Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (4 page)

"But he will not be lone and lorn. Your little cousin will be
here. Oh, Dev!" She tightened her clasp on his arm. "Mama will be
so
titillated! When does he arrive?"

"Any day, I collect. Uncle Alastair wants me to take charge of
him and get him settled down. If he stays, I fancy he'll be off to
school so soon as he's old enough."

"Stays? Dev, is he to stay with you? At Aspenhill?"

"Well I fancy he is. Dash it all, Yolande, the brat's an
orphan. Cannot very well have a Tyndale on the Parish—now can we?"

She laughed, but then said in her warm-hearted fashion, "Poor
little fellow. How strange everything will seem to him.
Do
let us go and tell Mama. Dev, I can scarce wait to see the child!"

Mrs. Arabella Drummond carefully replaced the luxurious furred
pelisse in its large box, folded the silver paper over it, and took the
lid Yolande handed her. It was a trifle difficult to put this back on,
for the landaulette, although very well sprang, jolted erratically over
the rutted surface of the lane. "I really think it a sad extravagance,"
mourned Mrs. Drummond, as she tied the string about the box. "Likely
Rosemary will be better in plenty of time for your mama to accompany
you, and you won't need me at all. What a waste!" She shook her head
over the new pelisse, and sighed heavily.

"But it looked so nice on you dear," said Yolande, squeezing
her arm encouragingly. "Besides, even if you do not come to Scotland
you need a nice warm pelisse. You feel the cold so in the wintertime."

Mrs. Drummond wiped away a tear. "Oh, I do, and how kind of
you to remember that, dear child. But were I not required to chaperone
you on your travels, I could not have allowed your papa to purchase so
costly a garment for little me."

"Well, do not worry about it now." Yolande looked up at blue
skies, flying white clouds, the lacy branches of trees overhead, and
the tall hedgerows that hemmed in the open carriage on either side. "Is
it not a glorious morning?"

"It is indeed," agreed Mrs. Drummond, but added lugubriously,
"I wonder if we shall have any sight of the sun whilst we are in
Scotland. I do trust the weather is not too inclement. Rain is so
lowering."

"It has been several years since last I visited my
grandfather," said Yolande, struggling to remain cheerful. "But it
seems to me that the weather at that time was delightful, and when I
came home Arthur said it had rained in Sussex almost the entire time we
were away."

"Dear Arthur," murmured Mrs. Drummond. "I pray for him every
night. Only think how wonderful it will be does he come safely home."

Yolande blinked at her. "Good heavens! Why ever should he not?
The war is over now. Arthur is unhurt and, to judge from his letters,
does not find service with the Army of Occupation an unpleasant task."

"No, for he never has been one to complain. However miserably
he may be circumstanced. And only think, my love, your poor brother was
deep in that horrid fight at—er—"

"San Sebastian."

"Yes. Such a frightful ordeal! And then—that hideous Waterloo."

"Yet came through both unscathed, Aunt."

"Exactly so! And is it not just like Fate, that having lived
through such murderous encounters, a man may slip on a cobblestone, or
trip on a stair, and—when 'tis least expected—" She broke off with a
shriek.

Yolande had a brief impression of a horseman hurtling over the
hedgerow to land directly in their path. The horses neighed shrilly,
the coachman shouted, the landaulette lurched, swerved, and plunged
into the ditch. Clutching desperately at the side, Yolande caught a
glimpse of Aunt Arabella sailing into a clump of lupins. She thought
they would surely overturn, but with a muddled sense of surprise
discovered that the team was still running. The landaulette bounded and
rocked. The wheels hit the lane once more, and the vehicle fairly flew
along. For a moment Yolande was too stunned to notice anything more
than that they were moving very fast. Then, with a gasp of horror she
saw that Tom Bates no longer occupied the driver's seat. She was alone
in the vehicle! Her teeth jolted together as the wheels hit a deep rut
and the landaulette bounced into the air. Still clinging to the side,
she leaned as far forward as she dared, but the reins were far out of
reach, trailing in the dirt beneath the pounding hooves of the
thoroughly panicked team.

