Chapter Nine
The dark gray sky lifted, replacing the somber clouds with a more traditional celestial image. It might not be the azure sweeps of color found in her reference books to Italy and Spain, but the occasional glimpses of actual blue more than satisfied her.
The few leaves glimmered under the sun, and squirrels and chipmunks pattered over branches, as if attempting to race Graeme and her.
Some grass clung to the dark mud, and she closed her eyes, envisioning the seeds strewn over the earth and the blossoms and buds that would soon force their way to the surface.
Life was good.
And soon it will be marvelous.
Something white flickered in the distance. A stocking?
She frowned.
Was this something that belonged to some peasant? Had some man been so overtaken by the degree-climb of the temperature, that he’d stripped off a single stocking in glee?
Even Scotsmen didn’t seem that absurd.
She frowned.
Perhaps a village was nearby.
She looked around, but only trees and bushes confronted her.
A noise sounded.
A noise that sounded very much like…shouting.
She shivered.
Some birds still chirped merrily, as if incognizant at the yammering that had joined their chorus.
She slowed her horse.
A deep voice sounded. A man was definitely shouting.
And people consider Americans eccentric.
She wavered, unsure whether to head straight past or investigate.
She gazed into the clearing, but besides the white stockings, she couldn’t see anyone.
“Is someone there?” Her voice wobbled, and she winced. Of course someone was there. Perhaps one of the returned soldiers rumored to wander the country looking for a work they never found.
“Help!” a voice shouted. “I’m stuck.”
She narrowed her gaze. The man certainly did not sound like a wayward peasant or soldier. He didn’t even sound Scottish.
His accent had the rounded vowels that made her think of someone else entirely.
She shook her head. She shouldn’t be thinking about Lord Worthing, no matter how pleasant their kiss.
Naturally it wouldn’t be that man—they were far from anyone in the middle of nowhere. She’d snuck from the castle early in the morning. Lord Worthing was likely having tea and crumpets with her family now in the centuries-old dining room. Perhaps they were pondering her propensity to oversleep.
She retained a firm hold on Graeme’s reins in case urging him to a gallop proved necessary. “Where are you?”
“I’m in a blasted hole!” The man sputtered indignantly, and Veronique’s lips twitched.
Veronique slid from her horse, tied it to a nearby tree and inched toward the sound.
And then she saw the hole.
“One moment.” She crept forward slowly, lest there be more holes in this region.
She peeked her head over the hole—and paused.
A very muddy Lord Worthing scowled at her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you.” He crossed his arms and gave her a lofty frown not suited to his position.
“I’m not sitting in filth,” she said.
“Well…” He paused. “That was unintentional.”
“Were you searching for me?” She tilted her head, not bothering to keep the suspicion from her voice. “How many more of you are there?”
She glanced around, half-expecting to see Lord Worthing’s strapping brothers clamber from trees and pop up from boulders.
“It’s just me,” he said mournfully.
“And I should believe that?”
“Because I damned don’t like sitting in holes. It’s dirty here.”
His indignation didn’t seem feigned, and she smiled.
“My valet is going to murder me when I return to England,” Lord Worthing continued.
“Perhaps I should make it easier for him and leave you here.”
“N-no.” Lord Worthing attempted to scramble up, and then groaned loudly.
“You hurt your ankle.”
“I did,” the man grumbled. “And now I’m stuck.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Please fetch help from the castle,” Lord Worthing demanded.
She frowned. “Never.”
“But my ankle—” Lord Worthing huffed. “I need help. You can get my brothers or some servants.”
“Nonsense. I can’t turn back,” she said firmly. “I’m on a mission to see the love of my life. I won’t permit anybody to stop me.”
Lord Worthing blinked. “You really mean that?”
“Naturally.”
“But…” he hesitated, but then barreled on, “…he left you. At the altar.”
Veronique cringed, but she pushed her misgivings aside. “One day we will laugh at it, I’m sure.”
“He’s not acting like a man in love.”
She stiffened and looked away. “I know he loves me. There was a reason, I’m certain.”
“You are too romantic.”
She tossed her hair. “I have a wonderful connection with him. He is the most brilliant man who’s ever lived.”
“So you won’t get somebody to haul me out of this…”
Veronique smiled. “No. I’m going to rescue you.”
He blinked. “That’s good.” He paused. “I don’t like to draw attention to my size, but I’m far heavier than you. All these muscles, after all.” He smirked, and she rolled her eyes.
*
Miles’s ankle throbbed as Veronique peered at the slippery muddy walls of his new abode.
“How did you land here?” she asked.
“I was attempting to rescue you,” he grumbled. “I saw you from my window. Those bedsheets could have torn,” he said sternly.
“At least I used bedsheets.” Veronique smiled most maddeningly. “I saw someone scale down the castle wall. I assume that was you?”
Pride flickered through him. “Indeed.”
“I wasn’t certain given your current predicament at a much shorter challenge.”
“The pit was obscured.” He scowled and gestured at the leaves and branches that had fallen with him.
