The Misguided Matchmaker

by Nadine Miller

  “And good riddance. One less piece of riff raff to join the Corsican’s band of cutthroats.” Brandishing his sword, the young Royalist galloped back over the bridge toward her. She had no choice but to leap into the stream or be run through by his blade.

  The water was cold, no doubt fed my mountain snows, and the rocks in the streambed were slippery. No sooner had she landed than her feet went out from under her and she ended up sitting waist deep in the icy water. Frantically righting herself, she waded toward the nearest bank. But her tormentor would have none of that. Still waving his sword threateningly, he galloped toward her, forcing her back to the middle of the stream.

  “Go on your way, you fool,” she sputtered. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day!”

  “Fool? You dare call me, the Chevalier de Montrassat, a fool? It is time you learned respect for your betters, paysan!” Prancing back onto the bridge, he poised above her and swished his sword back and forth as if preparing for a duel. “We shall see how hot your peasant blood flows after you have cooled your heels in this stream for an hour or two.”

  “You c-c-cannot mean to l-l-leave me in this freezing water,” Maddy stammered, though she could see from his expression of fiendish triumph he meant to do just that. But if the arrogant young buffoon thought she would docilely submit to such barbarism he had another think coming. Bending over, she scooped up a handful rocks and began winging them at him, just as she caught sight of another rider astride a huge bay gelding and leading a chestnut-colored mare approaching from the direction of the village.

  The sun was in Tristan’s eyes, so it took him a minute to register what was causing the commotion at the small stone bridge that stood between him and the inn. He squinted. The redheaded horseman was the young hotheaded Royalist from the inn. It looked as if he had knocked someone off the bridge—a Bonapartist, no doubt—and was heartily enjoying his victim’s discomfort.

  He looked again, scarcely believing his eyes. My God! It couldn’t be! But it was Maddy standing knee-deep in the stream!

  He opened his mouth to call her name, but before he could get a word out, she let fly a rock that struck her tormentor squarely on the forehead. With a yelp, he dropped his reins. His horse bucked and he catapulted backward out of his saddle to land flat on his back in the middle of the bridge, where he lay in a crumpled, moaning heap.

  Tristan leapt from his horse and rushed to the bank of the stream. “Devil take it, Maddy, are you all right?”

  “Do I look all right, you fool?” she snarled, eyeing him with a malevolence that suggested she would wing one of her missiles at him if he posed another such question.

  With a shrug, he left the shrew to fend for herself and made a cursory examination of the loser in the bizarre battle. A welt the size of an egg had already risen just above the young Royalist’s one good eye and he was moaning pitifully.

  Tristan looked up in time to see Maddy crawl up the slippery bank onto the far end of the bridge. She was dripping wet from the waist down and shivering convulsively.

  Eyes wide with horror, she stared at the prostrate form at Tristan’s feet. “Did I k-k-kill him?” she stammered trough chattering teeth.

  Chapter Six

  Tristan was tempted to tell her she had indeed done the fellow in. If ever a woman needed the fear of God drummed into her, that woman was Maddy Harcourt. Every time he took his eyes off her, she did some outrageous thing that was completely beyond his comprehension. But she looked so frightened and miserable; he couldn’t bring himself to add to her distress.

  He pressed his fingers to the pulse beating in the young Royalist’s neck, a trick he’d learned from the Paris gendarmes who were frequently called upon to determine the chances of survival of one of the canaille after a street fight. The boy’s pulse was strong and steady.

  “I believe I can safely say he’ll survive,” he said dryly. “But, thanks to you, he is almost certain to have two black eyes instead of one, and twice the headache he already had.”

  The color returned to Maddy’s pale cheeks at the welcome news. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t kill him, for I’d not like to be responsible for terminating any man’s life, no matter how much he deserved it.” She tossed her head defiantly. “But as for a black eye and a headache, I cannot say I am sorry about that. The beast tried to run me down when I was walking across this bridge.”

