by London Casey
She opened her fan and resumed cooling her face. She knew her husband well. Once in town, he’d find new distractions and she’d be able to slip away, back to the country.
The carriage shook, then slid in the mud for a heart-stopping moment. Two days of rain had made the roads treacherous. She turned to him. “We should have waited for the other carriages.”
Indignant eyes met hers in the lantern light. They were the most beautiful eyes—as green as summer grass and framed with thick, russet-coloured lashes. His elegant jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to wait—”
A sudden jolt rocked the seat beneath her and shook through her bones. A loud crash sounded and the carriage rattled as if it would fall apart. It veered over slightly. She clutched the seat’s edge. Her mouth went dry.
She glanced at William. He was so pale that his freckles looked like black specks. Her stomach flipped over.
“Christ.” He’d but whispered the word. It hung in the air between them like a prayer as the carriage rolled. She went flying from her seat. Something smashed into her side. Her forehead met a hard object. White shards of pain exploded in her head…
The wind howled with eerie effect. Anne tried to snuggle deeper into the covers but she couldn’t get comfortable. A steady throbbing beat in her head and intruded on her sleepy awareness. Pound, pound, pound. Each pulse struck with a ferocity that sent waves of nausea into her stomach.
Maybe she should call for Nellie to bring some strong, hot tea laced with laudanum. She was mostly on her back, twisted halfway. Not a very restful position at all. She tried to shift her body but something heavy and warm pressed her down and held her immobile. Helpless. She reached out to touch it and pain sliced through her shoulder and up into her neck. Swift, punishing pain. She cried out.
She opened her eyes slowly to pitch-blackness. The acrid tang of lantern oil burned her nostrils. The wind continued to whistle. Had someone left a window open? Damp fabric clung to her skin with chilling effect and made her shiver.
Dread sank deep inside her, cold and blood-curdling. “Nellie?”
Something shifted on her, sending a shaft of pain through her. A droplet of water splashed the side of her cheek. Then another and another. A steady stream of them.
“Anne?”
William’s voice sounded directly above her. Weak and wobbly, but her husband’s voice nonetheless.
“William, what is happening?”
“Carriage…” His voice trailed off.
Oh.
Of course.
The carriage. They had been riding to London.
“Sweet heavens.” She struggled to regain her wits.
“Anne?”
“Yes?”
“Are you…” His voice died off suddenly and he slumped against her, becoming heavier. Pure fear infused her whole body in tingling chills. Icy dread that washed away her awareness of her own pain.
“William!”
A long pause.
“William?” Her heart pounded, sending energy into her body. Her own pain lessened with each moment, as though she’d actually had that tea and laudanum. She touched soggy softness, the finely textured wool of William’s coat. It was thoroughly soaked by the rain pouring in through the cracks in the carriage’s exterior.
“You…unharmed?”
Holy mercy, his voice was frail. She could feel the effort it took him to speak.
“I am mostly unharmed.” Her voice broke, forcing her to clear her throat. “And you?”
“Hurts…to breathe.”
Afraid of making his pain worse, she stopped searching his body. “Some of your ribs must be broken. That’s all.” She had to swallow again, to regain the ability to speak. “The doctor shall patch you up easily.”
A deeper sense of dread went twisting through her stomach, bringing back that earlier sense of queasiness. How badly was he injured? She opened her mouth to call for help but then clamped it closed. If the coachmen were in any condition to help, they would be engaged in that endeavour now.
Icy tentacles wrapped themselves about her innards.
How long would it take for help to arrive? Lightning flashed through the broken carriage window.
“Anne…I can’t…move.” The tenor of his voice made her catch her breath. He was afraid—very afraid.
Her heart contracted. She had once felt such tenderness towards him. A fragile, barely-born tenderness that had been killed in its infancy—yet it had been the dearest feeling she’d known in her life. It all came back to her, washing over her in an intense rush. She cradled his head against her midsection, ignoring the bruised feeling in her ribs.
