by Nichole Van
Raising her head, she and Martha exchanged glances. The gunshots were in the distance and no cause for immediate alarm. Likely just some hunters flushing game or a farmer chasing a fox off his property.
She surveyed the road ahead, seeing nothing.
Her father’s light chaise was of a modern design. It featured a single bench and large panels of glass across the sides and front. There was no coachman, per se. Instead, a groom rode postillion on the front left horse, while a footman sat in a high seat behind the carriage box. All in all, the arrangement gave travelers an excellent view of the road ahead.
And at the moment, there was nothing to see. Just trees.
With a shrug, Sophie went back to her treatise, trying (again) not to let her mind wander to Lord Rafe and that odd encounter at the coaching inn.
It was just . . .
Her brain was so tenacious. It desperately wanted to sort the puzzle that was Lord Rafe . . . or rather, Lennon Gordon.
The man was not who she had thought him to be. She desperately wanted to put him into a box, label him a Rakus lasciviosus, and tuck him away on a high shelf like some exotic specimen.
But that was proving more and more difficult.
There were layers to Lord Rafe. Or, perhaps, masks would be a better word. The man was more chameleon than anything.
Why was he traveling in disguise? The implications of it led her mind down a rather specific logical path.
Fact: Lord Rafe was in disguise because he very much did not want his ducal father to learn of his trip to Edinburgh.
Fact: The purpose of the trip to Edinburgh was to consult with Dr. Ross on some matter.
Ergo . . . Lord Rafe assumed that his consult with Dr. Ross would anger his father.
But what could that be? What information did Lord Rafe seek that Kendall deemed upsetting?
The Duke of Kendall was a stern, foreboding figure. More than once during her marriage to Jack, she had caught him staring at her across a ballroom or a street or the opera. In her more fanciful moments, she considered his stare something of a death glance, as if he wished to will her entirely out of existence.
Which, of course, was absurd. Kendall did not wish her dead; he simply did not like her parents.
But what if Kendall were similarly chilly with his own son?
And, if so, what was so important that Lord Rafe would go to such lengths to avoid his father’s notice?
And why, why, why did Sophie long to know?
It was entirely none of her affair.
She drummed her fingers, glaring at the scenery, frustrated with herself for caring when she knew better.
Lord Rafe is no one to you.
Let it be.
She was nearly ready to halt the carriage so she could stretch her legs (and clear her head) when they rounded a bend.
Pandemonium had erupted ahead.
A stagecoach leaned precariously against the railing of a narrow stone bridge. Another curricle was stopped to the side of the road, its horses tethered to a tree. Travelers were everywhere. One woman cared for several crying children, while another appeared to be bandaging a passenger. Half the men were unloading the luggage from the stagecoach, while others attempted to re-harness the horses in such a way as to right the coach.
All in all, Sophie wasn’t traveling any further until the mess cleared—the stagecoach thoroughly blocked the bridge—but at first glance, it appeared that no one was seriously hurt.
Her chaise rolled to a stop and her groom dismounted. He asked the nearest man what had happened. The words highwaymen and gunshots chilled Sophie’s blood.
Heavens.
Lord Rafe had been right, in the end.
Martha, of course, instantly devolved into a blubbering mess, threatening to swoon entirely. Sophie held her for a moment, offering comfort.
“I would like to help where I can,” Sophie asked, nodding to the chaos outside the chaise. “Will you be able to manage here, Martha?”
Bravely wiping her cheeks, Martha nodded her head.
Sighing, Sophie patted her cheek and exited the carriage. She asked her groom and the footman, James, to help the men unload the rest of the luggage from the stagecoach. Sophie turned to help a mother with her two children when one of the pieces of luggage caught her eye—
A battered leather valise with the initials LRG branded into the side.
Heavens!
Lord Rafe was here?
This was his stagecoach?!
Sophie whirled around, looking for the telltale flash of a red-and-blue kilt. A few steps to the side and she could see all the men swarming the coach. There was no kilted Scotsmen in the group.
