by Allison Lane
The accident occurred so suddenly that Norwood had no time to think. The dogs had flushed another covey of partridge, along with a pheasant. Choosing the elusive partridge as being more worthy of his skill, he allowed Geoffrey to bring down the larger bird. But he was so intent on tracking his game that he paid little heed to the terrain. As he fired, the recoil drove his weight against his back foot which promptly collapsed when the ground gave way beneath it. Tumbling down a steep hill, he fetched up against a rock at the bottom.
“Are you all right?” gasped Geoffrey after an undignified race down an easier slope.
“I think so..” Norwood shook his head to clear the dizziness and stood up. His right knee collapsed, depositing him back on the ground.
“You don’t look it,” observed his friend.
Norwood took a moment to glance around. No one but Geoffrey seemed aware of his fall. They had lagged behind the Stevenses, who doubtless believed they had now stopped to reload. He was lucky. His only injuries were a gash on the thigh and a wrenched knee.
“It is nothing,” he disclaimed, removing his cravat to wrap the thigh. “But I had best return to the house and change..” His breeches were torn and the rest of his clothing muddy.
“I will collect our horses,” his friend offered.
“Get mine, if you will, but you must stay with the others. I would rather not make anything of this. If anyone asks, I grew weary of the paucity of game.”
Geoffrey stared for several seconds before nodding in agreement.
* * * *
Norwood berated himself as he rode slowly back toward the Court. How had he allowed his attention to wander so badly? He was always cautious, especially when shooting over unfamiliar ground. But today he had paid no attention to his surroundings. Despite maintaining the usual conversation, his mind had been uselessly pondering his upcoming betrothal.
Why? Five months of thought had examined every benefit and pitfall many times over. The decision was made. His courtship was too advanced to set aside. And why would he want to? Lady Emily’s expectations were identical to his own. She wanted only the social cachet she would have as the Duchess of Norwood. Neither enjoyed emotional scenes. Both looked for a marriage of convenience. It was perfect.
He must speak to Thorne and get the formalities out of the way. There was no reason to feel nervous about it. He had been through the process before. And this time he was worldly enough to make no mistakes. He shuddered as another picture leaked out of his memory.
An imposing butler had ushered him into Crompton’s library where Annabelle’s father greeted him warmly and pressed an excellent French brandy on him.
“I wish to pay my addresses to Miss Crompton, my lord,” he had blurted out once the necessary comments on health and weather were out of the way, nerves making his voice crack as it had not done in years.
Crompton had beamed and refilled his glass. “You will suit admirably,” he agreed. “Annabelle is worthy of the highest in the land, but of course, you already know that. I trust you will care for her as she deserves..” And without giving the then Marquess of Medford time to respond, Crompton had immediately launched a discussion of settlements and plans that ended an hour later with signatures affixed to the marriage contract. Nicholas had been wildly in love with Annabelle, willing to offer anything that would make her happy.
The duke’s head shook in despair over that callow youth. It had never occurred to him that he should speak with Annabelle before settling with her father. Nor had he questioned whether Crompton truly understood Annabelle’s needs. He had not even thought to include his solicitor in the discussion. In one bemused hour, he had placed his life and fortune in the hands of another.
He shuddered, as he always did when he remembered that day. He had been intoxicated – with love for the most beautiful, vibrant girl in the world; with exhilaration over winning her hand; with impatience at the month’s delay before he could possess her; and with pride at stepping into the adult world and charting his own destiny. And so he had negotiated the settlements, set the wedding date, and sent the announcement to the papers before informing his family of his decision.
That blunder had been his first lesson in the dark side of his position. He had long been accustomed to people fawning over him. After all, he was both wealthy and the heir to a dukedom. But his parents had protected him from the maliciously greedy. That was not a mistake he would ever make with his own heir. There had been others since then who thought to use him. He had become adept at spotting such pariahs. In fact, he had grown quite cynical in the ten years since Annabelle’s death. And he congratulated himself on it. A healthy dose of cynicism was necessary if he was to protect himself. One was never too young to learn that lesson. There was a good reason for limiting his contacts to people near his own station.
He turned his horse aside to skirt a tract of oak and pollarded hornbeam, his leg protesting the movement. It throbbed painfully, blood seeping through his makeshift bandage. He wanted nothing more than to lie down for an hour or two, but he could not increase his pace. Posting to a trot was the last thing he needed.
There would be no settlements signed on this visit. Once Lady Emily accepted his suit, he would set his solicitor to the task of negotiating an agreement. Thorne was a hard bargainer, by all accounts. It might take six months or more before they were in accord. The wedding would likely be scheduled for the end of the following Season. And that was fine with him. There was plenty—
Lost in his reverie, Norwood had not heeded the sound of distant barking. A stag suddenly broke from the forest, startling his horse. Under normal circumstances, he would have controlled the beast with ease, but his injured thigh was unable to grip tightly enough to avert disaster. Time seemed suspended as he sailed slowly through the air – very like his fall from the Blue Boar into the ravine. If only he could twist his feet under him.... Pain exploded through his shoulder and everything went black.
