Her heart lurched, but she put it back in its place. “No more foolishness!” She forced herself to focus on getting Foxleigh to shelter.
Tucking the fur blanket tightly around his shoulders and looking askance at the long legs which would have to drag behind, she considered how hard it would be to haul him back by herself, then turned to the horse. The steed gave her a dubious look, but permitted her to tie his long reins to the sled with only a small huff.
“Thank you. You are a loyal friend.”
Perhaps to gainsay her compliment, the steed lifted his tail and dropped four balls of filth that narrowly missed the duke’s head.
Katherine laughed. “A little to the left.”
Foxleigh totally deserved it, but then she reminded herself that he was injured. She wished she was a better person, but it was humorous, after all. Yet, however diverting the situation, it would be Katherine who would have to clean him up, so it was just as well that he was spared the indignity.
She led the horse back up the path to her cottage as quickly as they could go. Would he survive? Her heart cried out against any doubt. But if he did survive, would he sort out that she was the highwayman? Would she end up on the gallows for her troubles, or would he believe her story that she had been out for a ramble on this frozen night and happened upon him?
It sounded absurd. But on the other hand, might it not all be dismissed as a fluke of chance? His happening to be there was even more preposterous than her being out for a stroll. In fact, was it not terribly odd that he was out in these parts at all? Her heart fluttered. Was it for her? Was he searching for Katherine, and had he somehow found her?
Foolish romantic fancy. It was not possible. She had wrapped up her business in London and left without telling anyone where she was going, for she had few enough people to tell. That was years ago, and she’d been living under an assumed name ever since.
Mrs. Sheldon was a poor young widow, with no one to hunt for her, no grand past of wealth and luxury to give rise to the sneers of those among the ton who amused themselves with the catastrophes of others. How could Fox have tracked her down?
Chapter 4
The Wrong Woman
Foxleigh was aware of warm air on his skin. Someone was pulling him—a woman. His head swam, but he forced himself to stay awake and tried to stand up. Where was he? He managed to raise himself to his feet and walk a few steps with her assistance, but he could feel his grasp on consciousness slipping. Who was she? Her dark hair was highlighted in the glow of a small fire that threw her face into the shadow.
“Marie?” He could hardly form the word. How had she found him? And yet, she smelled of cold air and something else, something familiar, but not like Marie. Everything went grey.
Chapter 5
The Nobler of Two Curs
After Katherine had removed her great coat and gathered a soft pile of the dried grass she had earmarked for floor insulation, her foundling duke awoke long enough to stand up from the sled. This seemed like a very bad idea, but he managed to walk the few remaining steps to the edge of the straw bed she had cobbled together.
It was clear he was unsteady, but his eyes, though glazed, still had that dark, brooding glow that had always warmed her insides. She could smell him and it drove her mad.
He looked at her, squinting as he tried to resist fainting again. Would he recognize her?
“Marie?” He collapsed onto the pile of straw.
Katherine gasped and stepped back as though she had been slapped. Marie?
He thought she was his ruddy witch of a mistress? The woman who intentionally ruined her happiness by telling Katherine of their affair, of the child they conceived? The insult was grave, but even worse was the fresh stab to her heart.
He did not intend to demean Katherine; he simply did not see her. All he could conjure in his brain was Marie. Even in his wounded state, he was utterly preoccupied with the homewrecker who broke up their engagement. Well, truthfully it was Katherine who had ended it. But what choice did she have?
“Would Marie have dragged your expiring carcass out of the snow bank and brought you home? She would not. She’d have lifted your purse and left you to die—which is what I should have done, you ruddy faithless cur.”
But he heard none of it. He was in a dead faint. She shook herself and straightened her spine. It was just as well that he did not hear her, for she wanted no witness to that humiliating outburst. A wet nose nuzzled her hand, and she reached down to pet Dog. She stood corrected: no witness except Dog. He would never judge her.
But she needed to get her wits about her and conjure as much decorum as she could. There would be enough mortification to glean from being found in her present circumstances, without adding to it by making a cake of herself over her blasted prospects and her maudlin heart. If his love for another hurt her, she must never let it show. Better still would be to stop caring.
Foxleigh stirred slightly, and she released a breath she did not know she was holding. At least he was still moving. That was some comfort. Infidel though he be, he could not die. He must not. Her life was miserable enough, but that would be unbearable.
She drew closer to listen to his breathing. It was regular, but why did the blasted man have to smell so positively delicious—like bergamot orange, leather and chocolate?
Her stomach growled. She was hungry enough, but now there was a third mouth to feed—if he ever awoke. She went to inspect the bowl she had left down for Dog. Ever the gentleman, he had eaten only half of its contents.
She chuckled and bent down to embrace Dog again and rub his belly. “Good lad! Did you leave this for me? You are a darling!” Dog gave her a stoic look, then lolled his tongue out in a broad grin. She really did have the best dog in the world.
