by Corwin, Amy
Chilton limped the rest of the way and threw the walking stick into the gig. Using his arms, he pulled himself up, settling onto the seat next to Miss Helen. He gazed at the reins in her blue-gloved hands and restrained the desire to grab the leathers away from her.
“Should I drive?” He hoped Archer would take the hint and retrieve the reins from his niece. His hands twitched as he watched Miss Archer’s grip tighten.
“I’m driving,” she replied, clicking her tongue. The horse shifted in its traces but didn’t otherwise move.
“Archer—”
“You are in no condition to drive,” Archer replied, settling back in his seat.
He shook his head, too spent to argue.
He leaned back and resigned himself to the inevitable. The thin, nervous girl next to him was exactly the sort to panic when a vehicle approached from the opposite direction. She would over-maneuver, and they’d all end up in a ditch.
And he didn’t feel physically up to the challenge of dragging himself, and their gig, out of a ditch. Archer obviously had no intention of putting himself to any effort, even if an accident should occur.
Well, with luck, the impending disaster would quickly and cleanly break Chilton’s neck. And he could finally get the rest he so desperately needed.
“Uncle John,” the young lady said while nudging Archer with her elbow.
“Oh, yes, may I introduce my niece, Miss Helen Archer? Helen, this is Mr. Dacy.”
“Is he sick?” Her whispered words were remarkably clear to him, despite Archer’s comment in the attic room about his hearing loss.
“No, no, my dear. Simply a slight accident. Nothing at all, really.” He added some other comments, speaking quietly into her ear.
She eyed Chilton with dismay. Given his clothing and incapacitated state, he couldn’t entirely blame her.
The murmuring continued.
Finally, Miss Helen said in a louder voice, “But, I don’t think Oriana—”
“Just so, my dear,” Archer said, cutting her off. “But we’ll devise something. I should think your sister would be pleased to have company after all these weeks—a distraction, in fact. So we shall have to think of a way to divert her when we arrive so she won’t send us all packing before she realizes how happy she is to have our company.”
“Yes, but I do not think a strange man—” She gave Chilton a darkling glance as if she feared he might have taken advantage of her uncle's good nature to foist himself upon them.
He shifted uncomfortably. She was right although she didn’t know it.
“Nonsense!” Archer said. “You don’t fall off a horse and then avoid them. You persevere. We shall persevere, dear Helen. Your sister’s broken engagement won’t make her dislike all men, no matter what she has said about the perfidy and dishonesty of the male animal. Trust me—we will find a way to convince her Mr. Dacy is entirely harmless. He is my friend. It’ll be deuced boring at The Orchards without him.”
Miss Helen cast another suspicious glance at Chilton before she leaned forward and clicked her tongue again. This time, the horse obeyed and trotted forward, jerking the gig into motion.
His wound throbbed at the movement. He gripped his thigh and shifted, attempting to stretch out his aching leg. Frustration, sharpened by his discomfort, flared, and he glanced angrily at the Archers. With a sharp jerk, he thrust his leg over the edge of the gig and leaned back. But the small gig was really meant for only two people and the narrow seat back could barely accommodate his shoulders. His arm pressed uncomfortably against Miss Helen, confirming his previous observation.
The half-grown child was horribly bony.
However, he was damned if he would try to fold his leg back into the seat and sit up straight. So he ignored Miss Helen’s black looks and stretched out an arm along the back of the seat. When she frowned pointedly at him, he gave her a bland smile.
She flushed and stuck out her lower lip, as little impressed by him as he was by her. Obviously no more than seven and ten, her attempts at adult aloofness rather amused him. And she was pretty enough if she would only stop frowning. When she got a little older, she might even be interesting to the brainless sort of young man who thought a good wife only required a pretty face, blonde hair and blue eyes.
Which was too bad, really, since her eyes weren’t completely devoid of intelligence. And after a few miles, he realized she was a tolerably good driver, too. Despite passing several other carriages, she hadn’t panicked or sent them into a ditch.
Yet.
