Carola Dunn (2 page)

The spaniel rounded a twisted hawthorn and started to bark, her high yips sounding above the river’s roar. Rebecca could see nothing but a stumpy tail, wagging madly. She hurried past the tree. A small boy, perhaps eight or nine, was perched on the edge of the bank, fishing in the turbulent stream with a stick and a bit of string.

“Hush, Buttercup! Come here.”

“Thet’s all roight, miss, Oi don’t moind ‘im.” The child flashed an engaging gap-toothed grin, then turned back to the serious business of baiting the bent pin on the end of his line. Reaching for it, he lost his balance and slid feet first into the river.

Rebecca dropped to her knees and grabbed at his flailing hand. Her fingers closed over him as the current took him with a jerk. Feeling herself falling, she caught at a tuft of grass. It came loose in her fist and she gasped as the icy water closed over her.

Somehow she kept her grip on his hand. They were swept downstream, tossed and tumbled, to fetch up with a thud against one of the timber supports of the bridge. Clinging instinctively to the post and to each other, they gulped air into their starved lungs.

Buttercup was yelping from the bank. She ran onto the bridge and stopped above them, her black-and-tan rump in the air as she peered anxiously over the side.

Her worried eyes looked very far away. Rebecca cautiously freed one arm and stretched upward. Her fingertips curled over a cross-brace. Her feet were touching the riverbed, she realized. If she managed to wriggle out of her heavy, sodden cloak she might just be able to pull herself up. But the boy could not reach, nor could she lift him. If she deserted him he would be torn away by the raging torrent.

Helpless, they hugged the post with numbing arms.

Chapter 2

“Devilish damp part of the country,” observed Mr. Bevan critically as the horses’ hooves drummed across yet another plank bridge.

“It was all marshland once,” John informed him. “The Romans were the first to drain it.”

“I say, old chap!” His friend sounded alarmed.

John grinned. “Not to worry, I shan’t lecture you. The place has been in the family practically since the Conquest, and m’brother’s liable to spout off about the history at the drop of a hat.”

Bev clutched his hat. “Don’t know Danville well, but now I come to think of it, I remember the bear-garden jaw he gave us when you had that shooting match with your cousin. Prosy sort, too, is he? Daresay I shan’t stay long.” Inspiration struck. “Bad for my rheumatism, you know, all this water.”

“Coming it rather too thick and rare! Just tell my sister-in-law that your family is expecting you. Speak of the devil—that looks like Muriel’s spaniel on the bridge there. Here, Buttercup. Here, girl.”

“Buttercup!” Bev snorted in disgust. “What a name for an inoffensive creature.”

The dog darted towards them, barking furiously, then backed away, refusing to leave the bridge. This one crossed not a drainage channel but a river, a raging torrent sweeping branches and other flotsam along in its rush towards the sea.

John saw half the sunken remains of a rowboat caught in a willow on the far side. Surely no one would have gone boating on a flood like that, yet the dog was behaving oddly. Frowning, he spurred forward. Buttercup raced to the middle of the bridge and stopped, yapping at something in the water.

With a gesture to Bev to halt behind him, John drew rein. As soon as the sound of hoof-beats died away, he heard a weak cry.

“Help!”

He swung down and knelt beside the little dog. Two white faces gazed up at him.

Tossing his hat aside and ripping off his greatcoat, he issued rapid orders to Bev. His boots followed his hat and he lowered himself over the side of the bridge. His feet found a cross-brace. He swivelled to sit astride it, half under the span, and saw with satisfaction that the unfortunate pair were within reach.

A girl and a freckle-faced child. She was holding fast to a post, the other arm about the boy so that he would not be swept away if he lost his grasp. The lad raised his arms. John leaned down and gripped his wrists. Muscles long strengthened in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and in wild curricle races tautened. He was in an awkward position, with little leverage, but inch by slow inch the river unwilling yielded its prey.

Lying flat on the bridge above, Bev stretched down and took over the burden as soon as he could reach. As the lad rose above his head, John thanked heaven that he was travelling with his favourite sparring partner.

