He laid a golden coin on the anvil.
“For Mr. Smith, for the use of his equipment, and to ensure that he doesn’t run out of cider. I trust he will share his good luck with his friends.”
There was an enthusiastic cheer as Michael remounted and splashed away up the street at a canter.
It was at least another twenty miles to Bath. He made a final change of horse at the Bull in Chippenham and rode on. It was already getting dark.
* * *
Jessica slogged through the damp garden. She felt a rush of reluctant sympathy for Judge Clarence as her evening slippers sank into the mud.
She had no idea what Cranby had done with her shawl, so she was exposed to the entire force of the storm. Water rushed over her bare arms. Her hair was plastered to her head. Her wet skirts wrapped insistently around her legs. She pulled them out of the way and sloshed over to the wall.
There was no side gate anywhere that she could find, and the main entrance at the front of the house would obviously be guarded.
She looked up at the rambling rose. A bedraggled spray of white petals nodded in the rain like soggy paper, but the stems bristled with thorns. She worked her way beneath the dripping trees.
At last an old apple tree stood close enough to the wall that with agility she could climb high enough to leap to the flat brick top. With a grin she remembered climbing trees as a child. Her father had encouraged her. She sent him a silent prayer of thanks.
Without more ado, she shinned up the tree and swung onto the wall. A strip of lace caught on a branch and tore away. She shrugged and looked down into the road.
Both sides of the lane were walled with solid brick. Sir Gordon would undoubtedly be returning from Bristol at any moment. If he found her out here, recapture would be as easy as penning a pig.
Now, which way to go?
She decided at random and dropped to the ground. As she did so, a horse came thundering down from her right, and a chaise turned into the end of the road to her left.
Jessica screamed as the rider reached her first. He bent low from the saddle to swing her onto the horse in front of him.
* * *
Chapter 18
“Now, don’t faint, Jessica!” the earl said in her ear. “I’ve come a hell of a long way to rescue you, and I’m damned if you don’t seem to have already rescued yourself.”
He had understood the message. He had come after her.
“I don’t know what I’m going to have to do to convince the gentlemen of my acquaintance that I never faint,” she replied. “How did you find me?”
He laughed. “Sensibility Governs Conscience?”
“So you had no problem deciphering my note?”
“Ne fronti crede, my dear. It should be our motto.”
“Don’t trust appearances? But I’m not rescued yet either.”
The carriage was rapidly bearing down on them. Two armed menservants rode on the box with the coachman. One of them raised his blunderbuss. Cranby leaned from the window, pistol in hand.
Gunfire exploded against the brick walls.
“Time for discretion,” the earl said. “There are several of them and only two of us.”
With one arm wrapped firmly about Jessica’s waist, he set spurs to his horse, and they bounded away.
She glanced back. The carriage horses had been whipped to a gallop.
In a thunder of hoofbeats, the earl’s mount reached the end of the walled lane. Open countryside lay beyond, the road edged with thick hedgerows. Yet their horse was tired and it carried the weight of two riders.
“Can you hang on?” the earl said.
“Try me!”
Jessica clung to the horse’s mane as Deyncourt jumped their mount over a stile and into a field, where the carriage could not follow them. More shots rang out as they galloped away into the night.
* * *
The horse slowed to a walk and then to a halt.
“We’ve lost them,” the earl said. “Fortunate, since our faithful mount hasn’t another step in him.”
Deyncourt slipped from the horse’s back and swung Jessica down beside him. The rain beat down on their heads. She was wet to the skin. He pulled off his greatcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was little comfort. His coat was also soaked through, but at least it was warm from his body.
“Where on earth are we?” she asked.
The words barely came out. A shivering chatter had seized her jaw. It was almost entirely dark. All she could see around them were huge oak trees, part of some thick wood. His face was entirely lost in the gloom.
“We are on the edge of my own domain. It is not how I imagined bringing you here, but this is Castle Deyncourt.”
“You mean we c-c-can get to your house?”
“We can get to shelter. Come along.”
He slipped an arm around her waist. Leading their mount with the other hand, he guided her down a small path beneath the overhanging trees. Before long they arrived at the black outline of some low-roofed building. The earl tied the horse and took a key from its hiding place above the door.
Jessica followed him inside. Just to step out of the rain was a huge relief.
The earl lit a lamp. They were standing in a cramped stone-flagged entry. A single door led off to one side.
“I thought Deyncourt was a c-castle,” she managed to whisper when she could get her teeth to stop banging together for a moment. “Where on earth is this?”
“Just a retreat I use sometimes—a remnant of the original forest assart. The house is several more miles. Neither you nor the horse can make it.”
Hanging the sodden greatcoat from a hook in the hall, he led her through the low door and into a little room. The pump handle and stone sink in the corner, and the wall ovens next to the basket grate, proclaimed it to be the kitchen of a cottage.
The earl knelt at the fireplace and within moments had a blaze roaring up the chimney.
He turned to face her where she stood in the ruins of her ball gown making a large puddle on the floor.
“Now take off those wet things before you die of an inflammation of the lungs.”
