by Anne Gracie
They passed through the village and headed west. A heavy bank of gray cloud had settled sullenly along the distant horizon. “With any luck we’ll beat that rain,” Freddy commented and snapped the reins. His grays picked up speed.
“Want to take the ribbons for a bit?” he asked after they’d been traveling at top speed for ten minutes or so.
“You’d trust your precious grays to me?” she said in surprise.
“Yes, now that the freshness has been taken off them.”
She laughed. He passed her the reins and for the next hour they traveled in silence. Her concentration was almost wholly on the horses, but some part of her was aware of her traveling companion. She’d expected him to be rather blue-deviled after the confrontation with his parents, but he seemed quite lighthearted, even happy.
“What’s the matter?” he asked her after he’d caught her several times giving him a surreptitious glance. “Frightened I’ll fall out of the curricle or something?”
She laughed. “Of course not. It’s just that you’re . . .”
“What? Handsome? Charming? Irresistible?” He gave her a rakish leer and she laughed again.
“You seem . . . I don’t know . . . happy.”
“I am.” He leaned back and crossed his booted legs, resting them on the front bar of the curricle. “I usually am when I leave Breckenridge.”
“That’s sad.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you love it.”
He gave her a curious look. “How did you work that out?”
“The way you talk of it, the places you showed me, the stories you told.”
“Ah, well, we can’t have everything we want,” he said and though he said it in a light manner, Damaris recognized a “keep out” sign when she met one. For a lighthearted rattle of a rake, he had rather a lot of those.
But then, so did she.
“How are you feeling?” Freddy enquired as they came to a posting inn a few hours later. “We’ll change horses here, but we’ve made good time—we’re about halfway to Davenham Hall, so if you want to rest for a while . . .”
“I wouldn’t mind some breakfast.”
“Breakfast? But—”
“I was so nervous about the painting I didn’t eat a thing,” she confessed.
• • •
The farther west they went, the wetter the country was. The last few days of dry weather had made the roads passable enough, but the low-lying land remained saturated: Sheets of silvery water lay everywhere.
“Talk of flooding farther on, sorr,” an ostler at the next staging point warned Freddy as he led out a fresh pair of horses. “Best be careful. Folks say river’s about ready to bust its banks.”
“Is the main road flooded at all?”
“Not yet, sorr, not as I know of, but any more rain like we’ve had the last weeks and there’ll be trouble.”
Freddy nodded. He wasn’t too worried. They’d made good time so far, and the bank of cloud that had loomed threateningly ahead the last few hours hadn’t seemed to move. Another two hours and they’d be at Davenham.
They set out again.
Half an hour later they came to a wooden bridge across a fiercely swollen river. Dirty brown water gushed and tumbled, carrying with it all sorts of refuse—mud, branches and bits of broken palings—swirling and eddying, spilling out over the banks in places, taking everything with it. The surface of the bridge was about an inch deep in water.
“Do you think it’s safe to cross?” Damaris asked.
“For the moment, which is all we need,” Freddy said briskly, and he urged the nervous horses across the bridge.
For the next mile or so the road ran beside the river. “Won’t be long before it bursts its banks,” Freddy observed, “but the road leaves the riverside soon and the rest of the way is on higher ground.”
He spoke too soon. Rounding a bend, they were confronted with an angry brown sea of swirling floodwater, into which the road disappeared.
“Dammit, we’ll have to go back.” He backed the horses and turned the curricle around. There was no side road, no other way except back to the flooding bridge.
By the time they got back, the wooden bridge was shuddering under the sweeping barrage of water and debris. Under their horrified gaze, a section of the bridge broke and was dragged into the swirling torrent. In minutes the remainder of the bridge was swept away, tossed around on the current like a handfuls of sticks.
They were stranded.
“Well, we won’t be going that way,” Freddy said lightly. He scanned their surroundings. The floodwaters were already nibbling at the edge of the road. “We’ll have to move to higher ground.”
“There’s a cottage back there.” Damaris pointed. “I noticed it as we passed. It’s on that hill. From here, you can’t see it for the trees, but it’s there.”
“Right, then.” Again Freddy turned the curricle around and they headed back, searching for a way up to the cottage on the hill. They found a gate with a narrow track winding upward. Freddy jumped down, opened the gate, then led the horses through it.
“It’s too rough and narrow for the curricle,” he said. “We’ll have to leave it here. We’ll take the horses with us. Let’s hope there’s some sort of shelter for them at the cottage.” He unhitched the horses and, slipping and sliding on the steep and muddy track, they made their way toward the cottage.
Damaris glanced at him at one point. “You’re quite enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Sorry.” He pulled a guilty face. “I must confess I have a sneaking fondness for the odd small adventure. We’re going to be all right, you know. We’re more in danger of discomfort and inconvenience than actual danger. The floods won’t come up this high.”
“I know. I’m not worried.” Truth to tell, Damaris didn’t mind a small adventure herself. Her upbringing had better prepared her for physical danger and discomfort than for London drawing rooms and the pitfalls of polite society.
