A Baron in Her Bed (2 page)

If only her father had such confidence in her on horseback. Since a fall from a horse had caused her mother’s death in India, he insisted she ride the small mare he had purchased for her. She had found the sidesaddle distinctly inferior to a man’s saddle.

Horatia rode past the cream-colored walls of the thatched manor house, its barren garden in winter slumber. Jumping The General over a gate, she continued on down the lane. Simon had been right. Ominous grey clouds edged with silver piled up on the horizon, and there was a hint of snow in the air.

Judging the bad weather to be hours away, Horatia turned her attention to the route she planned to take. She always rode away from the village across country where she was far less likely to be seen. The General knew the routine and took the right fork off the main road with little guidance. It was a long, straight run to the first bend in the narrow country lane, and she urged the horse into a gallop, his powerful legs lengthening his stride.

Horatia threw her head back and laughed out loud. It felt so good to have the sleek and elegant thoroughbred, all magnificent muscle and bone, galloping beneath her and to be free with the brisk breeze washing away the sluggish disposition that overtook her when she was too long in the house.

She hadn’t ridden like this for weeks because her father had begun to attend to business ventures by correspondence. But a matter with Lloyds needed to be dealt with in person and demanded his presence in London, where he would spend the night with her aunt in Mayfair.

At the thought of Aunt Emily’s intriguing poetry recitals and her neat townhouse, which was just a stroll from Hyde Park, Horatia huffed a regretful sigh. So close to museums, art galleries and restaurants, indeed, all that London had to offer.

They left the road and galloped over a meadow, drawing unimpressed glances from cows chewing the cud, and splashed through a shallow stream.

Her father had purchased the farm, Malforth Manor, set on twenty-five acres, with the plan for an Arcadian existence after his retirement from the army. Horatia had lived there with her aunt as a child. He’d returned from India ready for a quiet life away from the stresses of London, while Horatia, at seventeen years old, was ready to tackle the world. Five years had passed since then, each more uneventful than the last. The one bright spot in her life was when her godfather, Eustace Fennimore, came to dinner and regaled them with stories of London life. But that only made her more restless. A very popular man, revered in local society, Eustace was a close friend of her father’s. For a time, they were in the same regiment in India.

Her mother’s death had affected her father deeply. It seemed to Horatia inadvisable to depend on another human being so completely for your happiness, that one was devastated when that person was no longer there.

India had been so different. Her mother and father had been happy there. After spending her nursery years with Aunt Emily, she had been sent to join her parents in Calcutta. There the English had created a society as close to England’s as they could make it. They enjoyed their tea, gin to keep malaria at bay, and gathered for their beloved cricket and polo, although many ladies considered dealing with the natives something of a nuisance. It was in India that a servant had taught Horatia to ride astride when the family traveled into the higher country for the rainy season. Life in Calcutta was every bit as strict as English society, and Horatia looked forward to the rainy season every year when that tight noose was loosened.

Above her, a sparrow hawk making lazy circles in the sky suddenly swooped on its prey. Feeling the horse’s strong flanks beneath her, Horatia rode on, lost in her thoughts.

To relieve the boredom, she had taken to reading and writing poetry. Lord Byron in particular captured her interest. His poems excited her as no other poet did. He could never be called boring, he was so …rakish, a defiant, melancholy man, brooding over some mystery in his past.

Steam escaping her lips, Horatia quoted her favourite poem aloud, causing The General to prick up his ears.

“She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

She liked that Byron saw more than mere physical beauty in this woman. He offered a tantalizing picture of what life might be. She saw her life doomed to one of dull duties, especially if she married a resident of Digswell. The one proposal Horatia had received failed to stir in her even the smallest bit of excitement. Mr. Oakley reminded her of her father, not as the gallant young officer he had been, but as he now was! Her father wished her to marry and live nearby and had been busy searching for a suitable husband. And Mr. Oakley fitted his requirements perfectly.

Horatia envied her Aunt Emily’s freedom to pursue her love of the written word with no demanding spouse to hinder her, but because her father refused to allow her to go to London, such a future for her seemed so remote as to be nonexistent.

At least two hours had passed before Horatia guided the horse back towards the road. Distracted by her thoughts, she had ridden farther than she intended. A glance at the skies told her the storm bank was almost upon them. They would have to take their chances and return by the road. She urged The General into a gallop.

They came to the road that led to Malforth Manor but were still some miles away. She would be lucky to reach home before the storm hit. She eased the horse into a trot as they approached a sharp bend in the road, the way ahead hidden by a stand of oaks. Once round the corner, she gasped and pulled the horse up hard.

A body lay in the road.

Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse closer. With a quick search of the landscape, she saw a horse disappear over a hill with its reins trailing. She dismounted and approached the man with caution. Barely a leaf stirred. It was oddly still, and the air seemed hushed and quiet as death before the coming storm. It matched her mood as she stood wondering what to do about the problem before her.

The man sprawled on his side. Judging by his clothes, he was a gentleman. Beneath his multi-caped greatcoat his brown coat revealed the skill of the tailor. His cream double-breasted waistcoat was of very fine silk. Long legs were encased in tight-fitting buff-colored suede pantaloons. His mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.

He moaned.

Horatia knelt beside him and grasped his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

When he didn’t answer, she struggled to roll him onto his back. A nasty gash trickled blood over his forehead where a bruise would surely form.

