by Shirley Karr
The butler nodded. “The saddle is still firmly cinched on. Several of the grooms have already set out to search for his lordship. I thought you would like to know.”
“Thank you.” Her mind raced. “Has Clarence been shoed yet?”
“I believe so.”
She spared a glance out the window, and noticed for the first time rain pouring down. “Please have him saddled. I’ll join in the search.” She ran to her room to exchange her comfortable shoes for Papa’s boots, her whole body shaking as disturbing images crowded into her mind. She pushed those thoughts aside and grabbed her hat and coat from Bentley, who waited for her in the hall.
“Here, sir,” he said, handing her a length of oilcloth. “It’s not much, but ’tis all I could find, and will keep you drier than your coat alone.”
She flashed him a smile of gratitude, then ran out the door and climbed onto Clarence’s back.
The trail of hooves in the mud was easy to follow, too easy. No point in going where the grooms had already gone. She directed Clarence farther up the drive before moving into the pasture and across the undulating hills and valleys.
Ducking low against the gelding’s neck, she checked under each tree and stared along the edge of every stone wall, searching for Sinclair’s inert form. The wind picked up, blowing away the clouds. For a moment the rain stopped and she saw patches of blue sky. She glanced back the way she’d come, then swept the horizon. Nothing looked familiar.
“Bloody hell, I’m lost,” she muttered. She patted her horse’s neck. “Some rescuers we are, hey Clarence?” After debating possible actions, the only logical decision was to keep looking for the earl. Maybe she’d stumble on to the manor house as well.
The respite from the rain was brief. New clouds quickly moved in, varying shades of dark gray to almost black. Rain fell in a torrent, reducing her vision to less than fifty yards at best.
Clarence slogged through the mud, walking no faster than Quincy could have on her own. Even at his snail’s pace, she almost lost her seat when he abruptly stopped at the edge of a stream. Usually little more than a drainage ditch, water gushed past and over its banks, carrying tree limbs and other debris.
Something black bobbed near the edge, caught on a rock. Quincy jumped down and grabbed it before the current could snatch it again.
Sinclair’s hat. Inside the crown was fresh blood.
She gasped and dropped it, then immediately picked it up again. With a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the rushing water, she held her hand up to shield her eyes from the rain and peered along the edge of the ditch. Afraid she’d find Sinclair’s inert form, she searched in both directions, both sides. The water wasn’t deep or swift enough to have carried away a large adult male.
No body. Farther upstream the mud looked different. Clarence followed at her shoulder as she made her way to the spot that caught her eye.
Deep marks in the mud showed where Zoltan must have dug in. Rocks rimmed the edge of the stream, any number of which could do serious harm to a human skull. Sinclair was nowhere in sight. Tracks in the mud on the opposite bank gave her hope he had staggered away, and was not lying at the bottom of the stream.
“Well, Clarence,” she said, raising her voice to hear herself above the pounding of the rain and the fast-moving water, “if we back up to get a running start, do you think you can leap this mighty chasm?” Clarence snorted. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She remounted him and urged him back from the ditch. “We have to find him,” she said against his neck. She shivered, already chilled. “Soon.” She gripped the reins with her rain-soaked gloves, whispered a fervent prayer for her own safety as well as Sinclair’s, and nudged the horse.
Not only did she keep her seat, her teeth didn’t even rattle when Clarence touched down on the other side. “Good boy!” she shouted, patting him on the neck. “Now let’s find the earl.”
They plodded on, searching for any sign of a creature moving on two legs. Twice she thought she spotted grooms on horseback in the distance, though her eyes could have been playing tricks on her in the downpour. She found no more human footprints, but the grass grew in thick clumps, and the sheep had mucked up any prints that might have been in the bare spots.
“At this rate, they’ll have to send out a search party for me,” Quincy said with a sigh of disgust. The rain eased off to a drizzle and she stood in the stirrups to get a better look across the fields. Darkness was fast approaching, adding to the urgency of the task.
