sadie will see after your wounds.”
Now that she mentioned it, he vaguely recalled speaking with h
er. “Who are you?” he demanded, reaching for his boots. Linden would shudder when he saw them.
“You may call me Anne.”
“Are you all right?” He was fairly certain that she was the lady from the river – she was wearing a mud-stained habit. But her brown hair was dry, the scratch on her face was scabbed over, and she looked remarkably alert for someone who had nearly drowned.
“Of course, and I appreciate your assistance, though it is unfortunate you were injured. I will always remember you kindly.”
He touched the bandage around his head. “What happened?”
“Don’t you recall?”
He shook his head.
“A branch struck you just as we reached the riverbank. You managed to stagger this far before you collapsed.”
“Is Sadie in there?” he nodded toward the room she had just emerged from.
“She’s in the village, but should return shortly.” Her face had taken on a haunted expression.
“What time is it?” He had a gnawing feeling that it had been much longer than he’d thought. Even his boots were dry. His premonitions surged back. This trip had been a disaster from the beginning, every day worse than the last. Would the Ides of March deal him a death blow as it had done to Caesar?
“Morning, sir.”
“We’ve been here all night? Alone?” She was at least gentry, if not higher. No one else in the country could afford a riding habit or a dedicated saddle horse. Most did not even ride aside, if they rode at all. So she was a lady. And he had badly compromised her.
“You were unconscious. I fell asleep waiting for my clothes to dry, but there is nothing to fear. No one will ever learn of this.”
“And just how will you keep it a secret? Sadie knows we were here. Your family will have missed you. You are naïve to believe they won’t notice your condition.” He nodded toward her disheveled habit.
“No one will miss me because they did not expect me to return yesterday. The storm will adequately explain the state of my clothing. Sadie remained in the village last night, so she will know nothing of this. Besides, she is a friend who would never betray me. Would you like some breakfast before I leave, or would you prefer to wait for Sadie?”
Allison Lane Page 4