They might both starve for it, but she had a bit of porridge she could mix with water to make gruel for the patient. He would never know it came from the dog’s portion—though she almost wished she could tell him. And she still had wild chamomile for tea. That was good for invalids. They might make shift for the first day, at least.
She snorted at the ridiculousness of her situation. “I am sorry, Dog. He does not deserve your portion, or mine. He may be a duke, but you are nobler by far!”
Chapter 6
A Voice From the Past
When Foxleigh opened his eyes, his vision was blurry. His head hurt something fierce, and he was parched.
“Oh Lord,” he moaned. His limited sight showed he lay in a pile of straw in the middle of a room with a low fire. Something licked his hand, and he started, the sudden movement sending a bolt of pain through his head. Foxleigh groaned again, but turned to meet the soulful brown eyes of a dog—probably a bloodhound. He patted him on the head idly. Where the ruddy hell was he?
“Did you bring me here yourself, old boy, or is there someone else I have to thank?” The dog only smiled and panted in reply.
He remembered there had been a woman the night before, or had that been a dream? He thought it was Marie at the time, but looking at this place, he knew that was impossible. Marie would never suffer herself to be found dead in such a place, let alone spend a single night there.
The cottage door opened and a woman walked in, shaking the snow off of her cloak before hanging it on a peg by the door.
He could not see much at that distance, but he could make out her dark hair. He had thought it chestnut last night, like Marie’s, but could now see it was black as a raven’s wing. And there was something about the way that she moved—with a grace and pride that he could not reconcile with the humble cottage in which this person dwelt. A sigh escaped his lips, and she turned to look at him.
“I see you are awake.”
That voice trickled over his insides like fresh spring rain, energizing him in an instant. Were his senses merely addled? Who was she? “Come closer, please. I cannot see you from here, for my head is very bad and my vision unsteady.”
“I prefer to keep my distance. I brought you
here because I could not let you die on the side of the road, but I realize now I have taken a great risk bringing a man into my cottage.”
Of course. He was a beef-wit to be so forward. “I apologize for my unpolished manners. I have not even thanked you. Let me do so now. I thank you with all my heart. I was injured in a highway robbery last night. I am not quite myself.”
“Do not trouble yourself about it, sir. I could do no less.”
No humble peasant woman spoke as she did. Her accent and air were not of this class. And her voice… that voice. She sounded like Katherine Blake. But no, it could not be, could it? He had to know. “Katherine, is that you?”
The woman had walked to the fire to fetch something warming on the hob, but she froze when he uttered these words. Then she seemed to recover herself and said, “Last night you called me Marie. I am Mrs. Sheldon.”
Married, then? His heart sank. And he had called her by the name of his old mistress, like a ruddy ill-bred fool. But she had evaded answering his question. Was she Katherine? He knew it was her, so why would she not acknowledge it?
“I apologize for the error, and for mistaking you for a prior acquaintance upon whom I wish never to lay eyes again.” Maybe if he emphasized the point it would help his case. If she was Katherine, and he was not merely mad with brain fever, he had a lot to account for.
She paused for a long time. When she spoke again her voice was quieter. “I see. Do not worry yourself. It is no matter.”
He waited for her to say something else, to acknowledge who she was. But she was silent as she stirred the contents of a bowl.
“And is your husband here, Mrs. Sheldon? I am sure he played some part in my rescue, and I should like to thank him as well.” Perhaps it was self-delusion, but he doubted her marital status.
“I am a widow. You have only me to thank—unless we include the horse that you rode in on, for he very obligingly pulled the sled for me. I am afraid he is sharing a humble shed with my hens at the moment. I have not any proper stables.”
His heart lightened. She was free! It would not matter if she were not his beloved, but she was. He could feel it in his heart.
“Thank you, madam. When I am well enough to travel, I shall see about better arranging matters.” And I shall see your face clearly, and then how will you deny it? “I am sure he and the hens are getting on famously. Chickens are sparkling conversationalists, you know.”
“I did not know that.”
Did he hear a quiver of laughter in her voice?
“Oh, indeed.”
“Well I hope your horse is a worldly fellow and not a Francophobe, for they are French hens.”
He chuckled. It was so like Katherine to say it with such an arch tone. He could not see her face clearly, but he could imagine her delicate left brow elevated over a grey eye sparkling with mirth. His voice caught slightly as he said, “Some intercourse transcends the spoken word. I am sure they understand each other, as though they were old and dear acquaintances.”
She huffed. “I have some gruel for you here, if you are hungry. Can you feed yourself?”
“I believe so, thank you.” He cursed himself as soon as he said it. He should have insisted that she spoon it into his mouth, for then she would have to be close enough for him to see her face clearly. “But I am more thirsty than hungry. Have you anything to drink?”
She took a clay pot from the hearth and poured something into a mug for him. Then she put it and the bowl onto a battered old wooden tray and slid them over to him across the floor.
“I know it is unmanly, but I do not think I can reach down to fetch them. Might I beg this one more favour from you?” It was deceptive, but he was growing desperate.