“Look, Clarence!” she said, sitting down and nudging him forward again. “That’s either a tall, thin sheep, or we’ve found him!” The gelding responded to the excitement in her voice and broke into a trot toward the dark shape at the far end of the pasture.
“Sinclair!” she called a few moments later, reining in Clarence beside the earl. She was so relieved to find him, she forgot about being cold and wet.
Sinclair kept moving, limping badly, eyes squinted nearly shut against the rain in his face.
“Sinclair!” she shouted again, reaching for his shoulder.
He glanced at her, then in one swift motion jumped back a step, turned to the side, and raised his fists.
She jerked back the hand she’d reached out to him and stared at him. Just how hard had he hit his head?
He blinked. “Oh. It’s you.” Several heartbeats later he dropped his fists.
“Sinclair? Do you know the way back to the house? I found you but I lost myself.”
“House?” His brows snapped together as he frowned in concentration. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the horizon, swaying so much Quincy reached out to steady him. “N-no house. Shepherd’s hut. That way.” He pointed the way he’d been walking, then reached up to swipe rain from his eyes.
It wasn’t rain trickling down from his hair into his right eye, but blood. Tamping down a fresh wave of panic, Quincy ignored the goose bumps that suddenly rose on her flesh. She fished a handkerchief from her waistcoat pocket and handed it to Sinclair, who only stared at it. “Wipe your forehead,” she ordered, hoping he didn’t hear the tremble in her voice.
“Oh. Y-yes. Yes, o’ course.” He dabbed the linen, now soggy from the rain, at his forehead. He stared at the blood on it when he drew it away.
“My lord!” she said briskly. “We need to find shelter. Are you sure you don’t know the way back to the house?”
“Sh-shepherd’s hut over there,” he repeated, raising his chin. The movement unbalanced him and he grabbed at Quincy’s leg. He wrapped one hand around her ankle, and reached up with the other.
Quincy gripped the pommel with her left and pulled him up with her right hand when he jumped. How her arm remained attached to her shoulder was a mystery, but he landed on Clarence’s rump. And almost slid off. He grabbed her left thigh and right hip before he righted himself.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, swaying forward until his chin rested on her shoulder. He heaved a deep sigh and silently raised his arm, pointing in the direction he’d been headed.
Quincy struggled to stay upright under his weight, until she nudged Clarence forward and Sinclair leaned back again. Too far back. He grabbed at her hips, then wrapped his arms around her waist and locked his fingers.
She stared at his mud-streaked hands, so big and so close, held snug to her belly. Despite the drizzling rain, something uncoiled in her stomach, something warm and fluttery, and spread through her whole being.
It froze, however, when she felt a shiver wrack Sinclair’s body. She removed one glove to touch his hands. “You’re like ice!”
“Mmm.”
While Quincy chafed Sinclair’s hands with one of her own, Clarence plodded through the mud across the pasture. She fervently hoped they were close to the shepherd’s hut. Sinclair needed to get warm and dry, quickly.
Several minutes later she looked up in the fading twilight and saw the outline of a small cottage, barely bigger than the barn behind it. She guided the horse to the front door. “We’re her
e, my lord,” she said, patting his laced fingers.
He let go and promptly slid to the ground. With a splat, he landed on his backside in the mud. “D-damn,” he muttered between blue lips.
“Are you hurt?” Quincy slid out of the saddle and unintentionally dropped to her knees.
“J-just my dignity.” He groaned and heaved himself up to his knees. They stood up together, hands on each other’s shoulders. Quincy’s ungloved hand slid off his coat onto his lawn shirt.
“You’re soaked to the skin!”
“A dip in the stream will do that,” Sinclair said, swaying.
Quincy grabbed his elbow. “Stay here, Clarence,” she said, then wrapped her arm around Sinclair’s waist and helped him to the hut. The door squealed on its hinges when she opened it, allowing the rain-washed wind to replace the musty air inside.
They stood on the threshold a moment while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A river rock fireplace dominated the left wall, and crude plank shelves lined the right. A small bed was tucked against the far wall, and a table missing one leg and two equally rickety-looking chairs blocked the path to the shelves. There was just enough room to walk around the furniture without bumping into the coat hooks on the wall beside the door.