He looked down at the girl. He could not possibly lift her in the same way. He had reluctantly reached the conclusion that he would have to join her to help her when he saw that the derelict rowboat had broken free of the willow branches and was racing downstream towards her. Without hesitation he slithered down beside her, pressing her to the post.

The shock of the frigid water was instantly succeeded by the shock of the boat hitting his back broadside. It hurt, but the pain was numbed by the coldness. “A spectacular bruise, no doubt,” he muttered, then shouted in her ear above the roar of the river, “Soon have you out of here!”

His feet were on firm silt, the cross-brace was within easy reach of his six foot plus. Moments later he was sitting on the planks beside the huddled figure of the rescued girl, shivering as he ruefully contemplated the duckweed that decorated one of Weston’s best efforts.

He shrugged out of the ruined coat, his gaze moving to the girl. She lay very still, eyes closed, her lips bluish. He glanced at Bev. “Be a good fellow and take the tyke home,” he half requested, half commanded.

“My coat will never be the same again,” Mr. Bevan mourned, but he picked up the dripping child, set him on his horse’s withers and mounted behind him. “Sure you can manage?”

“I’ll manage.” John was already struggling with the fastenings of the girl’s cloak.

Her eyes opened, filled with terror, and she made a feeble motion towards his hands.

“Keep still. I shan’t harm you but you’ll freeze to death if I don’t get these wet things off you quickly.”

Though she obeyed, he felt her frightened gaze on his face as he stripped off the cloak. It worried him that she was not shivering. He had to tear her dress to remove it, and as he did so he talked to her soothingly, as he would to a nervous horse. Her wet shift clung to her skin. She was skinny, her ribs showing clearly, the dark nipples of her small breasts visible through the thin linen.

“Where are you from?” he asked abruptly. He had nothing to dry her with, so he might as well leave her the minimal decency of her underclothing. He reached for his discarded greatcoat, wrapped it about her and fastened the buttons.

“Visiting...Lord Danville,” she whispered.

She must be a friend of Muriel’s. He picked her up to lift her to his horse’s back. She was light as a feather without the wet garments. As an afterthought he kicked their clothes into the river—no need to start any unnecessary rumours.

“We’ll be home in ten minutes,” he reassured her.

She managed to cling to the horse’s mane while he swung up into the saddle. He pulled her back against his chest and resumed his interrupted journey to his brother’s house, Buttercup prancing alongside.

The girl was shaking now, and a little colour had returned to her lips. On the other hand, John was frozen. He had not been so cold and wet since his cousin Teresa had doused him with a bucket of icy water.

She had soaked Andrew too, he remembered with a grin, in her successful effort to stop that dog fight. What a woman she was! If she had fallen into that river, as she well might with her talent for scrapes, she would doubtless have rescued both herself and the boy without a second thought.

John sighed. Teresa had been Andrew’s wife for years now, and he would never find another like her. The girl in his arms, for instance, seemed to be a fearful creature in need of protection, very different from his lively, independent cousin.

Not that he had any intention of marrying. He rather thought he should enjoy a life of bachelorhood, like his Uncle Cecil, though he’d be damned if he’d ever let himself grow so stout.

* * * *

They cantered around the poplar windbreak and up the drive. Rebecca felt a flood of relief as the house grew nearer. The stranger really had brought her home. She was much warmer already, in control of her limbs, and she could not wait to escape his overpowering, masculine presence.

As soon as their mount came to a standstill at the front steps, she pulled away from his restraining arm and slid to the ground. To her dismay, her knees buckled. Grasping for  support, she found herself clinging to a well-muscled leg clad in damp buckskin. The gentleman grinned down at her and an embarrassed flush swept her from top to toe.

She transferred her grip to the stirrup leather, still far too close to him for comfort. As a stableboy ran up to take the reins, her rescuer awkwardly dismounted on the horse’s other side.

Whatever he thought of this strange manoeuvre, the patient, well-mannered beast merely snorted gently.

His master advanced on Rebecca. For the first time she realized how very large he was. Though her height was above average he topped her head and shoulders, making her feel small and helpless. The feeling was intensified when he picked her up without a by-your-leave and strode up the steps to the front door, shouting for service.

Lord Danville’s footman had the door open when they reached it. “Lord John!” he gasped. “Miss Nuthall!”