He turned to look at her. “You’re not, are you? Remarkable. Nine out of ten females of my acquaintance would be loudly castigating me for the ruination of their shoes, not to mention their damp and muddy hems. They’d be complaining about having to walk, and screeching at me to ‘do something, Freddy, do something!’”
“But what could you do?” she said, puzzled.
“Carry them, probably.” He gave her a hopeful look. “Do you want me to carry you?”
She laughed. “Of course not. You have quite enough to manage with those horses.”
“Oh, well,” he said with a downcast sigh. “If you must be so distressingly independent.”
Damaris couldn’t help but smile. Even in the midst of trouble, he could find an opportunity to flirt.
The clouds were thickening by the minute and they were barely halfway up the hill when there was a flash, then a rumble, and the first few fat drops of rain fell. “Uh-oh,” Freddy said, glancing at the sky. “Hurry.” But within seconds the heavens opened and the rain was pelting down.
By the time they reached the cottage, they were drenched. “You get inside; I’ll find somewhere to put the horses,” Freddy shouted over the rain.
Damaris knocked, once, twice, but there was no answer. Shivering, she tried the door. It opened. “Is anyone here?” she called as she entered. But there was no answer.
The cottage was small, just one main room, with a kitchen scullery at the rear, a small table in the middle with a couple of wooden chairs, and a bed in the corner covered with a bright patchwork quilt. The floor was made of stone flags, made cozier and more cheerful with some homemade rag rugs. It was clean and neat as a pin.
Whoever the owners were, they hadn’t been gone more than a few hours, Damaris thought. The fire was out, but a faint warmth remained in the bricks. A bunch of parsley sat in a jar of water, still fre
sh. She checked the kitchen and found half of a loaf of bread in the crock, a bowl of eggs, and some vegetables in a bin.
They’d need to dry off.
Feeling uncomfortably like a thief, she looked in the chest at the end of the bed and found several lengths of rough towel and some folded clothes—all for a woman, an old woman, by the look of the clothes. She must live here alone. She took out the towels and used one to towel-dry her hair and soak up as much of the dampness as she could.
There was no sign of Freddy. Presumably he was getting the horses settled.
The storm was getting worse. Lightning flickered, thunder rumbled and rain hammered at the roof and windows in a deafening tattoo. They’d be here for a while. She should light a fire. It was taking a liberty in a stranger’s house, but she was wet through, and Freddy would be even wetter, and they didn’t want to catch a chill.
She swept out the ashes of the old fire, found some kindling and began to set a fire.
The door crashed open and she jumped. “Only me,” Freddy shouted over the noise. “Here, I’ll do that.” He came forward, dripping, and shivering with cold.
She shooed him away. “I am well able to light a fire, thank you. You’re soaked, so go over there and get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”
“You’re wet too.”
“Not as wet as you and you’ve been outside in it longer. You’re practically blue with cold, so don’t argue—strip.”
His eyes danced and she knew he was about to say something cheeky, so she waved him away. “Not another word. I found you a towel and some clothes—they’re there on the bed. I’m afraid there are no men’s clothes in the cottage—I think an old woman lives here alone—but there is a red flannel nightgown there you can put on while your clothes are drying. It might be a little tight across the shoulders, but I think it will fit. And be warm.”
“A nightgown?” He picked up the red flannel nightgown between finger and thumb and regarded it with a dubious expression.
She hid a smile. “Don’t look like that; there are no frills. It looks much like the nightshirts my father used to wear. More to the point, it will cover you decently and keep you warm while we dry your clothes by the fire. And don’t worry, I’ll turn my back while you change.”
He gave her a slow smile. “I’m not worried in the least.”
She busied herself arranging kindling in the fireplace, but her imagination was only too aware that he was stripping off his clothes, one by one. She recalled how he had looked shirtless, chopping wood, and her mouth dried. Just a peep, she told herself.
But that would be wrong. More, it would be dangerous.
She thrust the image of his naked chest out of her mind and concentrated on getting the fire going. She found the tinderbox, struck a spark and blew gently on the tinder until she coaxed from it first a wisp of smoke, then a small flame. Soon the kindling had caught and the fire was crackling brightly.
“You can look now,” he said.
At his words she turned and caught her breath. He was practically naked. The red flannel nightgown lay untouched on the bed. He’d wrapped the strip of towel around his hips, tucking the ends in in a way that looked worryingly insecure. One movement and he’d . . . unwrap.
She swallowed. The cottage suddenly felt a great deal smaller. And warmer.
“Red is not my color,” he said, gesturing to the nightgown on the bed. “But I’m perfectly comfortable like this—it won’t take long for my shirt and breeches to dry.” He tossed the patchwork quilt loosely around his shoulders, but even so, there was still too much naked Freddy visible for her peace of mind—between the folds of the quilt there were glimpses of bare chest, bare stomach and long, muscular legs, naked from midthigh down.
Like living marble, lean and hard and masculine. More beautiful than any statue she’d seen. And wearing a worn strip of toweling instead of a fig leaf.