“Any wood or coal?” Sinclair leaned toward the fireplace, squinting. He stumbled forward, and stubbed his toe on the bedstead.
Quincy ignored his curse and pushed him onto the bed. “Sit down. I don’t have the strength to pick you up off the floor.” She easily fell into the welcome pattern of disguising her concern and relief with a sharp tongue. Sinclair was alive, she’d found him, and they’d reached shelter. Now she just had to get him warm and dry.
She knelt before him and tugged off his boots. As the second boot came off, his ankle was cradled in her hand. She felt a tremor, different from his shivering. Sinclair’s laugh grew louder.
“This seems f-familiar, somehow.”
She smiled, remembering the night she’d put him to bed when he’d been three sheets to the wind. She tried to think of a suitable reply, but her mind went blank when she saw Sinclair wrap his arms around his stomach. Now sober, he stared at a spot beyond her shoulder, his eyes glazed.
“Sinclair?” He didn’t respond. She snapped her fingers a few inches from his nose.
He slowly turned his head toward her. “Quincy? Good. Ring for Harper, won’t you? The f-fire’s burned down.”
Quincy shut her mouth with a snap. “Undress.”
Sinclair gave her a blank stare.
She swallowed hard. “You have to get out of those wet clothes, and Harper isn’t here to help.”
“Mmm.” He nodded and reached up with his hands, but his numb fingers wouldn’t grip the fabric. “Can’t find the buttons,” he said, surprised.
Quincy grasped his icy hands and lowered them to his lap. “Lift your chin,” she ordered. She untied his soaked cravat and pulled it off, then undid the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, reminding herself she’d performed the same service for her father hundreds of times. This was no different.
She licked suddenly dry lips. Oh, but it was different. “Lean back on your elbows, my lord.”
Sinclair missed his elbows, and flopped onto his back.
Her fingers shaking almost as badly as Sinclair’s with the audacity of her actions, she undid his trouser buttons. “Can you manage the rest while I start a fire?”
He held out his hand and she pulled him up. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “You may go now.”
Quincy raised her eyebrows at the non sequitur, but turned toward the fireplace as Sinclair began stripping off his coat. There was wood stacked by the hearth, and a tinderbox on the mantel. She coaxed a flame and blew gently on it, trying to ignore the sound of wet garments sliding over skin and hitting the floor. She turned around when Sinclair cursed again.
He stood beside the bed wearing only goose bumps and damp linen drawers that concealed almost nothing. He was struggling with the tape that held them on his hips.
She gulped. She stumbled back a step, tripping over the hearthstone, and had to grab the mantel to steady herself before she fell into the fire. Hot. It was suddenly much too hot in the hut. The flames cast a golden glow over Sinclair’s skin, all hard planes and muscular curves. The brief glimpses she’d previously had of his chest and leg did nothing to soften the blow of seeing him now, standing in all his masculine glory. A fine figure, indeed.
He blew on his fingers, tried the knot again. “Blast.”
She tried to speak, cleared her throat. “Let me help.” He dropped his hands to his side to allow her to grasp the tape. Acutely conscious of the large, powerful, nearly nude male body before her, she tried to focus on just the knot. Warm breath ruffled her hair as she fought the wet fabric.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop. I can’t concentrate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Breathe.”
He chuckled, and the muscles in his flat abdomen contracted. She felt the vibration all the way to her toes. She tugged on the knot, and her fingers brushed some of the crisp, dark hair that lay in tight curls, feathering down his torso. Purely accidental contact. She bent over to get a closer look in the dim light, wishing that her nails were longer, anything that would help pry the knot loose. Quickly. Her hands were beginning to shake.
Sinclair’s hands brushed her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes, absurdly wanting to purr like her gray tabby. Another shiver wracked him. With his hands still smoothing her hair, she trembled, too. One more try, and then she was going to just rip the wet garment off him.