  “Why?”

  “For no other reason I could see than that he thought I was a peasant.”

  Tristan’s scowl was so black it sent shivers down Maddy’s spine that had nothing to do with being chilled to the bone. “I wasn’t asking why the fellow tried to run you down, but rather why you were walking across this bridge.”

  Maddy almost said “to reach the other side,” but resisted the temptation. Instinct told her it was a poor time to introduce humor into their conversation. She stared at the two horses tethered nearby and suddenly remembered Tristan had mentioned he meant to do some horse-trading at the village market. So he hadn’t abandoned her after all. The comforting thought kindled a spark of warmth somewhere in her chilled body, as well as a touch of chagrin. Her foolish fears had all been of her own making.

  “I am waiting for an explanation, Maddy. Why were you walking across this bridge a good distance from the inn, instead of waiting for me to return as you should have?” Tristan’s voice carried a note of sharpness, as if he was at the end of his patience, and Maddy knew he would be satisfied with nothing less than the truth.

  She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to stop shivering. “I was afraid,” she said hesitantly. “I couldn’t find you and the little maid said she’d seen you drive away.”

  “And naturally you thought I had abandoned you.” Tristan rose to his feet to tower over her. “Why, Maddy? What is there about me that makes you think the worst of me? First you took me for a thief and murderer, then a ravager of innocent females, now a heartless blackguard who would leave you alone and penniless in a country torn apart by civil war.”

  Maddy hung her head, embarrassed that he had so easily guessed the insulting conclusion to which she had immediately jumped when she’d found him missing from the inn. In retrospect, it did look a little foolish. Whatever he might have been in his previous life, Tristan had been completely honorable where she was concerned. The only thing she could honestly accuse him of was a testy disposition.

  “If it is my bastard status the worries you,” he continued with a tough bitterness, “let me assure you that I was raised by a woman who taught me how to act like a gentleman even if I could never actually become one.”

  “It has nothing to do with your…your unfortunate birth,” she said contritely.

  “I see. My profession then.”

  “As a spy? Heavens no. That just makes you all the more intriguing.” Maddy felt her cheeks flame when she realized the slip she’d made.

  Luckily, the young Royalist chose that moment to interrupt them with a groan and Tristan bent to once again place his fingertips at the spot in the lad’s neck where his pulse throbbed. Maddy knew it was only a temporary interruption and her interrogator would still expect an answer to his probing question when he stood up.

  But what to say? She could hardly admit the truth that had just moments before occurred to her—that she had unconsciously judged him far too harshly because it was more comfortable to find fault with him than to acknowledge the frightening effect he had on her.

  She could just imagine the start she’d give him if she told him that every time he looked at her, her heart pounded and a queer kind of ache started in the most secret part of her body. And when he touched her! Nom de Dieu, the feeling that engulfed her then defied description.

  So, she simply said, “I apologize. I am not normally such a missish creature. But I have never before had to deal with an Englishman. The experience has been a bit bewildering.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. “But I have regained my equilibrium. I promise I will never doubt
you again. From this moment forward, I will trust you completely.”

  A rare smile brightened Tristan’s lean features. “Do not go that far,” he said gently, as he unrolled the carriage blanket which rested across the stallion’s rump, wrapped it about her shivering shoulders, and secured it with a knot. “No man is completely trustworthy where a beautiful, desirable woman is concerned.”

  A beautiful, desirable woman. Because such a monstrous lie cut her to the quick after the bald truth he’d blurted out just hours before, Maddy resorted to a sharp retort to cover the stab of pain. “You have odd taste in beauty for a man of the world, monsieur. A scrawny creature with the figure of a boy and tongue of a wasp would not be the choice of many men.”

  “Hell and damnation, Maddy, you know very well those were simply words said in anger. What could you expect me to say when you’d just called me a lecher?” he sounded so sincere, she almost believed him. Almost, but not quite.

