When Sparks Fly (2 page)

The man trotted his horse closer. “Any chap who inflicts them on passing strangers is clearly a royal pain in the a—”

“Sir!” she cried, covering her cousin's ears against whatever profanities the man might spew in his Yorkshire accent. “There are children here!”

“Aye, and a worse place to let them run I never saw. Best be on your way, madam, before the ice makes travel impossible.” With a click of his tongue, he prodded his horse on.

“Wait, sir, please!” she cried.

When he drew up with a foul oath, she briefly considered the wisdom of involving this ill-­mannered fellow, who might be a thief or worse. But Jarvis would never get Aunt Alys free without help, and the miner seemed to have brawn enough to manage that. She dared not look a gift rescuer in the mouth.

“There's been an accident,” she said in a rush. “My aunt's carriage went off the road—”

“Where?” he barked before she could finish getting the words out.

She pointed at the embankment, struck silent by his surly manner. He dismounted and hurried for the river. “Just keep those brats out of my way.”

Though the harsh words took her aback, she sprang into action. “Come, children,” she said, ushering them toward the coach.

But Percy blocked her path, his face pale. “Mama is hurt?”

“I'm not sure,” she admitted. “Jarvis is still trying to reach the carriage.”

“Then I have to go help!” Percy exclaimed, starting past her.

She grabbed his arm. “Let Jarvis and the stranger handle it.”

“But we don't even know if we can trust that fellow!”

“It'll be fine, don't worry.” If he'd meant them harm, surely he would have already tried to take advantage of them. His gruffness perversely reassured her, especially after months in society, where the men she could least trust were always the most charming.

When Percy still hesitated, she added, “We have to prepare a place for your mother in the coach. She'll need blankets and cushions, in case she
is
hurt.”

That sent the boys scurrying to arrange a comfy bed on one of the seats, while Meg shrank into a corner, sucking her thumb and crying softly.

“It's all right, Meg,” Percy told her as he plumped up a cushion. “As soon as Mama is here, we'll go to an inn and get chocolate, won't we, Ellie?”

“Certainly.” Giving the boys something to do had been the right approach.

“That man called us brats,” Tim complained as he spread a blanket. “He doesn't even know us!”

“I'm sure if he did, he wouldn't call you that,” Ellie said soothingly as she climbed out to hunt for Jarvis's flask of whisky. Aunt Alys might need it.

Hearing a noise, she squinted at the embankment and spotted the stranger headed toward her, carrying Aunt Alys. The postboy and Jarvis were at his heels, leading the horses from the post chaise.

“Is my aunt all right?” Ellie asked, her heart in her throat.

“She's alive,” the man responded, “but unconscious. I think her leg is broken, and she's taken quite a knock to the head. She needs a doctor right away.”

Ellie hurried to open the carriage door. “Is there one in the next town?”

The man leaned inside to set Aunt Alys upon the seat with an odd gentleness for a man so gruff. Then he faced her with a scowl. “As I told your coachman, you won't make it to Hensley. It's eight miles off, even if you
could
maneuver up that icy hill beyond the bridge. My house is nearby—you can sit out the weather there. I'll send someone to fetch a doctor.”

“Goodness gracious, I don't know,” Ellie murmured. How could this fellow fit seven extra people into his cottage, much less provide food and bedding for the children? They might be trapped for days. “Perhaps you should consult your wife first.”

“I've got no wife. And you've got little choice.”

If they went on to the next town they could buy what they needed, but he seemed certain of the impossibility of that.

“He's right, miss,” Jarvis said. “What lies beyond that bridge ain't navigable at present. And the road back to the last town is sure to be as bad.”

They looked to her for a decision. It felt strange to be in charge—usually Aunt Alys arranged everything. But Ellie trusted Jarvis, even if she didn't entirely trust the sooty stranger. “I suppose we have no choice.”

As the men discussed how best to turn the coach around, she realized that she and the children needed items from the abandoned post chaise. She would just run back to the river for some clothes and other items. She might even drag a—

“Where the devil are you going?” the stranger called as she headed off.

“To fetch some necessities from our trunks.”

“Leave them be.” He came after her. “We have no time for such nonsense.”

“But there are things we need,” she protested.

Grabbing her by the arm, he began tugging her back to the carriage. “Nothing worth the risk of drowning in the river, Miss Bancroft.”

“Don't be silly.” Futilely she struggled against his iron hold. “I'm not about to—Wait, how did you know my name?”

“Your coachman told me you're Joseph Bancroft's daughter.” Without ceremony, he threw open the carriage door and hoisted her inside. “Now stay put, blast you. I've got enough to worry about without risking the wrath of your rich father after you break your damned-­fool neck rescuing your fancy gowns.”

“But that is not what I wished to—”

He slammed the door and walked off.