“Hmph.”
“This is a crisis,” he reminded her.
She gazed about her. Perhaps for a miracle. “Did you walk here?”
Warmth crept up his cheeks, and he directed his gaze to the compilation of dried leaves and gnarly twigs. Anything to escape the inevitable mirth in her eyes. “My horse ran away.”
“Your reputation as a horse rider did not include the inability to retain a horse.”
He shrugged. “The horse had a proper distaste for Scottish roads. One you should possess.”
“Evidently the horse is not in love.” Veronique sighed. “Do you have a knife? Men tend to carry weapons.”
He fumbled with his boot and removed the knife he always kept there for emergencies. “You know too much about men.”
“I make it my business to know about them.” This time her smile was almost mysterious, and he had to resist the urge to gaze into her eyes, like some dewy-eyed lad fresh from Eton at his first ball.
He handed her his knife. “If you leave me, I’ll have nothing to defend myself with against wild animals.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she called out and disappeared.
His heartbeat thumped in protest.
Surely she wouldn’t…abandon him?
Damnation.
His heartbeat scuttled, and he attempted again to hoist himself from the hole. Though his arms were strong, they were not of sufficiently long length to grip the hole’s ledge. He slid back into the pit, his hands more muddied.
Next time he saw a damsel in distress, he would do the correct thing: close his curtains and slip back underneath his warm covers.
After a few agonizing minutes, Veronique appeared and s
lid a long branch down.
Dried leaves toppled into the hole, and Miles narrowed his eyes.
“Climb onto this,” Veronique said in a matter-of-fact tone a hostess might best use when directing someone to her drawing room.
She seemed oblivious to the fact that branches were not normal transport.
“It will never work,” he grumbled.
“Just try it.”
He frowned. Obviously the chit overestimated his toleration for blisters, but when he came closer, he realized she’d carved grips into the thick branch so it functioned similarly to a ladder.
“Stick the end in the mud so it has a good foundation,” she ordered.
He did so and tentatively stepped onto it.
The branch did not fall or crumble beneath his feet.
His ankle still quaked with pain as he put his weight over it, but he could do this. He’d been through worse. Nothing would ever compare to that burst of terror when he’d spotted French cavalry galloping toward him on the battlefield, lances drawn to impale everything in sight.
He hoisted himself up and flung himself onto the ground. The feel of thick tree roots beneath his hands was the most blissful sensation in the world.
“Your ankle hurts?”
“I’m fine.” He grunted and attempted to look slightly less relieved.
No way was he going to let Veronique think him vulnerable. It might make her more liable to fleeing. Or…laughing at him.
“Let me bandage it for you.”
“It’s not bleeding.”
“It will benefit from having some cloth bound tightly around it. No point having it take weeks to heal.”
“How do you know all that?”
She smiled mysteriously again. “Do as I say.”
He remained suspicious, but perhaps arguing with a woman who grasped his knife lacked wisdom.
He reached for the stocking, but pain fired through him. “Bloody hell.”
“Allow me,” Veronique said.
Miles scowled. Women were supposed to marvel at the muscularity of his limbs, admiring their firmness, visible even through tailcoats. They should yearn for him to guide them over the ballroom floor, and they should flush in pleasure if he offered them his arm. They definitely were not supposed to gaze at him as if they’d mistaken him for an injured puppy. It was not conducive to the maintenance of a healthy self-image.
Veronique touched his ankle, and he abhorred the way his body shivered under her touch, as if the furthest extremities of his body had memorized the way she’d made him feel yesterday.
Her face seemed to pale, but she soon wrapped his stocking efficiently about him. “Can you walk?”
“Naturally!” He was affronted. “I climbed that makeshift ladder.”
“And I’ve never seen a face so white,” she said.
“I can walk,” he repeated, but he glanced at the branch. “Perhaps I should have a walking stick. And then we can return to the castle.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m going to London.”
“Not Austria?”
Her eyes widened. “That would be absurd.”
“London is absurd…”
“He works in London.” Veronique’s eyes shone. “He’s a diplomat.”
“It’s not proper to go alone—”
She shrugged. “Now I have a companion.”
Blast.
“A young man of marriageable age does not meet the basic qualifications of a companion,” he reminded her.
“Do you often mull over how you’re of ‘marriageable age’?” Veronique’s tone might be innocent, but the sparkle of her eyes and swift upward sweep of her lips were not.
Miles glowered, but somehow the action simply made her lips glide further up. He gazed away. Mulling over her lips might lead to thoughts of touching her lips. And that, blast it, might lead to remembering the taste of her lips.
“We were already discovered in a compromising position, and if we return to the castle, we’ll be forced to wed,” Veronique said.
“Right.” Miles croaked.
“Once I find my baron, I can marry him, and you will be freed from my father’s and stepmother’s urgings to be honorable toward me.” She tossed her hair, and he withdrew his gaze from her.
The urge to contemplate her curly locks, and the way the few sunbeams managed to play in her hair, was overly tempting.