  He held out his hand. “Shall we agree—no more angry exchanges for the duration of our time together? Surely we can manage that if we both try.”

  Maddy shook his hand solemnly, acutely aware of the note of finality in his voice when he’d said “the duration of our time together.” It suddenly occurred to her that once Tristan had paid his brother’s debt by delivering her to her father, he might well disappear from her life forever. The thought was oddly depressing.

  She withdrew her hand from his. Strange as it seemed, she would miss him. The way one missed a toothache once the tooth was pulled, no doubt, she decided sourly.

  She watched him prop the groggy young Royalist against the wall of the bridge…then chase down and tether his horse. “We cannot just leave him here like this surely,” she protested.

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “What do you suggest we do with him?” he asked, laying the unconscious man’s sword across his lap. “Tie him to his saddle and take him with us? His compatriots are sure to be along soon. They will see to him.”

  “But what if the Corsican’s advance guard reaches him first?”

  “Believe me, Maddy, if General Cambronne’s gronards are that close, we should be worrying about our own necks, not his.”

  Tristan rose and walked to where the two horses he’d brought from the village were tethered. Beckoning Maddy forward, he cupped his hands to give her a leg up on the mare. But even with help, her effort to mount was clumsy, to say the least.

  Tristan’s brows came together in a scowl. “Devil take it, I didn’t think to ask if you rode.”

  “Of course I ride,” Maddy said haughtily. “I am an excellent horsewoman. I am just not accustomed to this kind of saddle.”

  Tristan slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. “How could I be so stupid? Naturally, you ride sidesaddle. Well, that’s out in your present disguise.” He frowned. “Do you think you can manage?”

  “I can manage. It is just a matter of adjustment,” Maddy declared, with a great deal more confidence than she felt. But she did manage—better than she expected, actually. Awkward as the saddle felt, it was still good to have a lively mount beneath her again, and the little mare was a sweet goer.

  She watched Tristan wrestle with the narrow cassock which was never designed for sitting astride a horse. It rode up his powerful thighs and bunched beneath his hips, until he finally yanked it impatiently up around his waist. “Our roles appear to be reversed, Father Tristan,” she suggested, struggling to keep a straight face. “Perhaps we should procure a sidesaddle for you.”

  To her surprise, he merely grinned. “We shall see which of us is laughing at the end of the day, paysan.”

  He started off at a slow trot, but once Maddy began to relax in the saddle, he gradually increased their leisurely pace until they were heading northward at a full gallop.

  Instinctively, Maddy pressed her thighs against the little mare’s flanks, dug in her heels, and kept up with Tristan the best she could. Despite the monumental effort it took, her spirits soared. The sun was bright, the air fresh, and the day already bidding fair to being unusually warm for early March. Gratefully, she soaked up the comforting heat, feeling it dry her soggy clothes and thaw the chill from her body.

  After half an hour, she shed her blanket, tossing it across the saddle in front of her and with it the aura of fear and death that had haunted her during the long weeks of her grandfather’s illness. Reveling in the feel of the warm breeze caressing her body and rippling through her cap of curls, she made a vow that from now on she would take each day of her adventure with this puzzling Englishman as it came and never again look back at what might have been.

  They rode hard and fast for the next two hours, and Maddy soon learned what Tristan had been alluding to in his cryptic remark. Riding astride worked a completely different set of muscles than riding sidesaddle; in no time at all her thighs and buttocks began to ache abominably. With dogged determination, she ignored the discomfort and concentrated on the exhilaration of the ride. Pride dictated she neither ask any quarter of Tristan nor slow him down until he saw fit to rest the horses.

  The sun was close to its zenith when they clattered across a covered wooden bridge and stopped beside a gurgling stream that wound through a grove of silver aspens. Maddy dismounted gingerly and hobbled to a spot upstream of the horses where she could drink deeply and splash water on her heated face.