Biting her lip, Sophie turned back, bending down before the mother who rocked a small girl in her arms, another child nestled against her side.
“Was there a Scotsman aboard the stagecoach?” Sophie asked. “A tall, dark-haired fellow in a red-and-blue kilt?”
The woman lifted her head, eyes bewildered. She looked around, craning her neck.
“Why, yes, there was. He was most brave, firing on the brigands and scaring them off. And then when we hit the bridge, he saved my wee girl from tumbling right off. But I have been so scattered since, I haven’t thought to look for him.” The woman continued to search, brows drawing down. “Where is he?
“He fell in the water,” the child at her side offered. “He plunked right in.” The child mimed something falling and plopping in the water.
Terror pounded through Sophie.
Lord Rafe had fallen into the river? Had he been shot? Worse, as she didn’t see him about, had he emerged from the river? Where was he?
Surely the man could swim. But if he wasn’t with the coach, something had to have gone wrong. Had he hit his head?
Whirling around, Sophie dashed to the edge of the bridge, looking downriver. The water swirled swift and fast. A minute was all it took for her to spot the red-and-blue soaked figure clinging to a rock in the middle of the river a hundred yards downstream. His head moved back and forth, assessing his situation.
Relief flooded her. Lord Rafe appeared to be among the living at the moment.
He was too far away for a shout to be heard. If she hadn’t been deliberately seeking him, she would not have spotted him. No wonder no one had done anything yet to help.
Fortunately for him, she made a habit of rescuing helpless things.
Even half-drowned rakes.
She fetched James and had him retrieve a length of rope from the chaise, along with a heavy lap blanket. Lord Rafe would surely be frozen clear through after such a dunking on a chilly autumn day.
With James at her side, Sophie skirted trees and traipsed down the riverbank, drawing alongside where Lord Rafe clung to the rock.
He had one arm wrapped tightly around the jagged end of the boulder, the other braced to hold himself onto the rock. She couldn’t see any blood from her vantage point, thank goodness. But she had seen half-drowned rats that appeared less disheveled and shaken. The poor man was quaking with cold, shivering violently. It was a wonder he could cling to the rock at all.
She surveyed the situation while she waited for him to notice her.
It didn’t take long. As if somehow feeling her gaze, he turned his head her way.
She waved her fingers at him, plastering what she hoped was a delightedly obnoxious grin on her face.
Ah, if only she had some way to record the astonishment on his face—wide-eyed, stunned.
With a final wave, she plotted how to retrieve him.
She immediately understood his predicament. The river flowed too swiftly for him to swim to the riverbank. A series of cascades began only twenty yards downstream. A man would be dashed to death if he tried to float through there. Not to mention the chill of the cold water hampering his strength.
No wonder Lord Rafe had a death grip on the rock.
James read the situation as well.
“He’s too far away for me to throw the rope to h
im,” the footman said.
“True.” Sophie surveyed the riverbank, noting a tree branch which extended over the river. “But if we secured the rope around the trunk there, I could inch along that branch”—she pointed to the tree—“and I could toss the rope to him.”
James frowned. “Best let me do it, my lady.”
Sophie dragged her eyes up and down the footman’s tall, stocky body. “You weigh far too much, James. You’ll break the branch. Best let me do it. Besides, you will be needed here to pull him in once he secures the rope to his person.”
James continued to protest, but Sophie was adamant.
She had spent her childhood up trees, scouring for insects and checking bird nests. Half-feral, her brothers had called her. They were, perhaps, not entirely wrong.
Needless to say, a sturdy tree limb posed little challenge.
Rafe studied them from his rock, eyes wide.
“Hold on!” she yelled to him, tucking up her skirts. James tied the rope to the tree trunk. She made a wide slipknot at the other end of the rope.
Of course, Rafe’s eyes only became wider once he realized their plan.