She hesitated, no doubt guessing his motive. Using her foot, she drew the tray back toward her, retrieving the bowl and cup. Then she moved cautiously closer to him, watching for any sign of skullduggery. When she was within arm’s length, she extended the cup first.
He took it and drank its contents in one go. He squinted at her as she held out the bowl to him. It was her, he was almost certain, but his vision was still shifting in and out of focus. He clasped the hand that held the bowl and pulled her suddenly closer. It was her. It was his own beloved Katherine.
“Unhand me! Is this any way to repay my kindness?” She sounded infuriated.
He released her, but could not suppress a broad grin as he retrieved the bowl from her hand. “It is you! Dearest Katherine! How can I be so fortunate as to find you again, by such an accident of chance, after searching for you for such a long time to no avail? Surely this is divine intervention!”
They would be married by special license of course. He began to wonder with a much greater interest than before how soon he might be well enough to go to the nearest village.
Foxleigh could hear from her breathing that she was not as overjoyed as he was, and it gave him pause. Of course not. She still remembered him as the man whose indiscreet mistress had almost brought a scandal down on her head.
No, he had to correct himself. Marie did not carry all the blame. It was he who had brought the horrid woman into his life. Certainly, it was before he ever met Katherine, but how could Katherine know that? Whispers about the affair were all over town. The ton loved a scandal and the merry widow Marie Dubois kept them amply supplied. How much had Katherine heard?
“My darling Katherine, will you not say something? Are you not glad to see me? I have thought of you ceaselessly since the day we parted.”
“I am not glad to see you, as you must know. If you thought of anyone’s feelings but your own, you would have surmised how very awkward and inconvenient such a meeting would be for me, under the circumstances. Under any circumstances.” She paused to clear her throat, then stood up straight. “I will do what I can to nurse you until you are well enough to leave, and I will go fetch a doctor to you, if that is what you wish, but then you must go.”
“Never! How could I let go of this blessing? It is the best Christmas present I could ever receive. I will not affront God’s providence by casting aside such a boon!”
“You must and you will. I may not have much, but I still have my say about whom I associate with, and a man who has conducted himself in the manner that you have is no friend of mine.”
In what manner? What was she speaking of? “I know there was some scandal in town with, um, that woman. I was a fool, but she met me in a moment of grief and exploited my mental weakness. I am not proud of our relationship, but it was all over with her before I ever met you.”
Katherine sniffed. “She had a different tale to tell.” Her voice was icy and jagged like the treacherous edge of a cliff in winter.
“She? Marie had the audacity to address you?” Without thinking, he sat bolt upright, and promptly passed out.
When his consciousness returned, the light from the window was growing dim, and she was nowhere to be seen. The wound on his head still hurt like anything, but someone had washed it for him. He smiled. It must have been Katherine.
His bowl of gruel still sat beside him on the straw, and the dog was lying on the floor nearby.
“At least you are still here.” He scooped up some gruel and let the dog slurp it off of his fingers. “Your mistress is not fond of me at the moment, my friend. So you must help me make her see things clearly. I am not the best of men, perhaps, but I am certain she thinks me far worse than I am.”
The dog said nothing, but happily lapped up the gruel and licked his lips.
Foxleigh lay back with a sigh. “Good lad.”
It was enough for now to know where she was, that she was alive and still free. There was yet a chance. He would find a way to make her love him again. But it would have to wait, for his eyelids were drooping and his head throbbed badly.
Chapter 7
Three French Hens
Kat walked through the crunchy snow to the chicken coop with an uncharacteristic sense of relief. Cleaning up after the chickens was a welcome change fr
om tending to Foxleigh. It was exhausting to have her moods swinging from temptation, to anger, to fear for his life. He was sleeping a lot, although he showed no signs of having a fever. At least when he was awake he seemed lucid enough, if plagued by the delusion that her finding him half dead in the snow was some sort of blessing from God.
Her heart surged at the recollection. He seemed genuinely glad to see her and sincere in his claim to have thought of her every day, to have searched for her. It irritated her how much she loved to hear him say these things. She should be slapping him for toying with her heart all over again.
Did he really think she would overlook the fact that he was consorting with his mistress while also courting her? Even if he did still love her in his own corrupt way, it did not change her reasons for ending the engagement and leaving London. And he may have now cast Marie and his son aside, but however much Katherine disliked the insinuating harlot, she could not think well of a man who could abandon his own child.
And yet his turning up in her life again fueled a flame that, in all this time, she had not managed to extinguish in her heart. It was infuriating to be so out of control.
Katherine shook her head, picked up a shovel, and entered the warm stink of the coop.
How perverse that she should have these feelings dredged up again, just in time to watch him struggle to regain his strength. She should be fetching him a doctor, but she simply did not have anything with which to pay. She swore to herself that the next time he awoke, she would make him tell her where she should send directions for assistance. She would even swallow her pride and ask if he had the money to hire a physician.
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