  Tristan stretched out on the grass at the stream’s edge and watched her painful progress. He bit back a smile. What she needed was a good rubdown. But aside from the affront to her maidenly modesty, he would be subjecting himself to the worst kind of torture if he dared touch the intriguing little hellion in such an intimate manner. The thought was tempting, but Maddy would just have to live with her aches and pains.

  Meanwhile, he had yet another problem to present her. “We’re a bit short of money,” he said casually as they sat on the bank of the stream while the horses drank their fill. “Your father gave me a generous amount to cover the trip, but he expected us to ride in public coaches, not purchase horses—three in all, counting the one I rode south.”

  He glanced anxiously at her face, trying to read her expression. “The few francs I got for old dobbin and the carriage didn’t begin to cover the cost of two fast horses. But I opted for them anyway. The sooner we quit France, the better.”

  Maddy nodded her agreement. “Do we have enough money for one good meal? I doubt I can choke down another bite of bread and cheese.”

  “We’ve enough for several good meals…providing we don’t waste any money on sleeping accommodations.”

  “Does that mean we’ll be sleeping in haylofts?” she asked, looking not the least bit disconcerted by the possibility.

  “Haylofts, haystacks, horse stalls—who knows what will present itself for our use.”

  She leaned back on her elbow and stared up at the cloudless sky. “I vote for haystacks. I’ve always had a secret desire to sleep out under the stars. This may be my only chance.”

  Tristan couldn’t help himself. As if on its own accord, his hand snaked out and ruffled her wind-tossed curls. “I’ll say one thing for you, Maddy Harcourt. You’re game as a pebble.” For the first time, he found himself wondering if his very staid and proper brother would be capable of appreciating this plucky young original that fate had decreed he make his wife.

  The rest of the day passed quickly. When the road became too dusty, Maddy moved up to ride beside Tristan. They spoke little, but there was a harmony in their silence that he found surprising. It had been his experience that most women were uncomfortable with silence, especially silence between them and a member of the opposite sex.

  Dusk was falling when he spied a small slate-roofed inn set off the road next to an ancient stone gristmill. “This looks promising,” he declared, reining in the stallion. “We’ll take our meal here.”

  Maddy pulled to a stop beside him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “To quote some long-forgotten poet, monsieur, ‘Mine is the hunger of a hund
red ravening wolves.’ I warn you, I take no responsibility for my actions if my supper is lost to the clumsiness of some tavern wench who mistakes you for your generous-hearted twin brother.”

  Tristan felt an unfamiliar heat surge into his cheeks and swore softly under his breath. Not since his sixteenth birthday had any female made him blush like a callow greenling. “As I started to say,” he continued, ignoring her jibe, “we shall take our supper here, then look for a place to sleep. Though, I fear we shall have to opt for a hayloft or horse stall. This is the wrong time of year for haystacks.”

  Maddy didn’t comment. Tristan could see her gaze was fixed on the giant waterwheel at the rear of the gristmill and the sparkling brook that tumbled down a rocky verge above it to turn the paddles in a slow, steady rhythm. Beyond the waterwheel stood a wooden platform on which a dozen or more sacks of grain were stacked.

  “We can sleep there,” she said, pointing to the platform. “We can bathe in the mill pond and the sacks of grain will make a splendid bed.” She searched the sky above her. “And there will surely be stars tonight for the sunset was spectacular.”

  She turned to Tristan, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Please say we may. Sleeping under the open sky on a night like this will be an experience I’ll remember all the rest of my life.”

  Tristan felt certain he, too, would remember lying beneath a starlit sky with this bewitching minx who turned his blood to molten fire by simply laying her hand on his arm—and therein lay the problem. He neither needed nor wanted to spend the balance of his days haunted by such memories of his brother’s wife.

  “Please, Tristan. What could be more ideal?”

  It was the first time she had ever called him by name without prefacing it with a sarcastic “Father.” The effect was devastating, especially with her enchanting Gallic pronunciation.