And now she was here, and the feeling of meeting life head-on was thrumming through her veins stronger, pulsing powerfully through her body. It was a nervous kind of energy, like she was going to burst at the seams with a new need to face life rather than sidestepping it, as she had for years. Shaking herself out of her curious unwillingness to act, she stepped forward, stooped and touched the dark stain on the folly threshold. It was not wet, but she had the feeling that it had not long been dry. She looked up and tried to gaze into the interior of the folly, but it was dark. The windows were covered in thick vines, like Sleeping Beauty’s palace in one of her favorite childhood stories.
Her heart beat even faster. She had never been a coward. If there was an animal hurt in her folly, she wanted to know. If it was not too badly hurt, she would take it back for Bill, her head groom, to fix up, as she did when a child. There had always been a cage at the back of the stable holding a vole or a ferret, rabbit or mouse that she had retrieved in the woods. If the animal was suffering though, and too far gone, she would kill it to put it out of its misery. She had courage enough to see nothing suffer, she hoped.
She wished she had brought a lamp. The gloom in the folly was almost impenetrable. She peered in.
“Hallo?” she called, feeling more than a little silly as her voice echoed in the thicket.
There was a sound, and she froze on the doorstep. It was a scraping sound! Oh, how she wished for a light! She strained her eyes into the darkness. Was that darker area something, over near the wall under one of the ivy-covered windows? What could it be?
There was that sound again, a scraping! And a . . . a moan? It was ghostly, the noise oddly echoing in the stone folly. She picked up a branch that lay across the stone entrance and advanced, creeping into the folly, feeling her way with the toe of her riding boot. The moan again! It almost sounded human!
Her mouth was dry and she could not swallow; her hand was shaking so badly the dried leaves on the branch she held made a light whispering sound, like the wind in the trees. She was ready to flee if she saw the slightest movement. Her new bravado did not extend to challenging wild beasts or a wounded poacher, if that was what the moaning should turn out to be.
She sidled into the folly and stood with her back to the cool stone wall, letting her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. The dark patch near the window began to take a shape. It was a man! And he lay sleeping against the wall. Sleeping? Dead? No, not dead. He had moaned.
Who was he? What was he doing on her property? If he was an injured poacher he would need help or he might die, and she would not have a man’s death on her conscience, even if he eventually ended up swinging from the gibbet. Holding the branch up like a club she inched forward, waiting for any movement that would signal that he was feigning his unconscious state.
Forward, stop; forward more, pause again. Across the eight feet or so of the folly’s floor she made her way. Finally, she knelt down beside him, satisfied by his posture and the amount of blood that pooled around the poor man that he was no threat.
Was he still alive, or had she heard his death rattle?
She reached out to touch him, ignoring the auburn curls that fell forward when she bent. He was warm. She put her slim fingers under his scruffy chin and turned his face up to the thin thread of light that had found a path through the ivy. She gazed and took in a breath with a choking gasp.
“Etienne!” she cried, and the sound of her voice echoed into the forest.
Classic Regency Romances
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
The Earl of Hearts
The Mad Herringtons
Romancing the Rogue
Married to a Rogue
Taming the Rogue
The Rogue’s Folly
Books by Donna Lea Simpson
Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark
Revenge of the Barbary Ghost
Curse of the Gypsy
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
The Earl of Hearts
Romancing the Rogue
Married to a Rogue
Taming the Rogue
The Rogue’s Folly
A Matchmaker’s Christmas
About the Author
Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last eleven years. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.
The best writing advice, Donna believes, comes from the letters of Jane Austen. That author wrote, in an October 26, 1813, letter to her sister, Cassandra, “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.” So true! But Donna is usually in a good humor for writing!
A Matchmaker's Christmas Page 26