The rush of air past her face had already torn the bonnet from
her head, and the curls, which her maid had styled into a pretty
tumbling about her face, had whipped free and were blowing wildly. She
gave a gasp of fear as they shot around a bend in the lane. Two elderly
gentlemen, taking an equally elderly spaniel for a dignified stroll,
glanced around, saw disaster bearing down upon them and, with
surprisingly agile leaps, followed the spaniel into the ditch. The team
rushed past and passed also the turn that led to Park Parapine. A scant
mile ahead was the approach to the busy London Road. To enter that
crowded highway at this speed could only mean death. With a sob of
terror, Yolande peered ahead. Her only chance was to find a clear patch
of grass and leap from the speeding carriage. But there was no clear
patch of grass, only the hedgerows flashing past in a dark blur, and
the ditch beside the road that was at best rutted and uneven, and in
places strewn with rocks and fallen branches.

Fighting for the breath that the wind snatched away, she
screamed, "Whoa! Whoa!" But her voice, shrill with fear, served only to
further alarm the terrified animals. With flying manes, rolling eyes,
and pounding hooves, they galloped ever faster along the narrow lane.
Far ahead now, Yolande could glimpse the signpost pointing to the
highway. Once they reached it, there would be no possibility of
stopping in time. She would be doomed! Her horrified eyes fastened on
that fateful sign. The pointing finger seemed to leap towards her. She
could see the letters. Beyond now were the shapes of wains and
lumbering wagons; the swifter passage of a mail or stagecoach… "God!"
she sobbed faintly. "Oh—my dear… God… ! Help me!"

The thunder of hooves seemed to deepen until it filled her
ears. Then, she saw with a thrill of hope that a horse raced alongside.
A tall grey horse with an unlovely hammer-head, eyes starting, and
gaping mouth foam-flecked. But it was gaining slowly. It was level.
Surely the man bent low over the pommel could not hope to stop the
maddened team? But just the knowledge that someone was trying to help
comforted her, She caught a glimpse of a grim face, light brown hair,
whipped back by the wind, and broad shoulders. But—dear heaven! The
signpost was here! And past! Even above the rattle of wheels and the
beat of twelve racing hooves, Yolande could hear the sudden frantic
clamour of a coachman's horn.

The man on the grey horse leaned far over and with reckless
daring grabbed for the trailing reins. Squealing, the panicked bay
beside him swerved. The landaulette rocked perilously. The would-be
rescuer was all but torn from the saddle, and fought to right himself.
Yolande sobbed. "He cannot regain his seat now," she thought. "He will
fall and be killed… with me!"

But somehow he managed to drag himself up. Again leaning to
the side, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, his narrowed eyes
judging the distance, then launched himself at the bay. Incredibly, his
gloved hands caught the harness. A lithe twist, and he was astride the
terrified horse. Another instant and he had recovered the reins.

Yolande clung to the seat of the landaulette, numbed, and too
afraid even to pray, for the London Road was dead ahead.

A stagecoach driver, his scared gaze on the runaways, was
heaving at the reins, cursing the carter ahead of him and the stream of
traffic to his right.

The man astride the bay made no effort to halt the team.
Instead, he bent forward, gripping the reins with one hand, stroking
the foam-splattered neck with the other.

The stagecoach seemed to leap at them. A welter of
sound—shouts, wheels, neighing, snorting horses—filled Yolande's ears.
The carter glanced back over his shoulder and saw the flying team and
the rocking carriage. His eyes rounded with shock. He cracked his whip
belatedly, with the result that his frightened horses promptly plunged
off the road. In the same instant, Yolande's would-be rescuer succeeded
in turning the team. They raced along beside the welter of traffic, but
now the carter's heavy wagon was directly in their path. To have been
so close to safety only to be faced with death again brought a choking
sob from Yolande. Tears blinded her and she closed her eyes. She heard
a male voice screaming profanities and a keening squeal as the wheels
of the landaulette scraped those of the wagon. The wild, headlong
gallop went on, but the seconds dragged past and there was no
shattering crash, no hideous shock.

Opening her eyes a crack, she saw trees about them again. The
cacophonous roar of traffic had faded. He had turned the team! Somehow,
he had avoided the carter and the tragedy that had seemed so inevitable.