Thud, thud.
The sound was loud—and close. A horse’s iron shoe kicking the thin carriage wall. Her heart leapt, pounding up into her throat. She tightened her hands on William’s crisp, curling hair.
His body jerked. “What!”
She stroked the side of his face, the soft bristle of his whiskers brushed her palm. “It is just the wind, knocking loose some piece of wreckage or a tree branch, I think.”
“Sorry, Anne—Should have waited. You’re always right…” His voice seemed to reverberate with pain.
She winced for him and caressed the side of his face. “Shh, it doesn’t matter now.”
His breathing changed, sounding deep and laboured. He had lost consciousness. Her chest constricted so hard that her breath began to hitch.
Please don’t let him die.
Lightning flashed again, brilliant and close. Thunder rumbled through the carriage’s frame and wind and rain continued to blow inside. One of the horses screamed.
Thud, thud, thud.
The horse’s hoof pounded the outside more frantically this time. Her heart beat furiously. That fragile wall was all that separated them from those hard, shod hooves. They were pinned here; trapped.
She gripped his arms and tried to pull him along with her, away from the sound. But the pain weakened her shoulder and his lean frame proved to be far heavier than she’d have suspected. Her grip slipped.
Another kick sounded. Then another. Each thud resounded deep in her chest. God, she had to get them both away from those beating hooves. She clenched her jaw and redoubled her efforts, pulling with all her strength while groaning deep in her throat against the red-hot pain in her shoulder joint. She managed barely an inch, then her arms shook and gave out once more under the burden of his dead weight. Her lungs burnt and she gulped for air. Her head throbbed so hard that it made her dizzy. How utterly helpless she was. But William was depending on her. She couldn’t fail him.
She tried again to rouse herself but this time her arms were so weak and the pain in her shoulder so severe that she trembled and couldn’t move at all. Her headache increased to almost blinding intensity.
“Oh, William.” A dry, painful sob tore from her throat.
Lightning struck again; thunder boomed violently.
The horse screamed.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
A crunching, cracking sounded. Her head jolted up. Jagged edges of flickering yellow lightning broke through the blackness of the carriage wall. A stream of water trickled down it. The sight transfixed her.
Crack!
Light reflected off iron and the white of a fetlock. Something skimmed past her face; she sensed its radiant heat more than saw its form. Icy tingling raced over her scalp, chilling her blood, freezing her heart.
She tightened her hands on William’s shoulders. As if she could possibly protect him. A hollow, dull knocking sort of noise reverberated through her bones.
Warm wetness splattered her face.
Chapter One
Suffolk, England
August 1819
She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be herself again. The warmth of the sun on her face was pleasant; strengthening for one who had spent so many months secluded indoors. The green scents of August mingled with the pungent odour of horses blowing on the wind from the stables. As she reached the en
trance, the rustle of the horses carried to her ears and her feet seemed to stall. One more step. She’d done this before…and failed. But it would really be so easy to take just one more step.
She swallowed against a throat gone dry. No, she couldn’t. Not just yet. But today, she would look inside. At least once before she left.
Richard Bourchier, the new Earl of Cranfield, William’s cousin and lifelong bitter rival, was holding a two-week-long hunting party and the gentlemen were all out on their mounts. But her beloved Neroli would be in the stable. She closed her eyes and pictured the mare, a glossy chestnut beauty, calmly chewing her oats. The mild eyes that always glinted with affection.
How could she fear such a gentle creature?
All right—the time had come. With her resolution to action came a trembling all over, making her question her resolve. No, she had to do this. Just one glance, then she could leave and return to the house and ring for a cup of chamomile tea.
It was such a silly fear for a grown woman, a widow. Even a simpleton should be able to overcome this fear. And she would overcome it. Her chest grew tight and she fisted her hands at her side, digging her nails into her palms. She looked into the stable.
