The Ideal Bride (2 page)

 
A feeling of certainty gripped him; it was the right time for him to go forward and marry, to build another family here, the next generation, to put down deeper roots and grow into the next phase of his life.

 
The lane was a succession of curves, the trees and undergrowth thick enough to screen sounds at any distance; by the time the rattle of the fast-approaching carriage, the thud of flying hooves, reached him, the carriage was almost upon him.

 
He just had time to draw Atlas to the side of the lane before a gig, out of control and careening wildly, exploded around the bend.

 
It flashed past, heading toward the Manor. Grim-faced, pale as death, a slim woman wrestled with the reins, desperately trying to control the horse.

 
Michael cursed and wheeled Atlas. He was thundering in the gig’s wake before he’d even thought. Then he did, and cursed again. Carriage accidents were his worst nightmare; the threat of witnessing another sank like a spur into his side. He urged Atlas on.

 
The gig was rocketing, almost flying; the horse would soon tire, but the lane led only to the Manor—and that would be reached too soon.

 
He’d been born at the Manor, had lived his first nineteen years there; he knew every foot of the lane. Atlas was fresh; dropping the reins, Michael rode with hands and knees.

 
They were gaining, but not enough.

 
Soon the lane would become the drive, which ended in a sharp turn into the forecourt before the Manor steps. The horse would take the curve; the gig wouldn’t. It would overturn, the lady would be thrown… onto the rocks edging the front beds.

 
Inwardly cursing, he pushed Atlas on. The big gelding responded, stretching out, legs flashing as they gained inch by inch on the wildly rocking gig. They were almost alongside…

 
The gates flashed up, then were behind.

 
No more time.

 
Gathering himself, Michael sprang from the saddle to the gig. He caught the seat, dragged himself half over it. Lunging across the lady, he grabbed the reins and yanked hard.

 
The lady screamed.

 
So did the horse.

 
Michael hung on with all his strength and hauled back. There was no time—no drive left—to worry about anything but halting the horse.

 
Hooves skidded; the horse screamed again, swung sideways—and halted. Michael grabbed the brake—too late. Momentum whipped the gig around; pure luck kept it upright.

 
The lady was flung out of the gig onto the grassy verge.

 
He was thrown after her.

 
She landed facedown; he sprawled half atop her.

 
For an instant, he couldn’t move—couldn’t draw breath, couldn’t think. Reactions—dozens—poured through him. The slender, fragile body trapped beneath his, delicate yet elementally womanly, sent protectiveness flaring—only to trigger horror and nascent fury over what had so nearly transpired. Over what had been risked.

 
Then fear welled, black, roiling, irrational and old, dark and deep. It swelled, gripped hard, strangled all else.

 
Hooves shifted on the gravel—he looked around. The horse, blowing hard, tried to walk, but the gig dragged; the horse stopped. Atlas had halted on the other side of the lawn and stood watching, ears pricked.

 
“Ooof!”

 
Beneath him, the lady struggled. His shoulder lay across her back, his hips anchoring her thighs; she couldn’t move until he did.

 
He rolled back, sat up. His gaze fell on the stone monument, two yards away.

 
The terror of screaming horses filled his mind.

 
Jaw setting, he drew in a tight breath and got to his feet. Watched, grim-faced, as the lady pushed back, then swung around to sit.

 
He reached down, grabbed her hands, hauled her unceremoniously to her feet. “Of all the stupid,
witless
—” He broke off, fought to shackle his temper, soaring on the wings of that roiling, irrational fear. Lost the battle. Hands rising to his hips, he glared at its cause. “If you can’t handle the reins, you shouldn’t be driving.” He snapped the words out, didn’t care if they cut. “You came within yards of serious injury if not
death
!”

 
For an instant, he wondered if she was deaf; she gave no indication she’d heard him.

 
Caroline Sutcliffe dusted her gloved hands, and thanked her stars she’d worn gloves. Ignoring the solid lump of male reverberating with aggravation before her—she had no idea who he was; she hadn’t yet seen his face—she shook out her skirts, inwardly grimaced at the grass stains, then straightened the bodice, the sleeves, her gauzy scarf. And finally consented to look up.

 
And up—he was taller than she’d thought. Wider of shoulder, too… the physical shock when he’d appeared beside her in the gig, compounded when he’d landed atop her on the grass, flashed back into her mind; she thrust it out again. “Thank you, sir, whoever you are, for your rescue, however ungracious.” Her tone would have done a duchess credit—cool, confident, assured and haughty. Precisely the right tone to use on a presumptuous male. “However—”

 
Her rising gaze reached his face. She blinked. The sun was behind him; she stood in full light, but his face was shadowed.

 
Lifting her hand, she shaded her eyes and unabashedly peered. At a strong-featured face with a square jaw and the harsh, angular planes of her own class. A patrician face with a wide brow delimited by straight dark brows over eyes memory painted a soft blue. His hair was thick, dark brown; the silver tracery at his temples only made him more distinguished.