Taken entirely aback, she sat blinking where he'd dumped her on the coach floor. Well! Wasn't he a churlish lout? If he hadn't rescued Aunt Alys, she would give him a piece of her mind!

And how was it that even
strangers
knew she had money?

With an apologetic smile, Jarvis came up to say through the window, “I'm sure his lordship will be glad to send someone for the trunks later, miss.”

“His lordship?” Could that dirty, ill-­bred fellow possibly be a gentleman?

Jarvis bent nearer the glass. “The Baron Thorncliff, miss. But don't you worry none about the Black Baron—that nonsense folks say about 'im is just talk.”

The Black Baron? Ah, because of his peculiar habit of walking around caked in soot. She shuddered to think what his house might look like. And she was vastly curious to know what people were saying about him.

Before she could ask, Jarvis hastened off and Aunt Alys moaned, shifting Ellie's attention to her. Ellie checked her pulse. It seemed strong, and she was breathing steadily.

“Ellie?” her aunt whispered.

Relief flooded her. “Yes, I'm right here.”

Aunt Alys tried to sit up, then sank back with a groan. “My . . . head hurts.”

“I know, Aunt.” She stroked her aunt's light brown hair back from her pale forehead. “You've been in an accident.”

Aunt Alys's blue eyes shot open, though they looked unfocused. “The children—”

“They're here and unharmed. We're taking you to a doctor.” She didn't want to tax her aunt too sorely with explanations just now. “You should rest.”

With a nod, her aunt closed her eyes.

“Is Mama going to be all right?” Meg asked from her perch on Percy's lap.

“Certainly,” Ellie said with as much conviction as she could muster.

Wishing she could do more, Ellie settled her aunt more comfortably on the seat, careful not to jar her broken leg where it lay on the cushion that Lord Thorncliff had used to prop it up. After tucking the blanket around her, Ellie didn't know what else to do except pray that Lord Thorncliff really could fetch a doctor to his home quickly. And that they could trust him.

While Jarvis and their rescuer struggled to turn the coach, she fished out her spectacles so she could peer at him out the window. The stranger's mount did appear to be rather fine, and he did carry himself with a semblance of breeding. If not for his sooty exterior, she
might
believe he was a lord.

A teacher had once told them that men were either beasts, gentlemen, or beasts masquerading as gentlemen. Might there be a fourth category—gentlemen masquerading as beasts? After all, Lord Thorncliff
had
rescued them, albeit grudgingly. Surely that meant he was a gentleman somewhere deep inside.

Very
deep inside, judging from his surly temper. Still, perhaps he behaved like that because people around him put up with it, too cowed to do otherwise.

Well, she couldn't help that her family had inconvenienced him, but neither could she let him keep ordering them about without paying any mind to her opinions. She had to think of the children and Aunt Alys. Someone had to stand up to him, and that someone would have to be her.

She just had to keep calm, and make it clear he couldn't keep bullying her. And pray that Shakespeare was right about there being “no beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.” Because if there was no true gentleman lurking inside that rough exterior, they might be headed for trouble.

Chapter Two

Dear Cousin,

I don't mind being alone. Our caretaker lives in a cottage on the grounds, and my neighbor is nearby. When the girls are away, he calls on me to make sure I am well. So you need not fret for my safety.

Your friend and relation,

Charlotte

M
artin Thorncliff grumbled to himself as he hunched his shoulders against the snow. Leaving Bancroft's coachman to keep up as best as he could, Martin let his horse pick its own way to Thorncliff Hall. He was already having a bad day. The new fuses he'd invented had burned too quickly when he'd tested them at the coal mine. Then, on his way home, the sleet had begun. Now this.

December was difficult enough for him without intruders fetching up near his land. Rich intruders. With children singing Christmas carols, of all the infernal things.

What had Joseph Bancroft been thinking, to let his family travel so scantily protected? The man owned Yorkshire Silver, the largest silver mining company in England. He ought to have more sense than to rely on an aging coachman and some useless postboy. If those women and children had belonged to Martin, he would have protected them better.

A snort escaped him. Right. The way he'd protected Rupert. After what had happened to his older brother, no female with sense would put herself permanently under the protection of the dangerous “Black Baron.”

The nasty nickname society had for him made him wince. He didn't need a wife anyway, mucking with his experiments and giving him one more person's safety to worry about. Though occasionally, he did wish . . .

Ridiculous. His life was as good as he deserved. It was his brother who'd been the jovial lord of the manor, who'd conversed equally well with tenant and duke, who'd run the estate with efficiency while attracting every pretty girl this side of London.

Martin could only blow things up.

And now he had guests, God help him. Thorncliff Hall was no place for a wounded woman and her caroling litter of cubs. Terror seized him at the thought of those boys exploring the old stone barn in back where he did his experiments.