She knew a great surge of relief and at once also experienced
an almost debilitating weakness. With an effort she relinquished her
grip on the side of the landaulette. Her fingers were white and
cramped, and she was temporarily unable to straighten them.

The horses slowed and stopped, and the gentleman who had
mastered them swung from the back of the bay and strode to the vehicle.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked, scanning Yolande's white face
anxiously.

He looked to be about eight and twenty. His hair was windblown
and untidy about his tanned face. It was a strong face with a jut of a
chin and a Roman nose that had evidently at sometime been broken. The
mouth was wide and well shaped, the brow high and intelligent. A
pleasant-looking person, she thought vaguely, whose best feature was a
pair of long, well open grey eyes under shaggy brows. He had asked her
a question, but she could not seem to reply. Concern came into the grey
eyes. They were decidedly nice eyes, she confirmed, and very kind. She
closed her own, and quietly fainted.

Something icy cold splashed into Yolande's face. She sat up,
gasping.

"No! Please lie back, ma'am."

She was sitting on the rag from the landaulette, which had
been spread out in the field beyond the lane. Her rescuer knelt beside
her, water dripping from the handkerchief he held as he watched her
with fearful anxiety.

"Oh, dear," said Yolande. "You have lost your hat, I'm afraid."

He bent to slip an arm gingerly about her shoulders. "It is of
no importance," he declared in a deep, slow drawl, gently pulling her
back down.

She struggled, protesting, "I do not want to lie down!"

Nonetheless, she was lowered to the rug. "Ladies who faint,"
he said firmly, "should always lie flat for a time, otherwise they
become sick."

"You are very determined, sir!" She frowned a little. "And I
do not faint. Usually. This is my first time, in fact."

A gleam of amusement crept into his eyes. "The more reason you
should obey me, ma'am. I have had some experience, for my mama suffered
from poor health and fainted frequently." He raised one hand to quiet
her attempted response. "You are exceedingly pale. I do trust you are
not hurt, or badly bruised?"

"Oh!" she gasped, memory returning with a rush. "What nonsense
I am talking! You saved my life!"

"Having first very stupidly endangered it," he said gravely,
sitting down facing her and resting one arm across a drawn-up knee.

"You?
You
were the idiot who came
leaping into the lane?"

He inclined his head. "Idiot, indeed. I wish I might deny it.
I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I'd no idea there was a lane—thought
it was just a hedge."

Incredulous, she stared at him. "But—you
must
have known! You are certainly aware that hedgerows—" And she stopped,
the wry lift of his brows alerting her. Aside from a hint of the
military about the cut of his coat, he was dressed as one might expect
of a well-bred young man out riding. There was nothing of the dandy
about him; his shirt points were not exaggeratedly high, his cravat
was, if anything, rather carelessly tied, and the dark blue jacket that
hugged his broad shoulders did not give one the impression that two
strong men had struggled for half an hour so as to insert him into it.
His light brown hair was a little longer than was the current fashion
and, although it showed a slight tendency to wave, it was neither
curled nor had it been brushed into one of the currently popular
styles. A typical enough young Briton, yet—there was the faintest
suggestion of an accent in his speech.

The grin that curved his mouth widened. "You've rumbled me,"
he chuckled.

"I—am not sure," she said hesitantly. "Are you—American,
perhaps?"

"No, ma'am. I come from Upper Canada. Just landed at Dover
yesterday. I haven't been astride a horse for—er, several months, so
started off bright and early this morning."

"Oh! What a coincidence! I should like to sit up now, if you
please, for I am not hurt and not at all dizzy. Thank you."

Yolande freed her hand from his strong clasp and turned
slightly, straightening her gown. "I am expecting a cousin to arrive
from your country. Were there any little boys sailing with you, sir?"

"If there were, ma'am, I was not so fortunate as to have met
any." He added a rueful, "I chance to be one of those unfortunates who
cannot tolerate water travel. I trust that will not give you a disgust
of me."

"If it did," she said with a flash of dimples, "I should not
know with whom I am disgusted."

"Oh, egad! What a simpleton I am! Please know that Craig
Winters is humbly and most apologetically at your service, Miss—er… ?"
His gaze slanted to her left hand and was thwarted by the mitten she
wore.