She saluted him, clenched the rope in her teeth, and reached upward, scrambling up the trunk with ease. Once she reached the branch, she then held onto the limb above, inching her way carefully down the tree branch, feeling with her feet. The branch dipped with her weight, lowering that much closer to Rafe. Her teeth clamped on the rope in her mouth.
“Are y-ye d-d-daft, lass?!” Rafe roared as she neared him, teeth chattering violently, his scar a slash in the pallor of his cheeks. “You’re g-going to g-get yourself k-killed!”
Even in such dire circumstances, the man continued to play the Scot. Was the behavior so truly ingrained then?
Sophie shook the thought free and inched a little farther. She wasn’t quite close enough to toss the rope yet. Water raced below her. One wrong step would send her tumbling in.
Rafe, of course, continued to berate her. “D-did ye not hear m-me, ye wee d-daftie?! Go back! Have the b-braw groom there do this. I w-willnae have yer b-blood on my hands!”
Almost there. She took another careful step before pulling the rope from her mouth and holding it in her hand with the tree limb above.
“Hush, you!” She called to him. “I know full well what I am about. Before leaving London, a dominant, primus rakehell gave me some excellent advice about the dangers of traveling by stagecoach. He mentioned something about brigands,” she replied, tone becoming more and more sardonic. “I, with my bluestocking ways, initially planned to discuss barn cats and verb the highwaymen into submission—”
He winced. “Lady Sophie—”
“But in the end, I chose to bring rope and other aids.” She waved the rope in her hand. “In other words . . . I came prepared.”
A small silence.
“I s-suppose ye think you’re c-clever.”
“I am excessively clever.”
Sophie inched forward another foot.
The branch cracked. She paused for a moment, assessing the stability of the limb. The tree was healthy and green, so the branch should continue to bend with her weight.
After a moment’s hesitation, she continued forward.
“Sophie, I m-mean it,” he said, sincerity in his voice, shoulders shaking from cold. “Ye m-must stop right there. You’re g-going to hurt yourself.”
“I understand perfectly what I am doing, my lord.”
“Do ye? Because from my vantage p-point, it looks like you’re about to j-join me in taking a c-cold swim in this river. Only you’re l-liable to have your b-brains dashed on the rushing c-cascade there.” He nodded toward the water racing downstream.
“Well, fortunately, I am also a strong swimmer and, last I checked, quite waterproof. If I get wet, I shan’t melt.” She slid forward the final foot, her head nearly above his.
“Sophie—” His voice a warning as he looked up to her.
She met his dark gaze, a wry smile on her lips. “I think what you meant to say was, ‘Why thank you Lady Sophie for having the presence of mind to affect my rescue. You are so very brave.’”
She finished by dangling the rope in front of his face. Rafe snagged it with one shaking hand, fishing the loop over his head and free shoulder, securing himself.
“You are most welcome,” she smirked. “I’m always ready and willing to help a laddie in distress.”
And with that, she turned and nodded at James to begin pulling Lord Rafe to shore.
As her footman grunted and hauled on the rope, Sophie scooted back down the branch.
Predictably, Lord Rafe beat her back to the riverbank, water sluicing off his kilt and dripping from his arms as he freed his shoulders from the rope, body still shaking from the cold.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Sophie jumped from the tree limb onto the riverbank, shaking her skirts free.
“Are you quite unharmed, Mr. Gordon?” she asked Lord Rafe, using his alias as they now had an audience in the curious James. “Aside from the cold, that is?”
Lord Rafe nodded and scraped a quivering hand through his hair. He unclasped the top of his kilt from a pin which held it at his shoulder, sending the long upper end of it tumbling behind him, the length nearly reaching his ankles. He began wringing the water from the dripping fabric, the tendons on the back of his hands popping in stark relief.
He finished wringing water out of his kilt and had begun shrugging out of his soaking coat before Sophie realized she was staring.
It was just . . . he was so wet. And his shirt was nearly transparent, plastering to the muscles of his arms and chest like a second skin, muscles that definitely merited a second and third glance. Throw in that scar on his cheek and the handsome cut of his jawline . . .