* * * *
Amanda drove her gig along a narrow country lane, skirting the boundaries of Thornridge Court. Life had settled into a pleasant routine. Her cottage was comfortable. Several area families had hired her to teach their daughters. She was also much in demand as a healer, though she seldom accepted payment for that work. Between her allowance and her earnings, she needed no additional income.
The area residents knew her well. She had often helped them in her youth, both as Granny’s assistant and as a lady of the manor looking out for her tenants. Her first action on returning from London had been to seek out Granny’s secret grave to mourn over it. When word of that swept round the area, people welcomed her back with open arms.
But even beyond her earlier assistance, they knew Thorne and had watched for years as the man mistreated his eldest daughter. Few approved of that situation. When Amanda quietly returned as Mrs. Morrison and made no attempt to visit the Court or discuss its residents, the people knew that nothing had changed. They rallied behind her both in support and to repudiate Thorne, who was highly unpopular. And not just by turning to her for lessons and healing. To prevent any embarrassment, they closed ranks to protect her, refusing to discuss her background with anyone. She was Granny’s pupil. That was enough. As a result, those who were new to the area knew her only as a war widow who supported herself by teaching and who was knowledgeable about herbs.
Her closest friends fell into this last category. She knew Major and Mrs. Humphries from the Peninsula. The major had retired at the end of that campaign, buying a modest manor in Middleford though he had no previous ties to the area. Their pleasure at meeting Mrs. Morrison again was a balm after Thorne’s cold antagonism.
Another friend was Mrs. Edwards. She was also a war widow, her husband having grown up in Middleford. She had lived with his mother while he served on the Peninsula, remaining there after her mother-in-law’s death in 1811 and her husband’s death at Vittoria.
But Amanda was not thinking of friends just now. Her mind was mired in frustra
tion over Elizabeth Reeves. She had spent the morning at the squire’s house, teaching the pianoforte to his three daughters. The younger girls would probably become adequate musicians in time, but the eldest was hopeless. Already seventeen, Elizabeth lacked both talent and desire. It was unlikely that she would continue instruction once she left home. Rumors circulated that a betrothal was in the offing between her and Sir Michael’s youngest son. In the meantime, Amanda had accepted the challenge of improving the girl’s performance. And it was a challenge. Elizabeth reminded her too much of herself as a rebellious youth.
The lane twisted sharply, topping a hill. As Amanda rounded the corner, she smiled. A patchwork of pastures, fields, and woods spread below her admiring gaze. It had always been a favorite view. The nearest meadow was a carpet of emerald that contrasted strongly with flanking stands of forest and the golden stubble of the newly harvested field beyond. Today it was even lovelier than usual. A shaft of sunlight stabbed through a break in the clouds to bathe only the greensward where a stag gracefully bounded, coat shining like flame as he raced toward the beechwood. A beautiful sight, but her admiration was immediately tempered by the riderless horse that followed in his wake. A patch of scarlet drew her eyes to the edge of the oak forest, the color quickly resolving into a motionless figure in a red hunting jacket. She thrust aside her first fear. There had been distant barking several minutes earlier but no gunshots that might hint at poachers. Yet the man did not move.
It took but a minute to reach the bottom of the hill. Snubbing the ribbons, she jumped down. The victim had landed hard, his head hitting a rock before he rolled onto his stomach. His hat had lodged in a clump of gorse, mud now caking his black hair. A large knot was visible on one temple, though it was not bleeding. The rough, blood-soaked bandage on his right thigh explained how he came to be thrown.
Satisfying herself that he still lived and that nothing was broken, she rolled him over so she could revive him. Her sudden gasp of recognition drowned out the soft sounds of the September morning. The Duke of Norwood. And his face was nearly as pale as the night he held down Fitch.
He groaned.
“Steady, your grace,” she admonished him, pressing his shoulders into the ground when he tried to rise. “Do not move. Is there any damage aside from your head and thigh?”
Opening his eyes, he winced. “You!”
“Yes. We meet again. Have you always been so accident prone?”
“Never,” he denied weakly.
“What happened to your leg?” She was removing the bandage, which had slipped, allowing mud into the wound.
“I fell.”
“Obviously. And cracked your head. What about this?” She touched the bandage.
“I fell down a hill..” He sounded sheepishly sullen.
“Men! Why did someone not accompany you back to the house?”
Without water, there was not much she could do, but she wiped away the worse of the mud and blood.
“It is not that bad,” he protested.
“Stubborn, aren’t you?” she observed caustically. “It is severe enough that you could not control your horse. Men routinely forget that riding astride requires strength in the thighs. I knew at least four who perished because they lost control of their mounts after returning to battle with just such a wound.”
Norwood closed his eyes, refusing to comment on her words.
The gash was bleeding only slightly, so Amanda left it open for the moment. “Can you sit up?” she asked.
“Of course..” He glared.
“There is no ‘of course’ about it. You were unconscious when I found you. Move slowly or you risk nausea.”
He flushed, obviously recalling the last time they had met, and undoubtedly ashamed of losing control of himself that night. But this time he managed it. His face paled alarmingly and she could see him swallowing hard several times, but he finally lurched to his feet and stayed there.