The man’s dark hair was sticky with blood. “Can you hear me, sir?” His eyelids fluttered. She shouldn’t stare at him while he remained unconscious, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away. He had remarkable cheekbones. His dark looks reminded her of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably handsome face, his skin more swarthy than one usually saw in an English winter. There was a dimple in his chin and a hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw line. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the soft leather glove, glad to find his pulse strong. An expensive gold watch had fallen from his pocket. So, he hadn’t been robbed. It must have been an accident. She looked around for some sign of what had happened but could see nothing.

A gust of chill wind made her shiver, and she glanced up at the sky. Ash-grey snow clouds now hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”

Horatia stood and looked around. The road ran along the boundary of the Fortescue estate. Over the hill among the trees was a tiny hunting lodge. She’d passed it many times when she roamed the woods, although she hadn’t been there for years. Her godfather, Eustace, lived for a part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, but it was some distance away and the snow had begun to fall.

It was by far the closest shelter, but trying to get the motionless man onto a horse unaided would be impossible. She sighed. That was not an option.

Horatia looked back at him. He was large, tall, and broad shouldered. How on earth could she move him? And what would she do with him if she did? She looked up and down the deserted road with the hope that someone–preferably someone with big, strong arms–would appear to help her, and yet, she dreaded to be found in this invidious position. This was a quiet back road; most folk preferred the more direct route, so she couldn’t expect to be rescued soon.

She wondered if she should drag him under a tree and ride for help. As she considered this, the snow grew heavier. It settled over the ground and the prone man and touched her face like icy fingers. She couldn’t leave him out in the open, prey to the elements while she went for help. In bad weather it would take ages to ride to Digswell village. By the time she located the apothecary and brought him here, the man would be near death. Somehow she had to move him off the road and under shelter, although in the dead of winter, there was little to be had.

Horatia bent down, wrapped his limp arm around her shoulders, and caught a whiff of expensive bergamot. She took hold of his firm waist and tried to pull him towards the trees, but he was too heavy. She eased him down again.

Horatia pulled off her coat and shuddered at the cold. She tucked it around him. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, and worse, the prospect of a blizzard loomed. The wind gathered force. It stirred the tops of the trees around them and whipped the snowflakes into chaotic spirals of white.

Panic forced her to act. She took hold of the man’s arms and tried again to drag him. In small spurts she edged him closer to the scant shelter of the nearest tree, an oak whose dead leaves remained, curled and brown. Forced to pause, she took several deep breaths. He was quite a weight. She broke into a sweat despite the absence of her coat and the frigid air.

Horatia was severely winded and gasping by the time she reached the tree. It was a victory of sorts but afforded very little protection. She propped him against the trunk.

His eyelids rose. Startling pale blue eyes stared uncomprehendingly into hers.

Horatia grabbed her coat and turned her back to button it. “You’ve had an accident, sir.” She lowered her voice. “We’re in for a snow storm. I need to get you under cover. Can you help?”

He nodded then grimaced and put his hand to his head.

“If I help you onto the horse, do you think could you remain in the saddle?”

“You are kind, sir. But that is something I shall not know until I try,
n’est pas
?” His pleasant tenor voice sounded woolly, and she doubted he could manage much.

“You’re French?” Horatia queried in a gruff tone, relieved because he had not seen through her disguise. She had almost forgotten it herself because his blue eyes were so distracting.

“
Oui
. But do not be afraid. I am not your enemy.”

She went to grab his hat. She dusted it off and handed it to him. “I’m not afraid, monsieur.” That he was French surprised her. The war with France had ended, but it was still unusual to meet a Frenchman in her quiet corner of England.

She whistled to The General, and the horse came to nudge her hand.

The man planted the brown bevor hat gingerly on his head. He tried to rise with the trunk for support, sliding his back up the bark. “I am as weak as a
bébé
.” He gritted his teeth and succeeded to drag himself to his feet. He stayed upright with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Horatia eyed the sixteen-hand horse. She tucked her shoulder under his arm and tried to lift him. “Up you go, monsieur.”

He looked doubtful. “I am no feather-weight!”

The wind began to howl, and The General shuffled about. “We don’t have much choice. Please try.”

The Frenchman placed his foot in the stirrup and seized the pommel. She crumpled under his weight. He staggered, and they almost fell. On the second attempt, he managed with a grunt to throw his leg over. He slumped in the saddle, his body drooping over the stallion’s neck.

“If you can hang on, monsieur, I’ll take you to a nearby shelter.”

He closed his eyes, and she feared he would pass out again, but she wasn’t about to wait for that to happen. She grabbed the reins and led the stallion off the road, up through the bushes, and into the woods. She was glad The General was also sweet tempered.

The wind picked up and moaned high in the tall pines. She shivered. “You’re a good lad,” the man muttered through clenched teeth.

“Not far now.” Horatia worried about the furor her male garb would cause when she rode to the village for help. A terrible scandal would ensue, and her father would be furious. It couldn’t be avoided. A man’s life was at stake. It had always been risky to ride dressed this way, one of the reasons she liked to do it. She would have to leave the village forever, perhaps enter a convent. That thought made her quake. And then other more attractive possibilities flitted through her mind. A governess? She liked children but she lacked the patience to make a good teacher. Treading the boards? Yes, a career on the stage would be more appropriate; nuns would find her very difficult to live with.