Sophie needed a moment to recover. Perhaps two.
She was woman enough to appreciate the view of a virile man.
It was merely biology, after all.
James cleared his throat at her side, holding out the heavy woolen lap blanket he had brought from the chaise.
Right.
No more awkward staring at the drenched Scottish rake.
More’s the pity.
Sophie took the blanket from James and passed it to Rafe.
Then, to discourage her wandering eyes, she turned around and walked back toward the bridge, James at her heels.
The passengers had managed to wheel the stagecoach off the bridge, allowing traffic to flow once more along the road. However, it was obvious that the stagecoach would be going no further. The accident appeared to have cracked the front axle.
“See that Mr. Gordon’s valise is loaded onto my carriage,” she ordered James. “We’ll drop him in the next town.”
James darted a glance back at Lord Rafe, his upper body wrapped in the blanket now, coming toward them.
“Are you quite sure, my lady?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” she replied. “I will say no more on the matter, James. I trust I can rely on your discretion.”
James nodded and strode off to collect Rafe’s valise, though his pursed mouth communicated his dislike of the idea.
Sophie struggled to care.
She was a widow. Who she traveled with and where she journeyed was no one’s business. And she was excessively curious as to why he needed to consult with Dr. Ross. She wanted to see if her theories were true.
She was simply conducting field research. It was science, nothing more.
Besides, given what she knew of a Rakus lasciviosus with strong primus tendencies, Lord Rafe’s opinion on the events of the past thirty minutes would be forthcoming in three, two, one—
“Ye are a wee bit daft to be climbing that tree in such a manner,” Lord Rafe hissed, coming to stop beside her, the blanket pulled tight around his upper body. Though wet hair stuck to his forehead, the worst of his shivering appeared to have stopped. “Ye could have been seriously injured attempting a trick like that.”
Sophie
looked down at her pelisse which was only slightly rumpled from the escapade.
“And yet, I appear to be entirely whole, my lord.”
“Lennon,” he countered. “The name is Lennon Gordon.”
“Very well, Mr. Gordon.”
A beat.
“I think I would prefer it if ye called me Lennon, lass.” He squinted, the motion tugging on his scar.
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Are ye sure?”
“Very. Speaking of very, you were very lucky I recognized your valise and realized what had occurred.” She raised an eyebrow, resting a hand on her hip. “And you still have not thanked me. I would have thought a Scot, even a pretend one, would have better manners.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
“Thank ye, Lady Sophie, for rescuing me,” he said most gallantly, punctuating the whole with an exquisitely lordly bow, even while holding that blanket around himself. “But ye didnae need to rescue me. Particularly not risking yer wee neck like that. I’m no damsel in distress.”
“Are you quite sure you’re not a damsel in distress? Because it seems to me that you were distressingly marooned on that rock.” Sophie shot a pointed look at his bare knees poking out the bottom of his kilt. “And you are wearing a skirt.”
A long pause.
“Did ye . . .” His gaze narrowed dramatically. He threw his shoulders back, chest out. “Did ye just call my kilt a skirt?”
She raised her brow higher and added a smirk. “Why, yes, I do believe I did.”
Everything in her tone added, And what are you going to do about it?
Lord Rafe took a step closer, forcing her to lift her chin to look him in the eye.
“Scots have started wars over an insult such as that,” he said.
“Why does that not surprise me?” She cocked an eyebrow and resisted the urge to pat his cheek. “A kilt is not a skirt, then?”
“Nae.” He all but growled at her. “It’s called a kilt because we Scots kilt the last man who called it a skirt.”
Another beat.
“You cannot be serious.” She rolled her eyes. “That is honestly the worst pun—”
“Ye dinnae want to fash with a Scot and his kilt, lass.” Lord Rafe raised a dark eyebrow and closed the remaining distance between them. She could practically feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. And how had he recovered his body heat so quickly? The fire of him singed her. “Unless it’s a more frolicsome sport ye have in mind . . .”