At least he wouldn't have to worry about their cousin doing so. It wasn't the sort of place to entice a fashionably dressed heiress. Everything about her screamed “spoiled rich lass,” from her expensive kid boots and matching gloves to the way she looked right through him. Then there was her impractical gown, though it did display her lush figure better than a wool cloak would have done. Probably why she wore it—young ladies like that craved attention. They were raised to enjoy it from early on.

Well, she wouldn't get it from him, no matter how pleasing her curves and sparkling green eyes. He'd met plenty of her sort while Rupert was alive and still forcing him to go into society. He'd even fancied a few. But once Rupert had died and the rumors had begun, they'd turned on him. He didn't fit their notions of what a gentle­man should be. Miss Bancroft was sure to be the same.

Worse yet, she lacked sense. Fetch a few items from their trunks indeed. Was the lass daft? Had she no idea how treacherous that ice could be? She was probably worried some miscreant would come along and steal her jewels and furs. As if any would venture out in
this
weather. He scowled. Her jewels could wait—he still had things to do at the manor before the snow got too thick.

Once he reached the drive, he was able to ride ahead. His butler, Mr. Huggett, was already spreading gravel on the icy walk that bisected the low stone wall surrounding the manor. Hell and blazes, Martin hadn't even considered how this situation might tax his small staff.

He'd closed up half the rooms after Rupert's death, and these days he spent every waking hour in the barn. That's why he'd pensioned off all but the most essential servants. Fortunately Huggett excelled at making do. He'd know how to handle this disaster.

“I've brought some people home with me,” Martin said as he dismounted.

“Guests?” Sheer joy transformed Huggett's face. “We're having guests?”

“More like unwanted visitors,” Martin growled. “Their other vehicle had an accident, and I had no choice but to invite them to stay.”

Huggett clapped his hands. “Excellent! Just in time for the holiday, too!”

“Huggett—” he began in a warning tone.

“I know how you feel about Christmas, sir, but it's been three years already, and now that we have visitors, we really must obtain some greenery and perhaps a Yule candle or two, not to mention preparing a goose and plum pudding—”

“Huggett!” When he had the butler's full attention, he added, “This is no time for festivities. One of them is wounded.”

“Oh, dear,” Huggett murmured.

“I'll need you to send for Dr. Pritchard. And make sure that whoever you send fits the horseshoes with frost nails—there's ice beneath that snow.” He glanced to where the coach trundled up the drive. “I suppose we'll need more provisions, although no goose and plum pudding, for God's sake. Just make sure we've got sufficient food for the children.”

“Children!” Huggett exclaimed, brightening again. “How many?”

“I'm not sure. Seemed like a lot. And there's a young woman, too, their cousin.” As a knowing smile lit Huggett's face, Martin scowled, “Don't get any ideas. She's not my sort. Besides, she took an instant dislike to me.”

“I can't imagine why,” Huggett said dryly. “You always smile so prettily for the ladies.”

Martin glared at him.

“Really, sir,” Huggett said with a sniff, “you have to expect the fairer sex to recoil from you when you look like you've rolled through the coals.”

“Rolled through—” Martin looked down to find himself covered in soot. He'd been rushing to leave the mine and hadn't washed up. “Hell and blazes.”

“You may wish to curb your colorful language around the children,” his butler chided as the costly traveling coach approached.

Martin was on the verge of curbing his
butler
with a kick to the rump when the coach pulled up in front, the door opened, and children erupted everywhere.

This time he counted them—three whelps who chattered like magpies and a tiny cherub with a halo of golden ringlets. He only hoped there were no squalling babes hiding under the coach cushions.

Miss Bancroft leaped out next, wearing a pair of spectacles too severe for her soft features. Since she hadn't worn them before, he figured they were an affectation, one of those whims that sometimes possessed society ladies.

She paused near him long enough to say, “My aunt has roused, but someone will have to carry her inside, so if you'd be so kind—”

“Certainly. This is my butler, Mr. Huggett. He's sending for the doctor.” On cue, Huggett hurried to a waiting groom to give the instruction, but as Martin headed for the coach, he heard Miss Bancroft exclaim, “
This
is where you live?”

The incredulity in her voice rubbed him raw. All right, so Thorncliff Hall, with its blackened gritstone and mullion windows, wasn't the Greek-­Palladian-­something-­or-­other villa that high society deemed fashionable these days—but he was proud enough of it. It might need a bit of work, but it had been in the family for over two hundred years. That ought to count for something.

Not that this lot would appreciate it. That was gratitude for you.

“Aye,” he shot back, “this is my home. And judging from the weather, it may be yours for the next few days, so you'd best reconcile yourself to doing without your London luxuries for the nonce.”

“I didn't mean— Oh, dear, Meg, don't you dare eat that dirty snow! Excuse me, sir, I must see to the children.”