Her eyes fell on the first horse inside its stall. Dust motes floated on the air as a shaft of light outlined its sleek lines; shards of white light zigzagged in the periphery of her vision. William’s grey stallion, Zeus, lifted his head and snorted.
Her chest grew tighter. He bumped his stall door and her legs went weak. She gripped the doorway. Whether here at Whitecross Hall or in Mayfair, William had always ridden Zeus every day. Now the grooms kept him exercised. What a powerful animal he was, his well-muscled legs capable of doing so much damage. She’d never have thought twice about that in the past. She would have walked right up to his stall and fed him an apple and petted his glossy coat before going to see Neroli. Now, such trust was unthinkable. He began to stomp, his iron shoes ringing on the stall floor. Her heart leapt into her throat and a strong urge to run jolted into her legs.
He kicked and bucked against the stall door, intent on getting her attention, and panic slammed into her. She jerked her eyes away and pulled back. All she could see was the hoof striking.
Cracking William’s skull.
Splattering her with his life’s blood.
Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Cold sweat poured from her brow and she shivered as nausea overtook her. Her vision grew dim and she dropped to her knees. Moments of quaking passed as her stomach rebelled against her.
Once it was over, she crawled along the wall, away from the stable entrance. She swallowed convulsively, trying to rid her mouth of the lingering, acrid taste of vomit. Oh, what if someone should happen along and find her in this condition? She had to get control of herself. She pressed a hand to her lurching belly and forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. As soon as she was able, she stood on her shaking legs.
What a dismal and complete failure.
She hadn’t even managed to see her beloved mare.
This terror—this weakness—was intolerable. Logic she could handle. She could beat any man she knew at chess. She knew the contents of all the books in the study. But something like this fear, she didn’t know how to fix.
She was about to turn twenty-three, yet found her world ruled by fears as if she were a girl. Found herself forced to live with her late husband’s cousin and his wife as an unwanted relic.
Her father, the Duke of Saxby, a man of wavering interests, had at one time become fascinated by racehorses. Early in her childhood, he’d purchased a sizable horse farm with a luxurious hall in Ireland. Though her father had eventually lost interest in the venture and her parents had spent most of their time in Mayfair or in Norfolk on their ducal estate, Anne had grown up at the Irish hall.
Anne had inherited the Irish hall when her father died three years ago. As part of her jointure, upon William’s death it had reverted to her. If not for her incapacitating fear of horses and riding in a closed carriage, she would already be living there. The lady of the manor, her days filled with purpose once more. Foremost, she’d be independent. She hated being obligated to others in any way. People couldn’t be counted on—except maybe for servants, and then only because they were paid to serve and feared to lose their position.
Behind her, the hard drum of hooves sounded on the ground; the jingle of a bit and the heavy snort of a well-worked horse. She jerked her head up.
Flashing hooves and wide, snorting nostrils dominated her vision. The creature was huge, as black as death and headed straight towards her.
Everything went dark.
“Lady Cranfield?”
Her heart raced with unnamed fear. She always dreaded that short span of time between sleeping and waking. She never knew what horrors she might find when she came completely aware. Her eyes fluttered open tentatively.
Daylight. Oh thank God.
A flash of cream and blue showed in the periphery of her vision. The décor of the morning room. She was inside Whitecross Hall.
Safe.
Relief flooded her body, relaxing her muscles as though she’d slipped into a soothing warm bath. She let her eyelids open fully.
Intense blue eyes met hers. Slowly, the face above her came into focus. She knew that face, from the high forehead with its permanent vertical lines between the eyes to the strong jaw and the long, narrow nose.
Jonathon Lloyd, the Earl of Ruel.
Her heart leapt into a frantic, fluttery beat. Like the wings of a butterfly trapped between closed palms.