He might be comfortable with his near-nakedness; she certainly wasn’t.
She tried not to notice the fine dusting of dark gold hair sprinkled across his chest. It ran in a line down past his belly button . . . and disappeared under the towel.
That towel didn’t even have a pin to secure it. What would happen when he moved?
He gave her a grin, seemingly not at all discomposed by his bareness or her struggle not to stare. “Worried about my towel falling off?”
Her face flushed with heat. “Not at all.” With an effort she managed to drag her gaze off his body and fix it firmly to his face, refusing to let it drop below the chin. No matter how much it wanted to.
Why was it that men always seemed so comfortable in their skin, and women were so self-conscious? Well, she wasn’t going to spend the rest of the day wondering when that wretchedly inadequate towel was going to slide off those narrow male hips.
She stalked to the chest and searched until she found what she wanted. “I thought this would be too inconvenient before, but I’ve changed my mind.” She thrust a folded cotton sheet at him. “Wear that.”
“You don’t like my current attire?”
“It’s insufficient,” she said crisply. “You’ll catch a chill.”
He smiled, as if he knew very well why her color was so heightened, but took the sheet. “Turn your back, then, Miss Innocence.”
Miss Innocence. If only he knew. She swallowed. It was a timely reminder.
Before she realized what he was about, he’d turned away and dropped the towel, giving her a glimpse of firm, well-shaped buttocks. She hurriedly busied herself with the fire, using the poker to stir it up, and swung the black cast-iron kettle across on its hook to heat some water. She was dying for a cup of tea.
“Better?”
She looked around. He’d wrapped the sheet around himself several times and tied it at the shoulder, toga style. “Much.”
“It was getting a bit chilly,” he admitted, picking up the quilt. “Now, your turn.”
She blinked. “What?”
He jerked his head toward the bed. “Your turn to strip.”
“I—I’m all right, just a bit damp.” She ran her hands over her damp dress. “It’ll dry soon, now that the fire’s going.”
“Nonsense, you’re wet enough to catch a chill, so strip, or I’ll do it for you.” He pointed to the bed in the corner. “Now. Don’t worry about modesty; I’ll do my very best to be a gentleman.”
Operating on the assumption that if she kept her back turned, decorum—of sorts—would be maintained, she began to struggle out of her damp clothes. With limited success. Why, oh, why, did ladies’ dresses fasten at the back?
“Would you like me to undo you at the back there?” he asked a moment later.
She whirled around, her arms crossed over her fully clothed front. “You said you wouldn’t look.”
“I said I’d try to be a gentleman. It’s not quite the same thing.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t look.”
“A saint wouldn’t look. You seem to have an odd understanding of gentlemen. The delightful thing about us is that we come in many different varieties.”
He strolled over, twirled her around and started undoing the back of her dress. “Some of us wear red flannel nightgowns; some of us don’t. Some gentlemen are mortified if a lady glimpses their bare legs. I’m not that sort, either.”
His fingers brushed her skin as he worked. “I’m a helpful kind of gentleman who will gallantly offer to help a damp lady with her laces.”
How did he always manage to make ordinary things sound so wicked? She felt a draft on her skin as her dress opened.
“It’s not as easy as it looks, getting ladies out of their dresses,” he murmured in her ear as he unfastened the laces of her corset.
He, of course, would know.
“There you go.” He ran a slow finger down the length of her spine,
sending ripples through her. She jumped and gave a small squeak.
She whirled to face him accusingly, clutching her sagging clothing to her.
“What’s the matter?” he purred.
“Your finger,” she said with as much composure as she could manage. “It’s cold.”
“Odd.” He gave her a slow smile. “It must be the only part of me that is.”
She was rather warm herself, but she’d rather die than admit it. Or admit that this situation was exciting her senses. That way lay danger, and, unlike the flood, once released, she knew it wouldn’t recede. And this time it would destroy her.
“Turn your back,” she told him sternly. “And keep it turned. Tend the fire or something.”
“I like the sound of ‘or something.’”
Impossible man. She decided to ignore him. Modesty being the better part of valor, and trust not being part of the equation at all, she pulled the voluminous red flannel nightgown over her head and, safely covered, she then struggled out of her clothes. It took rather longer than she expected but she was finally free of her wet things and respectably covered from neck to midcalf—it was too short to reach to her ankles, alas. Then, dressed in the nightgown and with a thick, homespun woolen shawl draped around her shoulders and knotted securely over her breasts, she turned.
And found him sprawled on a chair, convulsed with silent laughter.
“Beast!” She picked up a pair of lumpy socks and threw them at his head, wishing they were a rock instead. He caught them one-handed, still laughing.
“That,” he said, “was better than a play.”
“You,” she told him severely, “are no gentleman.”
“I think we already established that I’m a particular kind of gentleman.” His eyes ran over her and darkened. “Red is most definitely your color,” he said softly. Then, in quite a different tone, he added, “Thanks for these. This stone floor is quite chilly,” and bent to pull the socks on.