She had never seen him like this before. His expression was stripped of artifice. Dark hair stuck to the curve of his head, water shining on his cheekbones. His blue eyes shone as clear as a summer sky in comparison. She felt stunned.
As she hesitated, he ran one hand over his face. “I have ridden more than ten hours today. Don’t argue. Just do it, please.”
He threw open the door to a linen press that sat in a corner of the room. There were stacks of towels and folded garments.
“I must see to the horse. Help yourself.”
He ducked back out through the low doorway. Jessica forced her sodden feet to walk across the stone floor. She pulled out several white towels and some clothes. As she limped back to the fireplace, the remains of her stockings and evening slippers disintegrated entirely, so she pulled them off. Her feet and legs were thick with mud. No wonder Judge Clarence had been so annoyed.
It was tempting to lie down on the floor and simply give up, but she could not allow herself to be so feeble. Summoning all her reserves of strength, she walked up to the fireplace. Welcome heat enveloped her as she dried her face, and rubbed vigorously at her hair and arms. Wrapped only in the glow of the flames, she shrugged out of the shreds of silk and lace, and dried herself to the knees.
Somehow she could not bring herself to cover the towel with mud, so with another dry towel wrapped around her naked body, she padded barefoot across the kitchen and worked energetically at the pump. Water gushed into the sink.
She pulled a large brass kettle from a shelf and filled it. A hook swung out over the fire for the express purpose of receiving it. In a few minutes she would have hot water.
In the meantime, she had better put something on. This situation was irregular enough, without having Deyncourt find her like this.
* * *
The earl led the horse
into the shed that adjoined the cottage and stripped off its tack. The beast hung its head from pure weariness. Yet the stall was well bedded with dry straw. Plenty of good feed was stacked in the loft. The staff at Castle Deyncourt knew better than to leave any part of the estate not in constant readiness for its master.
Ignoring his own fatigue, Michael twisted a wisp of straw and gave the animal a thorough rubbing down. He forked fragrant hay into the manger, then filled a bucket with water from the rain barrel.
The horse snuffled comfortably and began to munch hay.
With a final pat to its rump, the earl plunged back out into the downpour.
Would Jessica have managed, or would she be in a helpless state of the vapors?
He grinned to himself. The latter was extremely difficult to imagine.
Michael pushed open the door to the kitchen and stopped short. The fire burned happily in the grate, casting its warm glow over the room. A kettle sputtered over the flames.
Jessica sat on a three-legged stool by the fire, bent forward from the waist as she dried her hair. Her bare feet were soaking in a basin of hot water.
She looked around as he came in. Pale pink suffused her cheeks.
“I took the liberty of helping myself to one of your shirts,” she said merrily. “It’s a bit big, but I discovered that a cravat makes a fine belt. Since there was nothing for a skirt, I made do with some of your breeches. Do you think I might start a new fashion?”
She pushed the cloud of drying hair back from her face.
Miss Jessica Whinburn was beautiful, infinitely desirable—the warm firelight flickering over her like a caress. His pulse skipped a beat.
She looked down immediately, her blush deepening as she dried each foot. His attention riveted on the delectable curves of arch and neat ankle.
A pair of his stockings hung near the fire to get warm. They were far too big for her, but she thrust them on anyway and tied them using what was left of her lace-trimmed garters.
“You would appear to have a very competent housekeeper, Lord Deyncourt, even for your cottage. There is a complete selection of clean clothing in that press.”
“I am aware of the fact,” he said dryly.
“I also found some potatoes in the bottom of the cupboard and put them under the coals to bake. If we had two turnips, we could have a real feast. In the meantime, how about a dish of tea?”
The teapot sat on the iron plate near the fire. Her shift, already washed out, was hanging to dry in the chimney angle. The ball gown with the ivy lace was obviously past saving. She had apparently used it to clean the mud from the floor, then left it in a sorry bundle in the corner of the room, along with the shreds of her shoes and stockings.
He said nothing, deafened by the hard beat of his heart.
“If I could have found some bran,” she went on, “I would have made a bran mash for our noble steed, but that would have made it necessary for one of us to go back out in the rain again. Good Lord, you’re hurt?”
Michael shrugged and looked down. A red stain had spread across his thigh.
“Either Cranby or his man was unfortunately a decent enough shot to wing me. It’s of no consequence.”
“For heaven’s sake! You mean to tell me that we rode all the way here and walked through the wood—and I let you see to the horse—and all the while you were bleeding like a stuck pig?”
He laughed. “If you want to put it like that. The rain has cleaned it. It’s only a flesh wound.”
“Nevertheless, it ought to be seen to.”
Michael sat down by the fire opposite her. He felt oddly insubstantial, his bones stark with fatigue. Pulling off his cravat, he bound up the injury. It seemed ridiculous, but he hadn’t even been aware of being hit. Then he remembered a fellow officer in the Peninsula. The poor chap had ended up losing his left arm, yet not even known he was hurt until the battle was over.
“What do you suggest, Jessica dear? That I remove my breeches and let you minister to me?”
“Stuff! What do you intend to do? Sit there all night and bleed to death for the sake of my modesty? I shall tend to our potatoes and keep my back turned. For heaven’s sake, get out of those wet clothes, or it’ll be your turn to die.”
