“Erica is the Latin word denoting the genus to which several common species of flowering shrubs belong.”
She must have given a variation of that explanation many times; it had the air of a rehearsed speech. So she knew at least a bit of Latin and a little botany: the marks of what passed for an educated gentlewoman. Then again, she might be a bluestocking.
Or something more unusual, and more interesting, than either.
His surprise at the explanation must have been evident on his face, for she continued, with a little grimace of resignation, “Heather. It means ‘heather.’ My father named his children using Linnaeus’s Species Plantarum as his guide.”
Though mildly curious about the names with which her siblings had been saddled, he focused his immediate concern on the fact that her family had let one of their number out of their sight. A young woman wandering about alone faced dangers far greater than a little rain, especially in a time of war, when so many were desperate.
Having learned his lesson about speaking sternly, however, he dipped his head in a nod of greeting. “It is a pleasure, Miss Burke, to meet someone else who has known the travails of having been named by an eccentric father. Mine was a student of the Arthurian legends.”
That confession brought the twitch of a smile to her lips, quickly wiped away by a crack of thunder that shook the tiny cottage. “Oh, will this storm never end?” She began once more to move about the room, like a caged bird flitting from perch to perch.
“It will, of course.” He tried to speak in a soothing tone, though it was not something he’d often had occasion to use in the army. “But I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that darkness may fall before it does.”
“You mean, we must spend the night? Here?” A panicky sigh whooshed from her lungs as she sank onto a wooden chair. “Oh, when my sister discovers I’m missing, she’ll be furious.”
Furious? Not worried?
Seizing the opportunity, he righted her chair’s partner—though they matched only in being equally rickety—and seated himself near her. “You are traveling with your sister? How did you come to be separated?”
“We—my sister, her husband, and I—are bound for Windermere. Their wedding trip. There are two coaches in our party, and I believe the occupants of each must have thought me safely aboard the other. But I had—” She leaped up again, fingering the leather-bound book.
Dutifully, he got to his feet, as good manners dictated. He had not been away from polite society long enough to forget everything he’d learned. “I’m sure she will be too relieved at discovering you are safe to upbraid you.”
The candle’s flickering light painted her face with shadow. Was she amused? Skeptical? “It’s quite clear, sir, that you do not know my sister.”
“No. I do not believe I have that pleasure.”
She laughed, a rather wry sound, and sat down again. So did he. A moment later, she was up, trying to peer through the narrow crack around the shutters. “How long will it take for them to reach Windermere?”
“They were driving into the storm,” he answered as he rose. “Several hours, perhaps, for although it’s not a great distance, fifteen miles or so, the roads in that direction are prone to flooding.” She turned from the window and a wrinkle of concern darted across her brow. “I expect they stopped somewhere along the way to wait out the rain,” he added, trying to reassure her.
“Oh.” Once more, she sank onto a chair. This time, he remained on his feet—wisely, it turned out, for she soon resumed her erratic wandering. “But then, mightn’t they have returned to that village a few miles back, expecting to find me? I have to go.”
“Absolutely not.”
The commanding note brought her to an abrupt halt. Her mouth popped open, preparing to issue an argument.
“I will personally see you safely reunited with your sister as soon as possible, Miss Burke.” Already he feared he would regret making such a promise. “In turn, you will not put yourself at unnecessary risk.”
She pressed her parted lips into a thin line and sat, nearly toppling the chair with the force of her frustration.
This time, she stayed seated long enough that he began to think of returning to his own chair. Hardly had his knees bent, however, when she uncrossed her arms and laid one hand on the edge of her seat to rise. His awkward position—somewhere between sitting and standing—must have caught her attention, for she waved him down with her free hand, the one not clutching her book.
“I know it’s the custom for a gentleman to stand when a lady does, but you’ll do yourself an injury if you try to keep up with me.” Three of her quick steps put the breadth of the deal table between them. The candle lit her face, revealing a scattering of freckles. “I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, if you hadn’t already guessed. So why should you worry about acting the gentleman? Not that I doubt you are a gentleman, Mr. Laurens,” she added hastily, looking him up and down where he stood. Color infused her cheeks. “And I certainly hope you will not take my thoughtless remark as a license to—to—”
“Miss Burke.” He stepped into the river of words, hoping to divert their course. “You may rest assured, I am a gentleman. You’re far safer in here than you would be on the other side of that door.”
Her nod of acknowledgment was quick, a trifle jerky, and he realized she was trembling. Now that the heat of the blush had left her face, he could see more clearly the bluish cast of her lips. “Come,” he said, moving both chairs closer to the table, closer to the meager warmth offered by the candle. “Take off that soaked pelisse.”
That order sent another flare of uncertainty through her eyes. But after a moment, she laid her book on the table and attempted to comply, though her fingers shook. The dress beneath was nearly as wet in patches and clung provocatively to her curves. He took the sodden pelisse from her hands and quickly turned away. On a rusty hook near the door hung his greatcoat. After making a simple exchange of wet garment for dry, he returned to her side.