“Fine.” He scowled and eyed her horse. It was hardly a racing horse. “You may have an unduly small image of Britain. We might be small compared to America, but it still takes a long time to traverse. That horse won’t make it.”
“Oh, I know. There’s an inn near here where coaches stop. I stole a map.” She grinned. “We can catch the mail coach toward London. You owe me.”
Miles attempted to glare at her. “I would have managed.”
“Ha.” She brushed off more dirt that clung to her gown. “Unlikely.”
“The trap was not obvious,” Miles grumbled.
“They seldom are.” Veronique’s eyes gleamed. “But perhaps you can write to Scotland and suggest they create better sign postings.”
Miles frowned. “So who is this German baron?”
“He’s Austrian. And more wonderful than you could ever imagine.” Veronique tossed her hair, and Miles regretted that he’d chosen just that topic to switch the conversation to.
“I’m sure he doesn’t go about hiding in holes so he can accompany women,” Veronique continued.
“I was trying to save you,” Miles huffed.
“And yet I was the person doing the saving,” Veronique mused.
“I suppose I should have bloody let you venture out on your own.”
She frowned. “You shouldn’t curse.”
“This is precisely the sort of occasion that demands cursing, Veronica.”
“It’s Veronique,” she said, and something about the indignant way she wrinkled her nose was almost charming.
In fact far too many things about her were charming.
Chapter Ten
The pained expression on Lord Worthing’s face had not dissipated.
“Let’s get you on the horse,” Veronique said.
No need to linger on their assured lateness. The sun would set whatever they did, and they better be at an inn. Veronique had no desire to spend the night underneath the stars with Lord Worthing. Not when her nerve endings still didn’t seem to realize that the man was the incorrect baron.
Lord Worthing frowned. “On your horse?”
“You’re in no suitable condition to walk even a short distance.” She hesitated, bracing for the man’s scowl to strengthen. He did seem to be imbued with a large degree of masculinity and a propensity to defend it.
Instead he simply nodded. “Very well.”
Veronique blinked.
And then dread surged through her.
Did he intend to return to the castle after all? Gallop away at full force and lead a search party of strapping Scottish servants to haul her away?
“I’ll of course join you,” she said quickly.
He scrutinized her. Somehow everything seemed easier when he was not directing the full force of his eyes toward her.
“On the horse,” she said. “I’ll ride with you.”
“Indeed?”
For some reason his voice was hoarse.
Perhaps he’d developed a cold from sitting in the pit, and Veronique softened her gaze. “The horse is strong.”
Lord Worthing nodded and clambered onto the horse, hauling his bad ankle behind him.
“Should I sit in the front?” she asked.
“Behind is better,” he said, his voice still strained.
She nodded and moved toward Graeme. She placed her toe in the stirrup, and Lord Worthing leaned forward and swept her onto the horse.
“Th-thank you.”
“My arms are fully functioning,” he said.
Even though the distance from the ground to the top of the horse in no manner ri
valed a mountain, her heartbeat still quickened, and she strove to steady her breath, as if she’d just climbed the Matterhorn.
“You’ll need to sit closer to me,” Lord Worthing said. “The horse is not massive in size.”
“Right.” Her fingers trembled, but she slid her legs beside Lord Worthing’s so that her pantalettes touched his trousers. Riding astride was indecent. “Like this?”
Her voice sounded more high-pitched than normal. The man shouldn’t smell so good after lying in a hole for heavens knew how long, but her nostrils still flared, inhaling the masculine mixture of cotton and sweat.
“Grab hold of my waist,” he directed her. “I can’t have you toppling down too.”
“Very well.” Her voice seemed to have decided to settle on a higher octave than normal, and she decided that talking might not be a requirement.
Lord Worthing urged the horse to a trot, and she attempted to focus on the shifting scenery and not on the muscular length of his back and the way his dark locks curled behind his ears, as if urging someone to touch it.
She needed something, anything else to focus on.
“Would you like some food?” She fumbled in her satchel and handed him a cold meat pie.
“I suppose I shouldn’t ask where you got this.”
“You might not like the answer.” She smiled, remembering sneaking into the kitchen late at night.
He chuckled. “In other words I’m helping my brother’s thief make an escape?”
She laughed.
“You should be happy Lord Rockport was my older brother. I might feel more protective of him otherwise.”
“I’m sure his cook will be able to make more meat pies for him.”
“Well… Thank you.” Lord Worthing gobbled the pie so gratefully that guilt shot through her.
He hadn’t planned to follow her. Hadn’t even wanted to. And yet he’d risked his life to do so.
If he’d fallen while scaling the castle wall… If she hadn’t come across him now… She swallowed hard.
“I was impressed that you’d climbed down the wall,” she admitted.
“Ah… If only you had stayed to praise me then.” Lord Worthing’s voice was warm, as if he were smiling.
“Where did you learn to do that? I’m sure that wasn’t on your curriculum at Eton.”
He laughed. “How did you know I went to Eton?”
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 7