 
It was a face that held a great deal of character.

 
It was the face she’d come there to find.

 
She tilted her head. “Michael? It is Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, isn’t it?”

 
Michael stared—at a heart-shaped face surrounded by a nimbus of fine, sheening brown hair so light it was flyaway, puffed soft as a dandelion crown about her head, at eyes, silver-blue, slightly tip-tilted… “Caro.” The name came to his lips without real thought.

 
She smiled up at him, clearly delighted; for one instant, he—all of him—stilled.

 
The screaming horses abruptly fell silent.

 
“Yes. It’s been years since we’ve spoken…” Her gaze grew vague as she cast her mind back.

 
“At Camden’s funeral,” he reminded her. Her late husband, Cam-den Sutcliffe, a legend in diplomatic circles, had been His Majesty’s Ambassador to Portugal; Caro had been Sutcliffe’s third wife.

 
She refocused on his face. “You’re right—two years ago.”

 
“I haven’t seen you about town.” He had, however, heard of her; the diplomatic corps had dubbed her the Merry Widow. “How are you faring?”

 
“Very well, thank you. Camden was a good man and I miss him, but…” She shrugged lightly. “There were more than forty years between us, so it was always going to be this way.”

 
The horse shifted, ineffectually dragging the braked gig. Recalled to the present, they both went forward; Caro held the horse’s head while

 
Michael untangled the reins, then checked the harness. He frowned. “What happened?”

 
“I have no idea.” Frowning, too, Caro stroked the horse’s nose. “I was coming from a Ladies’ Association meeting at Fordingham.”

 
The crisp clop of hooves had them both glancing toward the gates. A gig came trotting smartly through; the large lady driving saw them, waved, then briskly steered the gig toward them.

 
“Muriel insisted I attend the meeting—you know how she is.” Caro spoke quickly, beneath the rattle of the gig’s approach. “She offered to drive me, but I decided if I was traveling all that way, I would use the trip to call on Lady Kirkwright. So I drove over early, then attended the meeting, and Muriel and I drove back in tandem.”

 
Michael understood all she was telling him. Muriel was Camden’s niece, Caro’s niece-by-marriage, although Muriel was seven years the elder. She, too, had grown up in Bramshaw; unlike the pair of them, Muriel had never left. Born and raised at Sutcliffe Hall at the far end of the village, she now lived in the village center in Hedderwick House, her husband’s residence, a stone’s throw from the drive of Bramshaw House, Caro’s family home.

 
More to the point, Muriel had elected herself the organizer of the parish, a role she’d filled for years. Although her manner was often overbearing, everyone, themselves included, bore with her managing disposition for the simple reason that she did a necessary job well.

 
With a stylish flourish, Muriel brought her gig to a halt in the forecourt. She was handsome in a mannish way, undeniably striking with her upright carriage and dark hair.

 
She stared at Caro. “Great heavens, Caro!—were you thrown? You’ve grass stains on your gown. Are you all right?” Her tone was faint, as if she couldn’t quite credit her eyes. “The way you took off, I never would have believed you’d succeed in reining Henry in.”

 
“I didn’t.” Caro waved at Michael. “Luckily Michael was riding out—he bravely leapt into the gig and performed the necessary feat.”

 
Michael met her eyes, saw the lurking, gracefully grateful smile. Managed not to smile in return.

 
“Thank goodness for that.” Muriel turned to him, nodding in greeting. “Michael—I didn’t know you’d returned.”

 
“I arrived this morning. Have you any idea why Henry bolted? I’ve checked reins and harness—there doesn’t seem to be any obvious cause.”

 
Muriel frowned at Henry. “No. Caro and I were driving home together, then Caro turned into your lane and waved. She was just a little way along when Henry started, then”—Muriel gestured—“off he went.” She looked at Caro.

 
Who nodded. “Yes, it happened just like that.” She stroked Henry’s nose. “Which is strange—he’s normally a placid beast. I drive him whenever I’m home.”

 
“Well, next time we meet at Fordingham, I’ll take you up with me, you may be sure.” Muriel widened her eyes. “I nearly had palpitations—I expected to come upon you bloody and broken.”

 
Caro made no direct answer; frowning, she studied Henry. “Something must have startled him.”

 
“Possibly a stag.” Muriel gathered her reins. “The bushes are so thick along that stretch, it’s impossible to see what may be lurking.”

 
“True.” Caro nodded. “But Henry would have known.”

 
“Indeed. But now you’re safe, I must get on.” Muriel glanced at Michael. “We were discussing arrangements for the church fete, and I must make a start. I assume you’ll be attending?”

 
He smiled easily. “Of course.” He made a mental note to learn when the fete was. “My regards to Hedderwick, and George if you see him.”

 
Muriel inclined her head. “I’ll pass your wishes on.” She exchanged a gracious nod with Caro, then eyed Caro’s gig, presently blocking the exit from the forecourt.