Horatia envied her Aunt Emily’s freedom to pursue her love of the written word with no demanding spouse to hinder her, but because her father refused to allow her to go to London, such a future for her seemed so remote as to be nonexistent.
At least two hours had passed before Horatia guided the horse back towards the road. Distracted by her thoughts, she had ridden farther than she intended. A glance at the skies told her the storm bank was almost upon them. They would have to take their chances and return by the road. She urged The General into a gallop.
They came to the road that led to Malforth Manor but were 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 oaks. Once round the corner, she gasped and pulled the horse up hard.
A body lay in the road.
Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse closer. With a quick search of the landscape, she saw a horse disappear over a hill with its reins trailing. She dismounted and approached the man with caution. 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.
The man sprawled on his side. Judging by his clothes, he was a gentleman. Beneath his multi-caped greatcoat his brown coat revealed the skill of the tailor. His cream double-breasted waistcoat was of very fine silk. Long legs were encased in tight-fitting buff-colored suede pantaloons. His mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.
He moaned.
Horatia knelt beside him and grasped his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
When he didn’t answer, she struggled to roll him onto his back. A nasty gash trickled blood over his forehead where a bruise would surely form.
The man’s dark hair was sticky with blood. “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. He had remarkable cheekbones. His dark looks reminded her of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably handsome face, his skin more swarthy than one usually saw in an English winter. There was a dimple in his chin and a hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw line. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the soft leather glove, glad to find his pulse strong. An expensive gold watch had fallen from his pocket. So, he hadn’t been robbed. It must have been an accident. She looked around for some sign of what had happened but could see nothing.
A gust of chill wind made her shiver, and she glanced up at the sky. Ash-grey snow clouds now hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”
Horatia stood and looked around. The road ran along the boundary of the Fortescue estate. Over the hill among the trees was a tiny hunting lodge. She’d passed it many times when she roamed the woods, although she hadn’t been there for years. Her godfather, Eustace, lived for a part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, but it was some distance away and the snow had begun to fall.
It was by far the closest shelter, but trying to get the motionless man onto a horse unaided would be impossible. She sighed. That was not an option.
Horatia looked back at him. He was large, tall, and broad shouldered. How on earth could she move him? And what would she do with him if she did? She looked up and down the deserted road with the hope that someone–preferably someone with big, strong arms–would appear to help her, and yet, she dreaded to be found in this invidious position. This was a quiet back road; most folk preferred the more direct route, so she couldn’t expect to be rescued soon.
She wondered if she should drag him under a tree and ride for help. As she considered this, the snow grew heavier. It settled over the ground and the prone man and touched her face like icy fingers. She couldn’t leave him out in the open, prey to the elements while she went for help. In bad weather it would take ages to ride to Digswell village. By the time she located the apothecary and brought him here, the man would be near death. Somehow she had to move him off the road and under shelter, although in the dead of winter, there was little to be had.
Horatia 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 towards the trees, but he was too heavy. She eased him down again.
Horatia pulled off her coat and shuddered at the cold. She tucked it around him. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, and worse, the prospect of a blizzard loomed. The wind gathered force. It stirred the tops of the trees around them and whipped the snowflakes into chaotic spirals of white.
Panic forced her to act. She took hold of the man’s arms and tried again to drag him. In small spurts she edged him closer to the scant shelter of the nearest tree, an oak whose dead leaves remained, curled and brown. Forced to pause, she took several deep breaths. He was quite a weight. She broke into a sweat despite the absence of her coat and the frigid air.
Horatia was severely winded and gasping by the time she reached the tree. It was a victory of sorts but afforded very little protection. She propped him against the trunk.
His eyelids rose. Startling pale blue eyes stared uncomprehendingly into hers.
Horatia grabbed her coat and turned her back to button it. “You’ve had an accident, sir.” She lowered her voice. “We’re in for a snow storm. I need to get you under cover. Can you help?”
He nodded then grimaced and put his hand to his head.
“If I help you onto the horse, do you think could you remain in the saddle?”
“You are kind, sir. But that is something I shall not know until I try, n’est pas?” His pleasant tenor voice sounded woolly, and she doubted he could manage much.
“You’re French?” Horatia queried in a gruff tone, relieved because he had not seen through her disguise. She had almost forgotten it herself because his blue eyes were so distracting.
“Oui. But do not be afraid. I am not your enemy.”
She went to grab his hat. She dusted it off and handed it to him. “I’m not afraid, monsieur.” That he was French surprised her. The war with France had ended, but it was still unusual to meet a Frenchman in her quiet corner of England.
She whistled to The General, and the horse came to nudge her hand.
The man planted the brown bevor hat gingerly on his head. He tried to rise with the trunk for support, sliding his back up the bark. “I am as weak as a bébé.” He gritted his teeth and succeeded to drag himself to his feet. He stayed upright with a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Horatia eyed the sixteen-hand horse. She tucked her shoulder under his arm and tried to lift him. “Up you go, monsieur.”
He looked doubtful. “I am no feather-weight!”
The wind began to howl, and The General shuffled about. “We don’t have much choice. Please try.”
The Frenchman placed his foot in the stirrup and seized the pommel. She crumpled 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 drooping 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. She grabbed the reins and led the stallion off the road, up through the bushes, and into the woods. She was glad The General was also sweet tempered.
The wind picked up and moaned high in the tall pines. She shivered. “You’re a good lad,” the man muttered through clenched teeth.
“Not far now.” Horatia worried about the furor her male garb would cause when she rode to the village for help. A terrible scandal would ensue, and her father would be furious. It couldn’t be avoided. A man’s life was at stake. It had always been risky to ride dressed this way, one of the reasons she liked to do it. She would have to leave the village forever, perhaps enter a convent. That thought made her quake. A
nd then other more attractive possibilities flitted through her mind. A governess? She liked children but she lacked the patience to make a good teacher. Treading the boards? Yes, a career on the stage would be more appropriate; nuns would find her very difficult to live with.
Her scattered thoughts served to keep her composed as she trudged along beside the horse. So far, the man had managed to stay in the saddle, but his chin rested on his chest and he looked as if he might fall at any moment. Relieved, she sighted a roof through the trees. “Nearly there. That’s the hut ahead. I’m sorry; this must be hard. You can rest soon.”
She hoped the hut was in good condition still. Lord Fortescue had been absent for many years, since he’d shot and killed some lady’s husband in a duel and escaped to France. Her godfather had maintained the property ever since.
They pushed their way through dense underbrush, slowed down by fallen trees, which blocked the trail. Again and again, Horatia pulled her coat free of brambles as she walked beside him. He slipped sideways and shoved himself upright, a hand on her shoulder. Steadying himself, he shook his head and uttered a string of what she assumed to be curse words as he repeated them quite a lot. Heat scalded her cheeks. She’d never heard a man curse, beyond her father’s mutterings under his breath, and so fulsomely. Somehow it sounded even worse in French. Well, served her right!
His heavy hand reminded her that she was alone in a forest with a strange man. This 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 too had been a soldier in Napoleon’s army. She wanted to ask him what had brought him here. But that would have to wait.
Guy gritted his teeth. He had never felt so fragile. He would be dead back on that road but for this kind jeune homme, so determined to help him, the bones of his shoulder slight under his hand.
He had waited to come to these shores through the intolerable years of the Terror, when his family had been driven from France, and the war with England that followed, to claim what was rightfully his.
Now, in the depths of the English countryside, more ruffians had seen fit to assault him. Could he be that unlucky or were they connected in some way? If so, whoever lay behind these attacks was determined to assassinate him, but why?
The Folly at Falconbridge Hall Page 23