Unfortunately, Chilton’s interest in his companions waned as his concerns about bleeding to death on England’s rutted roads increased. The gig wasn’t well sprung, and it jolted over every small pothole. He moved on the hard seat, stiffening and bracing each time he spotted a bump in the road. Noting his rigidity, Miss Helen made an obvious effort to maneuver around the worst spots, but most of the time, the ruts were unavoidable.
Following an eon or two of agony, they finally left London’s cobbled streets behind and turned down a country lane overhung with shady trees. He stared into the greenish gloom ahead and felt his heart sink. Deep holes and ridges striated the muddy lane, giving it a rippled appearance more like the ocean than land.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Helen said, allowing the horse to slow slightly. “I’m sorry. The road is very rough—”
“Just go on—as fast as you can.” He gritted his teeth and edged around until his uninjured leg and hip supported most of his weight. He gripped the seat back, bracing himself.
“Only a few more miles,” Archer said with encouragement. “We shall be there soon.”
Miss Helen clicked her tongue, and they began down the lane, the gig bouncing over the gullies. Suddenly, a large, filthy white dog dashed in front of them. It turned in the middle of the road and growled at their horse. The startled horse shied away and the dog took advantage of this to prove its fearlessness. It darted around the nervous horse, nipping at its hooves and barking boisterously.
With a gasp, Miss Helen pulled back on the reins. “Hold, Buttercup! Settle down,” she called out soothingly.
The horse whinnied with alarm and shook its mane, nearly trampling the dog.
Chilton swallowed convulsively and pressed a hand against his thigh. A drop of cold sweat stung his eyes, and he ran an arm over his damp forehead. He had a hard time concentrating on anything except his physical discomfort and a raging desire to grab the reins and head back to London to find a decent bottle of brandy.
“Stop! Catch that dog!” Archer shouted.
With a jerk, he glanced around. “What? What dog?”
“Get that animal!” Archer replied, pointing at the dog now standing at the side of the road. The dog yipped and stared back curiously. “It is just the thing! A man who owns a dog can be trusted. That animal will convince Oriana of your integrity. She will undoubtedly agree you must stay with us if you bring your dog with you.”
“I don’t have a dog,” Chilton said, trying not to sound confused. Why the devil should he need to prove anything to Miss Oriana Archer?
He just needed to get the damn vowel and get out before any of the Archers killed him.
“You have a dog now,” Archer said in a plumy voice rich with satisfaction.
When he didn’t move, Miss Helen nudged him on the arm. A disgusted expression pinched her pretty face, reflecting her contempt for his mental abilities. He didn’t feel up to proving otherwise. While he understood very well that she couldn’t get out without climbing over him, he refused to descend and catch a stray, mongrel dog.
If Archer wanted the beast, he could get it.
“Please get down and get the dog. Please.” She enunciated each word patiently. “Didn’t you hear my uncle?”
“It will prove you’re an honorable man,” Archer added.
“I sincerely doubt that. I am not going near that animal.”
He didn’t care what Archer said about men who owned dogs. He wasn’t about to ado
pt a mangy cur from the side of the road just to convince some unknown woman he was trustworthy.
He rubbed his sore leg, irritated by the roughness of his trousers. If his clothing didn’t convince Miss Helen that he was a rogue, then a filthy stray dog surely would.
“Nonsense—it’s the perfect solution,” Archer said.
Chilton studied the animal. It gazed at him with rich brown eyes, and he felt his resolution waver. The dog wagged its tail while its pink tongue lolled out in an idiotically cheerful expression. He almost smiled.
“Oh, do be reasonable,” Miss Helen added. “Who else can get the dog? Do you want me to climb over you?”
“No,” he replied. However, even as he spoke, he swung his legs over the side of the gig.
His landing was undignified, although he did manage to suppress his cry of anguish to avoid scaring the dog. Breathing harshly, he gripped the side of the gig and stared at the mongrel. It sat and eyed him curiously. When Chilton glanced up, the daft pair in the gig beamed down with approval.
He sighed and straightened.
