Must Love Breeches (29 page)

Relishing the time alone, Isabelle reached her favorite passage in
Persuasion
—Captain Wentworth writing the letter to Anne Elliot saying ‘you pierce my soul’—when the carriage slowed. How long had it taken? Her stomach rumbled.
Well, I guess that long...

She stepped from the carriage and paused. The dusty, small inn yard teemed with boys running, hitching other horses, crying out orders, or bringing sloshing tankards to folks waiting inside their carriages.
It’s like a movie set.

She swallowed hard, paid the driver, and went into the posting inn to see if she could order food. This was the closest stop she knew of to her house. A large common room greeted her, and she paused at the entrance to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dark interior.

Diamond-shaped spears of light highlighted knife-gouged, ale-stained oak plank tables and benches propping up villagers or travelers looking for the basics: food, drink, cheer, gossip. An old, musty, tangy smell draped over all, making Isabelle feel like a new, fresh, foreign entity traversing their territory, despite the cheery fire sparking in the corner. Eyes stayed on her as she sought the proprietor.

“Hello, I was wondering if I could get some bread and cheese?” she asked the guy behind the counter. Now her voice seemed to float through the space, amplifying the effect of her alien physical presence.

The innkeeper stared at her and stepped back a foot or two with his hands on his hips.

Isabelle checked her face and hair with her fingers.
Everything in place. What’s his deal?

“This is a respectable establishment, miss.”

“Uh, yes, I can see that. It’s nice.”

He didn’t move a muscle. He stopped staring and looked everywhere else but at her. “Um, about that food?”

He turned red in the face. “We don’t serve the likes of you.”

Isabelle flinched and stepped back. What in the world?

Oh. My. God. He mistook her for a prostitute? She straightened, stepped forward, and pulled out her purse. She plopped several gold coins onto the counter. One rolled to the floor behind the counter, clinking as it spiraled to a stop.

“I assure you, I am quite respectable and able to pay.”

“How respectable can you be, alone as ya are?”

Isabelle sighed. Thank God she lived in the future. Well, she had, and soon would again, if she could figure out how.

“Sir, I just traveled by post from London and am quite tired and hungry. Can I eat, please?” She glared at him and shoved the coins forward on the counter.

He grumbled. But he left and returned with a loaf of almost stale bread and a hunk of cheddar cheese. “You cannot eat it here.”

She scooped them up and went outside. This little village, just east of Guildford, was close enough to walk to her house. It would take about a half hour, but luckily a cool breeze tickled her face and teased the nearby leaves.

She grinned, noting the subtle differences. Except for the signs and the clothing passersby wore, it wasn’t much different. Ahead, a tiny wooden cart approached, pulled by a medium-sized dog with a small boy trotting behind.
Well, and except for that, too.

However, when Isabelle reached the outskirts, the semblance ended. Gone were the tidy modern brick homes, as well as the fake Tudor-style ‘strip mall’, and other modern buildings. In their place stood wheat fields and hedgerows. Lots of wheat fields and hedgerows.

She stopped and stared. She pivoted slowly. The sky an impossible blue, she tried to overlay the familiar features onto what her eyes registered now. The road’s curve remained the same, but that was about it.

She could do this
. Just paint in the familiar landmarks.
She walked in the direction for home and drowned her growing doubts with oodles of positive thinking. The sun was lower in the sky, so perhaps it was mid-afternoon? Yikes. She would not have much time before she’d have to head back. How long
had
that carriage ride been?

Picking up her pace, she trudged down the dirt lane.

Fifteen minutes later, she cursed her stupidity. And perversely, she refused to sit and eat, though her stomach demanded she do just that. Somehow, the goal of reaching her house eclipsed all else. Only then could she sit, eat, and take stock of her life. Until then, walk.

Another fifteen minutes passed. She’d taken a wrong turn, she was sure, and so she doubled back. Now she climbed a slight hill, and if memory served her right, there would be a huge oak tree on the other side at the bottom of the hill. She reached the top and looked down. She stopped, her heart dropping like a dead weight. A tree stood there, but not the majestic one she remembered. A chuckle erupted from within, almost hysterical—of course it wasn’t as large as she remembered, it still had decades and decades of growth to go through.

She was
close.
That tree bordered her property and had been a favorite place for her to read when spring arrived. She could finally sit and eat.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. She looked up and behind. Massive thunderclouds loomed right behind her. Incredulous, she looked ahead: still a serene blue.

Dammit!

She ran down the dusty hill, trying not to twist her ankles in the lane’s deep ruts. She reached the tree. Big, wet drops hit her face and the wind nudged her hat. She caught it before it sailed away. With her other hand she gripped her skirt hem, food, and book, and ran faster. Heavy rain drops puckered the water-starved dust on the road and pelted against her. By the time she reached the curve in the lane, the rain hit like ice shards and soaked her skirts until running became dangerous. She stopped to catch her breath, one hand on her knee, the other clutching her food and book to her chest. Water dripped from her chin, nose, and hat brim.

This was just great. Among the monumentally stupid things she’d done, this had to be up there. She peeked up from under her hat brim. There, across an expanse of green lawn, lay her house. She choked on a sob of relief.

Skipping the normal approach, Isabelle climbed over the stone fencing bordering the lane and struck out across the grass.