Carrying the copper basin, Jessica stepped carefully across the floor to avoid the damp patches. She poured away the dirty water and fetched two cups from the dresser.
The earl took several gulps of hot tea.
Meanwhile, she filled the basin with fresh hot water and set it on the wooden table.
“Now, Lord Deyncourt, get washed and dry.”
Jessica turned to face him.
Rivulets of water ran from his boots. His wet shirt, translucent, clung to his body. His eyes had darkened to a deep indigo, as if bruised. Like a man who had suffered a beating, physical exhaustion lay like a shadow over his skin.
Yet he stood in one graceful movement and stretched.
“As you suggest,” he said. “I feel absurdly like Odysseus washed up on the beach.”
“Well, you’ll wait all night for Athene to appear in the guise of a shepherd.”
“Shall I? I rather thought the vision of the goddess was at hand.”
She ignored that. Her temperature was rising in a distinctly uncomfortable way. She marched over to the linen press.
“And Odysseus didn’t drink tea. Here, let me get you a towel and some dry clothes.”
“To stuff in my ears as protection from the sirens?”
“That was wax. And besides, Odysseus listened—”
Jessica spun back, clothes in hand, and the rest of her reply died on her lips.
Deyncourt was leaning over the basin at the table, dousing his head in hot water. He had already peeled off his wet shirt. Firelight and shadow danced over lithe muscles, clean bones. He was magnificent, like a hunting wild cat, or a fine horse in racing condition.
Her heart in her mouth, she handed him the towel and draped the dry clothes over a chair.
“My thanks, ma’am.”
He rubbed at his head until his hair stood up in a wild halo.
She stood rooted to the spot, fighting the impulse to touch his gleaming skin, or run her fingers over the dark down on his chest. His wet breeches embraced his strong thighs as he bent to work off his boots.
Jessica rushed back to the fireplace to turn the potatoes.
Her heart had begun a heavy irregular beat, as if she were about to suffocate. She kept her eyes glued on the humble tubers as she heard each boot thump to the floor, followed by the slither of his wet buckskins and undergarments.
It had been bad enough to be trapped with him in his bedchamber at Tresham. This was far worse.
“You may look up now, dear Jessica.”
She turned. How on earth had he done it? His hair tossed over his forehead as neatly as if his valet had just finished with it. He was dressed in a fresh white shirt and linen pantaloons, with silk stockings and dry shoes on his feet.
He looked immaculate.
The unguarded expression she had caught a glimpse of earlier had disappeared, as if he had put on his emotional protection along with the clothes. Pray that he would not have noticed the effect the thought of his nakedness had on her!
“The potatoes are ready, Lord Deyncourt.”
“Michael.”
“Michael. Shall we eat? I have had nothing since the ball, which was at least seven lifetimes ago. This unassuming root looks like ambrosia to me.”
“Cranby did not feed you?”
“He fed me some kind of narcotic. I did not enjoy the effect.”
He sat opposite her at the fireside, his every movement elegant, controlled. “Then how did you come to be climbing over his garden wall?”
As she dug into her roast potato, Jessica told him what she remembered of her abduction and of her card game with the footmen.
The corners of his mouth began to twitch.
“I’m glad you can laugh,” she added, “when I was a
lmost shipped out to the Antipodes.”
“I had better laugh, sweet Jessica, than get too angry. Cranby has had a lucky escape so far.”
“I’m so glad that you care.”
“For God’s sake, you’re my affianced wife. Did you think I would let him ship you away?”
“What will you do about it?”
“I think I might just leave him to the Incomparable. She will have his eyes.”
“It was her plan to have you.”
“So it was,” he said, as if that had happened in another lifetime.
“And will Lady Honoria Melton meekly accept her fate?” Jessica asked. “She was extremely angry with me.”
He leaned back and gave her a lazy smile. “I don’t see why not. Doubtless she will marry someone else, then Cranby will cuckold him. After all, she and her cousin have been planning that together for a long time.”
Jessica knew that her jaw had dropped open, but she couldn’t help it.
“What? How could you have considered marrying her, knowing that?”
“Why not? We didn’t pretend affection. Besides, Honoria has no doubt been careful to keep her virtue intact—technically, at least. How could she marry an earl otherwise? Besides, I wasn’t in the least worried that she would return to Cranby after spending a honeymoon with me.”
Jessica leaped to her feet and made for the cupboard. “That statement shows an insufferable arrogance.”
As she passed, he caught at her hand and pulled her to him.
“Just a joke, Jessica. But doesn’t it occur to you that you may have leaped from the frying pan into the fire? You have escaped the clutches of the charming Sir Gordon, only to fall into mine.”
“Fustian! Cranby never once threatened my person.”
“But I do?”
Without more ado, he swung her onto his lap.
“Your wound, Lord D— Michael.”
“It doesn’t hurt. Forget it. Now, ma’am, it is time for us to get some things straight.”
* * *
Lady Emilia’s personal dresser thought she might faint. Her mistress had not left London since that disastrous trip to Northumberland all those years ago. Now she intended to pick up and leave for the West Country with no notice whatsoever.
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