The dog sniffed at him and wagged his tail. Chilton advanced a step. The dog stood up and retreated.
“Here, doggie,” he cooed self-consciously, feeling like a complete fool. “Come, doggie.”
The dog whined and trotted closer. He lunged. Grabbing the long, knotted fur on the animal’s neck, he nearly collapsed when the dog braced its paws and tried to pull away. With an effort, he managed to maintain his hold until his head stopped spinning.
Slowly, the mongrel’s whimpers and struggling diminished. To his gratitude, the dog finally resorted to licking his face instead of biting.
“Good man! Now hand him into the carriage,” Archer said. “Then climb in. Mustn’t miss tea, you know.”
By this time, Chilton was more than happy to miss tea if it meant parting company with the pair of lunatics in the gig. He certainly felt the stirrings of sympathy for the future target of Archer’s trick, the unknown Oriana.
After handing the dog to Miss Helen, he straightened and climbed awkwardly back into his seat. When she thrust the dog into his lap, his control snapped. The wound in his thigh burned with renewed, pulsating agony. He didn’t bother to stifle either his groans or his foul language as he twisted in the seat.
Something warm trickled down to his knee. He shifted again.
Massaging his thigh, he felt a damp spot running from his waist to his knee. He shifted the dog. The animal growled at him. He ignored it and studied his fingers. They were damp, but not stained with blood.
A whiff told him the dog had previously been even more uncomfortable than he was. However, unlike Chilton, the lucky dog had found relief.
He closed his eyes and sat back in exhausted resignation.
When they finally halted in front of a two story brick mansion, most of the dampness in his trousers had dried in the breeze. He could hardly move, however. His muscles had stiffened, and all the sensation in his legs had ceased twenty minutes ago.
He kneaded the muscles in his good thigh, only to have the dog misinterpret his intentions. It grabbed his wrist in its mouth and tentatively chewed his forearm before releasing him. Then the dog drooled and whined as if he tasted bad. Only iron determination prevented him from knocking the mongrel sharply on the head to teach it manners.
When he glanced around, he caught sight of a straw-haired youth. The young man goggled at him and then ran around the side of the house shouting something unintelligible.
Chilton felt a strong urge to run away himself.
“That tears it,” Archer said. “Joshua will certainly tell Oriana, now, so be prepared. Helen, remember Mr. Dacy is an old friend of the family and is in need of a rest cure. And this is his devoted dog.”
“Yes, I know,” Miss Helen said with an air of optimism. “Oriana can never resist a dog. I am persuaded she won’t mind Mr. Dacy once she sees his dog.”
“Oh, for God’s sa—” Chilton said.
“We can only hope.” Archer jumped out of the gig.
Catching Miss Helen’s waist, Archer assisted her to descend, leaving Chilton and the mongrel in sole possession of the gig. The reins lay limply next to him on the wooden seat. He fought a desperate urge to grab them and turn old Buttercup back toward the relative safety of London.
He was just fingering the leathers when Archer whistled and snapped his fingers. The dog obligingly stood up in Chilton’s lap, unerringly placing its hind paw directly on the bullet wound.
Pain flashed up his leg. Chilton yelped. The dog yipped in response and leaped down to Archer. It wagged its tail vigorously and pranced around Archer’s legs before turning to bark encouragement at him.
He gripped the reins and lifted them, thinking of his quiet, safe flat in London.
The front door opened.
A woman danced down the steps, her feet barely skimming the stairs. With a laugh, she ran to Archer and his niece. She wrapped her arms around Helen and embraced her. She was a trifle shorter than Helen, and her head was wreathed with thick, brown ringlets under a lacy cap. After a hug, she ran into Archer’s arms.
Helen shrieked with joy and clasped both her uncle and the woman tightly. The woman laughed again, the sound vibrating with joy and excitement.
The dog jumped around, wagging its tail. As the babble of high-pitched voices increased, the dog yelped more vigorously, echoing their delight and seeking attention.
“Oriana! It’s been ages!” Miss Helen squealed.