“Ah,” he said as the knot burst free. Without warning, gravity took over and his drawers dropped to the floor.
Breath left her as though she’d been struck. The view was even better close up. Dear lord, what an exquisite work of art. She should move, avert her eyes, but she could only stare. He was all broad shoulders and acres of smooth skin over well-defined muscles. The jagged scar on Sinclair’s right thigh only added to, rather than distracted from, the overall image.
He shivered, head to toe. A cold work of art.
Tearing her gaze away from the bounty before her, she pushed on one solid shoulder, urging him down to the bed. Despite the chill in his skin, or maybe because of it, her fingers burned at the contact. She flung the blanket over him.
“I have to take care of Clarence,” she said, and darted out the door. The rain cooled her cheeks as she led Clarence to the tiny barn. She found straw to rub him down, but instead of the horse’s flank, she saw Sinclair’s. The image of his magnificent nude body was forever burned into her mind’s eye.
Deep breaths. Lots of deep breaths.
She discovered the barrel of oats in the corner hadn’t been invaded by mice yet. She settled Clarence with a pile of oats and a bucket of rainwater, determined to keep her mind on the business at hand, survival. She couldn’t dwell on the impossible, like exploring those dark curls, feeling his skin like silk over steel. She gave herself a mental shake. Concentrate. Just survive the night.
After stoking the fire to a blaze, she checked on Sinclair. He lay huddled under the moth-eaten quilt, his eyes shut, but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His skin felt clammy when she touched his forehead and cheek.
“You’re still cold,” she whispered.
“D-damn right.” His teeth chattered.
She jumped back, then gave a nervous laugh. “Let’s see what your shepherd left behind that might help warm you up.” Nothing she found on the shelves looked edible. There were two opened jars of preserves, each with a thick crust of green mold. A tin box held the aroma of tea but no leaves. The teakettle seemed sound and clean, so she filled it from the rain barrel outside and set it on the hearth to heat.
Only then did she realize how cold she was herself. Despite the oilcloth, her coat was damp, and rain had seeped down her collar. With stiff limbs, she peeled off her outer garments and hung them on hooks. Sinclair’s clot
hes would never dry by morning if she hung them up near the door. She pulled the rickety chairs close to the fire, then shook out his clothing and draped it over the chair backs. Water dripped on the floor as she wrung out both their cravats. She set their boots and stockings before the fire.
The teakettle whistled. She pulled it back from the flames, poured a little into the cracked earthenware mug she’d found, and took it to Sinclair.
“N-not now, Sergeant,” he muttered, pushing her hand away.
She was taken aback for a moment. Should she go along with his delusion, or try to bring him back to the present? He shivered. “You need to get warm, Captain. Drink it.”
“I give the orders around here,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. A dangerous voice. “Go away.”
Quincy bit her lip. “Captain Sinclair! You will drink this, now! Do you hear me?”
Sinclair’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at her for a frozen moment, then reached a trembling hand for the mug.
“You’ll spill it,” she said, holding it away from him. She knelt beside the bed and lifted his head, holding the mug while he sipped.
“What the hell do you think this is, Sergeant? ’Tis nought but water!”
“What do you care? It’s hot!” She held the cup to his mouth again. “Drink!”
He muttered another curse, but drank the rest of the water. He refused a second cupful, and when she’d turned back from setting down the mug, his eyes were closed again.
“Sinclair?” No response. “Captain!” He didn’t move.
The ice in her limbs spread, twisted around her heart. Hot tears pricked at her eyelids. She swiped at them with an impatient hand. This was no time to fall apart. Sinclair needed her.
She leaned nearer, and felt as well as heard his slow, even breathing. With trembling fingers she pushed away damp hanks of hair from his forehead and touched the knot forming at his temple. The gash had stopped bleeding, but his skin was still clammy, and his lips had a disturbing blue cast. The bed shook with his shivering.
Fear and desperation lent her strength, and she tugged the bed closer to the fire, then added more wood. It wasn’t enough. But there were no more blankets or even a towel with which to rub him.