Once enveloped by his greatcoat’s length and breadth, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “I’m afraid I dare not build a fire,” he explained as he took the place across from her. “The chimney looks on the verge of collapse.” Indeed, some of its uppermost stones had tumbled down through the flue into the firebox. They lay glistening in the candlelight as rain trickled over them and damp air seeped into the room.
The candle gave at least the illusion of heat, though he knew, and she must too, that it would not last until dawn. It was only September. They were in no danger of freezing to death. But it promised to be a miserable night.
“You should try to get some rest,” he urged.
For once, she did not argue. Laying one arm on the tabletop, she used it to pillow her head. With one finger of the other hand, she traced the tooled leather binding of her book. “Thank y-y-you,” she stuttered through another shiver masked as a yawn. “It has been a tiring day.”
“Yes,” he agreed automatically.
Except he wasn’t tired. He’d ridden a good distance since morning, it was true, but today’s exertion was nothing to what he had known in recent years. If it wasn’t fatigue that had prompted him to take shelter when the storm clouds rose, then what was it? Major Lord Tristan Laurens would have spurred his horse to a gallop, outrun those clouds, and made it home before nightfall, no matter how tired.
Raynham, on the other hand, was not so eager to reach Hawesdale Chase.
Crossing his legs at the ankle, he leaned back in his chair and prepared to pass an uncomfortable few hours. Rain continued to fall steadily, though the thunder now rolled farther off. Erica’s restive hand at last fell still, but even in her sleep, she still guarded her book. It made him wonder what was inside. Already the candle’s heat had begun to dry her hair, transforming its tangled waves from rusty brown to polished copper. He had no notion of what had b
ecome of her bonnet, or even if she had been wearing one at all. She had no gloves, either, and her nails were short and ragged. I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, she had told him, with only the merest hint of chagrin. He did not envy the sister who had been charged with her keeping.
Yet he could not truthfully say he was sorry for an excuse to stay put a few hours more.
Chapter 2
Half awake, Erica bolted upright. Pain stabbed through her neck and down her back, driving away her drowsiness. Where—? Why—? Her eyes fell on the sleeping form of Mr. Laurens, slumped in his chair, chin resting against his chest.
Oh.
Sunlight poured in through the cracks around the shutter, illuminating the dingy room, with its cracked plaster walls and broken furnishings. It was a wonder the cottage hadn’t collapsed around them while they slept. The light picked out the features of Mr. Laurens’s face, too, considerably less timeworn than their surroundings. Why, he wasn’t much older than she, certainly not thirty. His tawny hair caught the sun, while a day’s growth of darker beard shadowed his square jaw. Not a bad-looking face, but she refused to think of him as handsome. No one who took such obvious delight in giving orders could ever be appealing to her.
Silently, she stretched her stiff muscles—another unladylike habit for which her mother frequently chided her—and let his greatcoat slide off her shoulders as she picked up her journal and rose. If the storm was over and the sun was shining, then she must make her way, either back to the village or on toward Windermere, and hope her sister never asked where she had spent the night.
She managed to lift the door latch without rattling it. This was hardly the first morning she had arisen early and been eager to get out of doors. Leather hinges creaked and the bottom of the door dragged through the groove it had worn into the dirt floor. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Mr. Laurens slept on, however. A little wider, and she could slip through. She’d just snatch her pelisse from the hook, and—
“Miss Burke?”
“A Thiarna Dia!”
Molly had taught her the oath. Not deliberately, of course. Erica had managed to pick it up after years of startling the family’s housemaid in the kitchen. And on the stairs. And, on one particularly memorable occasion, at the back door, as Erica was sneaking in from an early morning stroll and Molly was stepping out to empty the slops.
“You cannot be thinking of leaving, Miss Burke?”
She could hear an edge of annoyance in his voice. The same voice that yesterday had snapped, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Well, he might have made a plan for when and how she’d leave this cottage, but she had never agreed to wait around for his help or protection. She didn’t need either one.
Determinedly, she turned back to tell him so. And discovered him standing just inches away now, one hand on the partially open door, blocking her way. Her pulse quickened. Did he mean to keep her prisoner? What would she do if he slammed the door shut and latched it?
Instead, he swung it wide, ducked under the lintel, and stood with his arms crossed behind his back, filling the opening. “Just as I feared.”
Curiosity got the better of her, though she was forced to peer around his shoulder to satisfy it. The sight that greeted her eyes was breathtaking. In the way a swift blow to the stomach might take one’s breath away.
The cottage had been built on a little rise. If it had not, they might have been standing ankle-deep in water. Ponds had formed in every hollow and dip. The roadway on which she had intended to walk to Windermere was now a river of mud. Wind had stripped the autumn leaves from the trees. They floated over the ground in spills of tarnished gold and blood red, leaving bare, wintry branches to scratch at the sky like ghostly hands. And though the sun shone down mercilessly on this scene of devastation, on the western horizon, dark clouds were gathering. More rain was on its way.
“Still determined to strike out on your own this fine morning?” He did not glance her way as he spoke.