“My child!” Archer said, kissing the woman—apparently the mysterious Oriana—on both cheeks. “You look lovely!”
“Uncle John! Helen! I am so pleased to see you! I’ve been feeling dreadfully abandoned this last month.” She kissed the cheeks of both Archer and her sister again and clasped their hands tightly. “I am so relieved to see you both!”
The dog, left out of the orgy of kissing, barked and jumped up on the lady’s muslin gown. Her hand absently brushed over her skirts. When her fingertips touched the curly head, she glanced down.
“What’s this? A dog? Uncle John, what have you done now?”
At her words, his chest tightened. She knew. How could they have hoped to fool her with such an obvious distraction? She was too intelligent for all of them. He didn't need to know her to understand that much.
Archer harrumphed and waggled his brows in the direction of the gig.
Chilton reluctantly dropped the reins and nodded in their direction. With a great deal of care, he climbed out of the gig with only one, soft grunt. Then, wobbling slightly, he looked at the Archers, waiting for Archer to make the next move.
Miss Archer turned toward him. Her brown eyes flashed and caught his.
In that instant, he felt a rare and overwhelming sensation of complete understanding and acknowledgement. A sense akin to stumbling into a beloved friend on the street filled him. As if he had found a boon companion with whom he could let down his guard, share a tankard of ale, and laugh over a story. Someone who knew him and didn’t care about his faults and foibles.
Only once or twice in his life had he experienced such intense, immediate camaraderie and familiarity—and never with a woman. Women were strange, incomprehensible creatures, flighty and driven by strange whims. He had never felt completely at ease, or simpatico with one before.
He reeled, caught off balance and unprepared for the pull of his strong awareness of her. He was defenseless against his reaction and the intense longing he felt.
She stood just a few feet away, tempting him like a stream filled with crystalline, cool water after lonely years of sterile draught.
Then, the breath he held seeped out. He remembered where, and who, he was. He was on a mission, even if it was for his father and not Lord Castlereagh this time. He couldn’t allow his concentration to lapse or see friendship where none existed.
With a stiff smile, he acknowledged her greeting. He took a step forward, but his wounded leg threatened to collapse under him. Stumb
ling, he grabbed the side of the gig. He swallowed convulsively and pushed back the pain he had briefly forgotten.
“Uncle John—” her voice rose—“is your driver quite well?”
“Oh, yes. Now, Oriana, let me explain—”
“He doesn’t appear very well—is he inebriated?”
“Certainly not!” Archer replied.
She crossed her arms over her bosom, her face set in disbelief. “I’m not sure I should believe you. And Helen, I hold you responsible. Did you leave Uncle John unattended in London? You know what happens when he is let loose without supervision.” Her eyes flashed to Chilton before focusing on her hapless sister. “Aunt Victoria will be ever so cross with us. Didn’t she write to tell you she expected you to escort Uncle John here two days ago so he wouldn’t get into trouble gambling? I knew I should have gone to fetch him myself!”
Chilton gazed at Miss Archer, barely hearing her words in his attempt to evaluate her and his unaccustomed reaction. She was several years older and much less ethereal than her sister, Miss Helen. In fact, she was…earthy. Not plump, but well-endowed in a way that many an Italian painter would have appreciated.
He certainly appreciated it, remembering Miss Helen’s bony shoulder.
As he gazed at her round, dimpled face, he nearly sighed. Miss Archer’s gaze caught his again as if she, also, felt that invisible thread of sympathy. Her eyes were almost black and sparkled with warmth, despite her scolding tone.
And once more, something stirred inside him. Some longing or hope he thought had died long ago. Some sense of coming home.
“I am sorry, Oriana. I collected Uncle John as soon as I got the letter. Truly, I did.” Miss Helen clutched her sister’s arm in her desire to convince her.
“Indeed? Well, Uncle? I am waiting. Precisely who is your...friend?” she asked.
“Ah, yes. Miss Oriana Archer, may I present Mr. Chilton Dacy? He is, um, a friend...” His voice drifted off as if he wasn’t sure how to explain.