He was rubbing her wrists. Slow, feather-light strokes of his long fingers. A thrill chased up her arms and through her whole being. His large hands were hard and smooth, like horn. Just as she’d imagined. Yet his touch was by far gentler than she would have expected for such a fierce-looking gentleman.
Part of her wanted to stay still and allow him to continue caressing that sensitive area of her wrists. But the very strength of that craving scared her.
She moved to sit.
He ceased his massage and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Slowly, now.” The note of command in his deep voice made her weak and seemed to paralyse her limbs. But was it really his voice or the intense way he continued to hold her gaze?
Good heavens, he had the bluest eyes.
He pressed her back to the settee. And she made no attempt to stop him. But why? Other than her abigail, she didn’t let people touch her. Didn’t let them near her, if she could help it.
“I-I must have become…overheated.” Her tongue stumbled over the words.
He continued to study her for a long interval, his expression revealing nothing. “Undoubtedly.”
Of course he was the one who had ridden up on the black monster. Why else would he be the one concerning himself with her now? Where did a man find the courage to ride a beast like that?
People in general put her on edge, but this gentleman in particular made her a ball of pure nerves. He was no classically handsome Lancelot, but a hard-boned Viking warrior. He’d intimidated her from the moment they’d met.
“You mustn’t miss today’s hunt on my account,” she said. “I shall be fine.”
“I don’t care to hunt for sport.”
That was the very last thing she’d expected to hear from a gentleman. “Don’t you enjoy it?”
Her voice sounded flat. Hopelessly stupid. Inwardly, she cringed.
The barest hint of a grin softened his hard mouth.
Her heart seemed to wobble and her stomach went all quivering and feeling as though it might float away. It was the most peculiar sensation. Like she’d experienced once during her Seasons in Mayfair, when she’d seen a hot air balloon leave the ground and arise to the heavens.
“B-but don’t all gentlemen live to hunt?”
Oh, what an utterly wan-witted thing to say!
His grin spread wider and those blue, blue eyes lit with something. Amuseme
nt?
She wished, rather intensely, that she might sink into the settee cushions and disappear. She concentrated hard, searching her mind for something witty to make up for her dullness. “I mean to say, it is enjoyable, is it not? I mean…uh, the dogs and the horses and the…the f-foxes?”
Crinkles showed around his eyes as his smile deepened. His regard grew warmer, like rays of sun. He picked up her hand, then looked down and traced his fingers over her wrist bones.
“Yes, Lady Cranfield. The dogs and the horses, and even the foxes, they do add interest.”
“But not enough?”
“If I need something to eat, then I’ll hunt, but in the most efficient way possible. I prefer to do so alone. I can’t abide gathering in the woods like a gaggle of geese and spending the day aimlessly wandering, while hissing and honking over the latest gossip. I was taking a morning ride but it’s a good thing I returned when I did, my lady.”
“My lady?”
At the familiar feminine voice, Anne turned her head. Her abigail stood in the doorway, her apple-cheeked face contorted with concern.
“Eh…what?” Anne replied dumbly, every fibre of her being still aware of the Earl of Ruel being so close.
Nellie’s concerned frown deepened. “My lady, are you quite well?”
A healthy dose of good sense came over Anne, like a refreshing splash of cold water. She found her wits. “I am fine, Nellie,” Anne said steadily. She turned back to Ruel and attempted to regard him just as coolly.
He nodded slowly, his eyes again strangely intense for a moment. “Good day, Lady Cranfield.”
He stood and walked away with his characteristic erect posture and purposeful stride. Sunlight from the windows glinted on his ash-blond hair.
“I was waiting for you, my lady, and becoming quite worried by your lateness.” Nellie’s voice broke into Anne’s observation of Ruel.
It was a gentle reproach from a favoured servant, for Anne usually napped in the afternoons. The emotionally fragile widow who must be coddled. Just how vulnerable and pathetic she’d become, even in her servant’s eyes, hit her as it never had before, and it wasn’t a very comfortable realisation.