“Excellent, your grace,” she murmured. “Now we walk.”
“Where?”
“My gig is on the road..” She nodded toward her horse, grazing about three hundred feet away. “You might as well swallow your pride and lean on me. It is less embarrassing than falling.”
“Forthright, aren’t you?” he muttered, reluctantly draping an arm across her shoulders when his knee again threatened to collapse.
“If one wishes to survive a military campaign, one learns to be practical,” she countered.
“How do you come to be here?” he asked when they finally reached the road.
“I live in Middleford. Stay there,” she ordered when he would have climbed into the gig. She pulled a bag from under the seat and rummaged inside.
“What are you doing?”
“That leg needs attention.”
“Do you always carry medical supplies around with you?”
“Of course. Many people come to me for help. I never know when I might need something..” Widening the tear in his fawn breeches, she poured brandy onto a cloth and washed away the last of the mud.
“Devil take it, woman!” he growled, flinching. “That is deuced uncomfortable! Leave it be.”
“You haven’t changed much,” she observed tartly, drenching the cut with wine. “Still as ornery and arrogant as ever.”
“Nor have you,” he responded shortly. “Still as dictatorial and unreasonable as before.”
“Unreasonable, your grace? Neither propriety nor toadeating is of any use when lives are at stake.”
He had the grace to look ashamed. “Are you deliberately irritating that leg to pay me back for my arrogance?”
“Never! But mud never did any wound much good. I must clean this gash and I have no water. Brandy seems to work better, anyway. There. We’ll leave the remains of these breeches in place to protect your modesty. Your valet can replace the bandage when you get home..”
Dusting the cut with basilicum powder, she wrapped a strip of linen around the thigh.
“You seem to be making a habit of patching me up,” he groused.
“Be grateful you are not now trying to walk home. And you should also thank the Lord that nothing is broken – like your stiff neck.”
He made a sound that could have been anything from a snort to agreement.
* * * *
Norwood settled into the gig, his head swirling in confusion. He felt like he had stepped into a dream. The fire had continued to haunt his sleep, the recurring nightmare awakening him just before dawn that very morning. Or had it? This outspoken, managing woman could not possibly be here. Was he trapped in the otherworld? Dizziness made it difficult to remain sternly upright. Every movement sent sparks of pain knifing into his eyes and down his neck. He couldn’t seem to think straight and was not even sure if he was still conscious.
“Where am I?” he murmured as the horse jolted into motion.
She looked at him sharply, then relaxed. “Where do you think you are, your grace?”
“In a dream.”
“Why?”
“Nothing seems real.”
“You are perfectly fine,” she assured him. “And you are wide awake.”
“Then what are you doing here?” he asked again, shaking his head to try to clear it and only making the pain worse. It was difficult to believe he was awake, yet the woman did not look the same as he recalled. She seemed better fed, with a higher color. Or was that due to sunlight and a soot-free face?
“I live here,” she explained patiently.
“But you were at the Blue Boar.”
“Like you, I was a guest that night.”
“I know, but—”
“I had been in London since leaving Belgium, but finally decided to return home. I grew up here.”
He raised a shaky hand to his head, trying fruitlessly to ease its pounding. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Mrs. Morrison, your grace. How is Mr. Fitch?”
“Dead.”
“I am sorry, though I feared it. I have se
en too many like him.”
“It was his own fault. He was safely outside, having escorted an elderly lady from the inn, but he chose to return.”
“An admirable man. How dare you blame him for dying! Or are you piqued that his selflessness deprived you of his services?”
“Devil take it! You are both impertinent and misguided, to say nothing of insulting. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Fitch had no business coming back inside.”
“Ah,” she said in sudden understanding. “Guilt. He went back for you, didn’t he? Greater love hath no man, that he would lay down his life for a friend. Even more so for an arrogant employer. And now you must live with that burden, whether you deserved such devotion or not.”
“Not in the least,” he growled, infuriated by her observation and unsure why. “I am merely saddened at an unnecessary death.”
“Was it the other leg? Dr. Matthews tries to save as much as possible, but sometimes he is wrong.”
Norwood grimaced. “My London physician said it was fever. He agreed the leg might heal, but we couldn’t get his fever down.”
“Putrefaction in the burns, most likely. It’s common enough. Dr. Matthews must have been run off his legs with all the fire victims.”
“No. He died that night.”
Amanda choked in horror, involuntarily jerking the horse toward the ditch. Norwood grasped the ribbons and pulled them to a halt.
“How?” she asked, staring at him with pain in her eyes.
Norwood was shivering from the memory. “A man was trapped under debris and could only be extricated by removing his crushed leg..” His voice broke. “A wall came down during the surgery, killing everyone.”
“Don’t blame yourself, your grace,” she murmured, understanding the self-reproach in his voice even through her own grief for yet another friend now dead. “You were in no condition to help, having suffered too much already that night..” She flicked the horse into motion, eyes again facing forward to hide their sheen of tears.
“You were very heroic from what I have heard,” Norwood continued in a different vein, unable to agree with her, yet unwilling to argue the matter. “They say you woke most of the guests, allowing at least a score to escape unharmed who might not have gotten out at all.”