“I—”
Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to learn a few more Irish curses? She could’ve used them now, for this was a fine mess. For once, it seemed unlikely her sister would catch her in it, but she could not take consolation in the thought. What if Cami had discovered her missing, turned back to find her, and been trapped—or worse—by the storm and its aftermath?
“A Thiarna Dia.”
This time, the words took the form of a whispered prayer.
“Well,” said Mr. Laurens, “I can see just one solution.”
“And what would that be?” She could see only water.
He turned from the door. Reflexively, she stepped out of his way, though he did not seem to notice. He moved as though he was used to people clearing a path before him. She fought a childish impulse to stretch out one toe and trip him.
“I have a house not three miles east as the crow flies,” he said. “We can reach it before that storm cloud does, if we make haste.”
Her mind bounded like a hare, chased from one question to the next. How could they travel safely through all that water? But if they stayed put, with no food and no way to build a fire, how long could they survive?
And if his own home stood so near, what had possessed him to stop here?
The last, of course, could not be asked. Even she understood that. They were, after all, almost perfect strangers. Still, curiosity itched at her, a rash she was desperate to scratch—worse, even, than the day she’d thrust an ungloved hand into a patch of leaves and found stinging nettles hiding beneath.
Fortunately, before the question could form on her lips, he strode across the room to collect his greatcoat. “My horse is stabled in the lean-to at the back of the cottage. You’ll ride. I’ll lead her, so as to guide her through the worst dangers. If we stick to the higher ridges, we should reach Hawesdale by midday.”
Her fingers closed once more on her pelisse. “Hawesdale? Is that the name of the town from which you hail? Perhaps there’s an inn there where I can wait for the weather to turn. I would not wish to—”
“Hawesdale is the name of the house. Hawesdale Chase.” He shrugged into his greatcoat. “No inn, I’m afraid. Not even much of a village. You’ll have to stay with me.”
She tried to take some comfort in the fact that he sounded no more pleased by the prospect than she felt. “You are very generous, I’m sure. But I couldn’t possibly.” In twenty-three years, she had broken almost every rule of ladylike behavior her mother had laid down. Now, she’d spent the night with a gentleman, unchaperoned. Under duress, it was true. Perhaps that made it a forgivable offense. But she dared not continue in that error, just in case.
She’d never worried over her reputation, and she wasn’t worried about it now. She only knew that crossing certain lines would ensure she was packed home to Dublin and never allowed to leave the house again. And no one had ever become a highly regarded botanist by sitting in a drawing room, drinking tea and embroidering cushions. For more reasons than one.
Then again… One glance took in the humble cottage and its furnishings. No, she didn’t relish the possibility of staying here alone. “Unless, of course, you happen to have, ah, a sister at home?” The presence of another lady would lend sufficient respectability, surely. “Or…or a wife?”
Something about the question made his lips twitch, and she could not decide whether it was with humor. “I do have a sister at home, as it happens,” he said as he gathered his horse’s tack from the corner of the room and picked up a tall beaver hat she had not noticed before. He made no attempt to settle it on his head; its crown would have brushed plaster from the crumbling ceiling. “And a mother—my stepmother, to be precise. But no,” he added as he ducked once more through the door. “I do not have a wife.”
Her body greeted his words with an unexpected tingle of awareness that traveled down her spine and through her limbs, into th
e very center of her being. Why on earth should she care whether or not he was married? And yet, some parts of her seemed very interested in the information.
Or perhaps she’d taken a chill. The cottage was very damp. Unhealthy, even.
Tugging her wrinkled pelisse over her equally wrinkled dress and swiping a tangle of hair from her eyes, she followed him out the door.
* * * *
To Tristan’s relief, the lean-to stable had weathered the storm. Lady Jane Grey, a steady dapple-gray mare he’d purchased for the journey, pricked her ears forward at the sound of their approach. Last night, he’d emptied the manger of musty straw and scattered it on the stable floor. As he led her out this morning, he could see the bedding was still dry. Lady Jane might well have passed a more comfortable night than he had.
“Do you ride, Miss Burke?” Even without turning, he knew she stood no more than a step away. He had been listening as she squelched through the mud behind him.
“Yes.”
“Very good.” A shudder passed along Lady Jane’s withers as he laid the damp saddle cloth on her back. He ran a hand down her neck to steady her. “Though we haven’t the proper tack for a lady, I’m afraid.”
Miss Burke stepped forward to stroke the soft velvet of the horse’s nose. “I’ll manage if she can.”
Would she sit astride? A certain sparkle in her honey brown eyes convinced him she was no stranger to it. He had a sudden vision of her with her skirts hiked to her knees, showing off well-turned calves to match the shapely figure he’d glimpsed beneath her rain-soaked dress last night.
When he could no longer pretend to busy himself with cinching the girth, he turned back to Erica and held out one hand. With obvious reluctance, she laid ice cold fingers across his palm. His first impulse was to cover them with his other hand, to chafe some warmth into them. Instead he shook his head. “Your book first, please. I’ll stow it in the saddlebag. You’ll want both hands free.”
The Duke's Suspicion (Rogues and Rebels) Page 2