“Hot baths,” ordered the gentleman, coming straight to the point. “A hot drink for the lady—Miss Nuthall?—and brandy for me.”

“At once, my lord.”

The butler appeared. Unruffled by the commotion, he dismissed his underling about his business with a wave. “An accident, I take it, my lord. Perhaps your lordship will be so good as to carry Miss Nuthall into the parlour, where there is a good fire.”

“No, I can walk,” Rebecca protested.

Lord John’s arms tightened about her and, panicking, she began to struggle. At once he set her on her feet, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.

Lord Danville emerged from the library to one side of the vestibule, Muriel from the parlour on the other, the latter followed by Lady Parr.

“John, what...”

“Beckie, what...”

“Rebecca, what is the meaning of this disgraceful scene?” Lady Parr’s enquiry cut through the babble.

“Pray hush, Mama, can you not see that she is unwell? Dear Beckie, come above-stairs at once. Tom will lend you his arm, will you not, my love?”

“To be sure,” said Lord Danville, advancing. “My arm is at your cousin’s disposal and my wardrobe at my brother’s.”

Of course, he was Tom’s brother, thought Rebecca as her host and hostess helped her unsteady steps up the stairs. There had been something familiar about him, but she had been in no case to ponder it. She glanced back.

“I demand an explanation.” Lady Parr’s penetrating voice reached her. “What sort of scrape has that foolish child fallen into now?”

Lord John stood dripping on the flagstones, towering over the short, stout lady.  “I’m dashed if I know the details, ma’am,” he said with indignation, “but I’ll go bail Miss Nuthall had no intention of taking a swim. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone.”

Rebecca heard Lady Parr’s disbelieving snort as they reached the landing. Lord John’s ingenuous defence warmed her.

The hot bath Muriel and her abigail hurried her into completed the thaw. She was ready to go down and make her excuses to Lady Parr, but Muriel insisted on putting her to bed with an extra eiderdown and a cup of broth.

The kindness made tears rise to Rebecca’s eyes. A distant memory of a childhood illness returned: Mama and Grand'mère had cosseted her thus, and Papa had brought marzipan and a wooden monkey on a stick. She had long since discovered that it was best not to think of those happy days, for they made her life in her uncle’s house the more unbearable by comparison. Yet now she was free of him, perhaps she dared allow herself to remember.

“If you are sure you feel well enough,” Muriel was saying, “I shall bring Mary to see you in a while.”

“Pray do. And then I must explain to Cousin Adelaide how it all happened.”

“There is no need for explanations, Beckie dear. We are just glad that John was there to make himself useful for once. Now, I must go and see that he has been made comfortable. Try if you can sleep a little.”

Rebecca watched her bustle out, smiling at her firmness. Timid as Lady Danville seemed in her mother’s presence, she ran her household with the greatest aplomb, and would doubtless make an excellent duchess one day.

All the same, Cousin Adelaide must have an explanation sooner or later. Muriel and her abigail had delicately avoided commenting on Rebecca’s lack of clothing under John’s greatcoat. Doubtless they would not spread the word, but would John himself be equally reticent? His sister-in-law had commented more than once on his disgracefully rakish ways, his irresponsibility. Rebecca shuddered to think how utterly she had been at his mercy, and still she was not free of him. He might think it an amusing story, or even suppose that it gave him licence to pester her with his attentions.

She resolved to avoid him as much as possible. That was not likely to prove difficult, for he would hardly seek out the company of Lady Parr!

If she had heard the conversation in the bedchamber just across the hall, it would have confirmed this supposition.

“Not even his Grace’s orders could have persuaded me to come within a mile of the place if I’d known you had that devilish woman visiting,” grumbled Lord John, stretching carpet-slippered feet to the fire and sipping at his bumper of brandy and hot water.

“Family.” His brother was apologetic. “She won’t be here more than another fortnight, for even Muriel won’t put up with her longer than that. I’ve developed a veritable plethora of ways to ensure her departure on time. But tell me just why we have been honoured with your presence. His Grace’s orders, you say?”

“I’ll tell you when you have explained to me who Miss Nuthall is.”