Phineas rode his horse across the fields bordering his land outside London. A note from his bailiff had begged his presence that day to oversee repair work and to attend to other urgent business he wished to discuss in person. It was just as well. To quit London, if only for one night, had become a necessity. He needed time away. Away from Miss Rochon.

When thunderclouds gathered to the south, Phineas curtailed their meeting. He had too much that required his attention at home to risk weathering the storm here. He ordered his horse, Prometheus, saddled. Donning an oilcloth cape as a precaution, he set out with hopes he would reach home before the storm broke, but had been overly optimistic, clearly.

Now, as he drew near his house, the rain pelted him in earnest. He cursed and urged Prometheus into a gallop. Why had he not let his bailiff call on him instead, as was the custom? He knew why, though. He had seized at the excuse to ride; he had not had the patience to wait on his bailiff. Anything to keep him active and his thoughts away from Miss Rochon.

He cleared a stand of trees and jumped the narrow ditch. Prometheus’s hooves landed with ease, despite the dangerous conditions. In the distance, a lone, slim figure walked across the field. Whoever it was silhouetted against the bleak and angry sky, it was a stranger and a woman. A woman alone. Moreover, from the looks of it, drenched to the bone.

Deuce it, what trouble was this?

While his powerful horse ate up the distance, Phineas kept an eye on the figure. The manner in which the woman walked seemed vaguely familiar, but it made no sense. A knot formed in his gut.

What would
she
be doing here? Was his mind so desperate to find traces of her everywhere, in any shapely figure he saw?

Damn and blast. He urged his horse into a quicker pace and made straight for the woman.

It
was
her.

Carrying a book, a loaf of bread, and a hunk of cheese, of all things. Furthermore, her waterlogged dress outlined all of her enticing curves under the mantelet he had given her via Miss Byron. Seeing her wearing it here, in the elements, tripped something primal inside his heart.

He reined in his horse, careful not to splash mud on her skirts. Prometheus snorted and sidestepped, wary of her unfamiliar scent. She stopped walking and stared at him with wide eyes, rain drops dripping from her bedraggled hat. Her skin looked pale and clammy, and her body was hunched in, shivering.

“Lord Montagu? What are you doing here?” She pointed the loaf of bread at him, flicking a spray of rain water in his direction to add to his already abundant accumulation. The waterlogged loaf broke in half. “Are you following me?”

“Following you? I labored under the obviously mistaken assumption you were safe with my cousin in London. Safe
and
dry. What in blazes are you doing in the country?”

“I asked you first. I have a perfectly good reason for being here, and I don’t need to tell you.”

The muscles in his neck and back tightened, his breathing quickened. “Devil you don’t! I am your betrothed, if you have not forgotten. I would like to know why you are wandering about,
alone
, in a rain storm, on my property. Looking quite disheveled, as well.”

“
Pretend
betrothed. It’s not as if you really are mine.” She dropped her arm holding the remains of the bread to her side, and her forehead puckered. “
Your
property?”

Be though the rainbow to the storms of life,
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
Lord Byron,
The Bride of Abydos
, Canto II

Phineas stared at Miss Rochon. “Yes, that is why
I
am here.” He pointed behind him. “I am returning from seeing my bailiff.”

The color drained from Miss Rochon’s face and she swayed slightly. Phineas knew the signs only too well. He leaped off Prometheus, unfortunately landing in a puddle and splashing her with mud, and caught her before she could hit the ground.

Letting the bread and cheese fall where it may, but careful of her book and spectacles, he lifted her and ran the short distance to his door. He pounded on it with a booted foot and waited for Gibbs. At least the eaves overhead sheltered them. He had confidence in Prometheus to either stay in place or head for the stables.

Soon enough, the door opened, revealing his butler’s wizened features. “My lord?”

“Fetch Mrs. Gibbs immediately and direct her to the blue guest chamber.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And have one of the stable lads see to Prometheus.”

He carried her up the steps, and Miss Rochon mumbled. He bent his head closer and could have sworn she said something like, “I need to get back to my own time.”

He caught himself heading for the Viscountess’s bedchamber. He stopped in the hallway and looked upon her face. She was not his Viscountess. Not yet, anyway.

He shook his head as that notion traitorously sneaked in. What had he meant by that? Surely he did not entertain hopes in that direction, did he?

His housekeeper caught up with him when he reached the guest chamber.

“See to it a fire is started immediately and that Miss Rochon, my betrothed, has her wet things removed.”

His housekeeper, God bless her, did not blink an eye. “Right away, my lord.”

He eased Miss Rochon into a chair by the hearth.

She settled back, and he gently pulled his arms away, gazing into her sleeping face.

Lord, but she was beautiful.

Half an hour later, Phineas settled in an armchair he had moved next to the bed in which Miss Rochon rested. He contemplated her peaceful face as Mrs. Gibbs placed a heated brick at Miss Rochon’s feet.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you.”

She contemplated him for a moment before exiting. Phineas didn’t care. Propriety be dashed.

He had resolved to let Miss Rochon sleep as long as she required, instead of reviving her with a vinaigrette.

Besides, while she required time to sleep, he required time to compose himself, to acclimate to her presence. What had possessed her to venture alone to a place five hours’ journey from London? Clearly, she had no plans to remain overnight, as luggage she had not. Had she intended to travel back this evening? By post?