As she ran off, he stared after her in surprise. She was corralling her cousins? It didn't seem like something a spoiled heiress would do. Then again, women like her enjoyed ordering people about. God help any man who married her—he might get a fortune, but he'd have a slew of petulant demands to satisfy in the bargain.

Martin found the aunt reclining on the seat inside the coach with her arm draped over her face. “Madam?” he queried.

“Where are we?” she asked in a disembodied voice much like the one his mother had used before her death.

It alarmed him, though at least she was conscious. “At Thorncliff Hall. You'll be fine now.” Leaning in to scoop her up, he carried her toward the house.

The children swarmed around them, tendering questions. Just what he didn't need. “Miss Bancroft, keep those brats—”

“Don't call them brats, sir,” she shot back. “They're perfectly well-­behaved children who've just seen their mother injured. Have some sympathy, if you please.”

The admonishment took him aback. Most women quaked in their boots around him. Why didn't she?

Ignoring Huggett's strangled laugh, Martin tramped into the house with the aunt. As Huggett and a footman kept pace with him, he issued orders, heedless of the heiress and cubs who trailed behind. “We'll put Mrs. Metcalf in my bedchamber, and the rest of them in—”

“You can't do that!” Miss Bancroft broke in as he trod through the great hall and up the stairs. “She's a young widow, and you're unmarried!”

Oh, for the love of God—
“I didn't mean I'd sleep in there
with
her, you fool.” He shifted her aunt's weight in his arms.

“That's not the point,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “It's improper for her to sleep in an unmarried man's bedchamber, whether you're in it or not.”

“She's right, my lord,” Huggett said. “If word got round . . .”

“Word is not getting ‘round' anywhere—I'll make sure of that.” He halted in the hall that connected the bedchambers. “I have to put her
somewhere
. And it's the most comfortable room, not to mention the only one ready for guests.”

“It's fine,” said a thready voice. He looked down to find Mrs. Metcalf gazing weakly up at him. “Really, sir, it's most . . . kind of you.”

“You see?” he told Huggett and Miss Bancroft. “Here's a lady with sense.”

As he stalked into his bedchamber, he heard one of the lads whine, “Ellie, I need a privy!” The others began to clamor for the privy, too.

“I must see to your mother first,” she began, “so if you'll just wait—”

“It's all right, miss,” said the footman. “I'll take the wee ones to the privy.”

“Thank you.” She hurried into the room as Martin settled her aunt on the bed.

At once Miss Bancroft began to fuss over the woman, plumping up her pillow, pouring her water from a pitcher, making quite the show of playing the caring nurse. She wouldn't keep that up long; her sort got bored quickly.

“Which rooms shall I prepare for the young lady and the children?” Huggett asked him.

“I'm staying right here with my aunt,” Miss Bancroft said firmly with a veiled look in his direction.

And suddenly he understood. “
That's
why you're being so missish about the sleeping arrangements.” Though he generally ignored such reactions, today it tightened a cold knot in the pit of his belly. “You've figured out who I am.”

“Who . . . who is he?” queried Mrs. Metcalf softly from the bed.

“Lord Thorncliff, that's all,” Miss Bancroft said. “Mr. Huggett, would you please make sure my aunt drinks some water while I speak to his lordship in the hall?”

“Certainly, miss.”

Without waiting for her, Martin strode out, then whirled on her as she joined him and closed the door. “That's it, isn't it?” he growled. “You've heard about the Black Baron, so you're afraid to leave her alone in my house.”

“I'm afraid to leave her alone because she's ill,” she said, a look of bewilderment on her face. “I only want to be there if she needs something.”

He ignored her reasonable explanation, annoyed that she hadn't denied knowing what people called him. “Look here, Miss Bancroft, I'm not going to tiptoe around my own house just because you skittish society ladies have heard absurd stories about the dreadful Black Baron. I won't have my staff running after your little br-­ . . . cousins while you're quaking in your aunt's room, so you'll stay with the children wherever I have Huggett put you, blast it!”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think so, do you?”

That frosty tone should have given him warning, along with her lack of quaking, but he'd put up with enough today, and he wasn't about to quit while he had a full head of steam. “I know your sort is used to being fawned over and coddled and fed all manner of delicacies—”

“My
sort
?” she interrupted, her eyes turning a stormy, crystalline green.

“—but this is a crisis, and we'll have to make do with what we have, so I'll expect you to keep your petty complaints to yourself and not be taxing my staff with unnecessary requests. Otherwise, whatever nonsense you've heard about my being the Black Baron will be nothing to what you see of my true temper!”

“I shudder to think what
that
might be like,” she murmured under her breath.

“What?” he growled, not sure he'd heard her right.

“Nothing. Are you quite done, sir?” Though her chin trembled, she didn't look terribly cowed, and that gave him pause.

“Er . . . well . . . yes.”

“Fine. I shall do my best to fulfill your requirements.” Her voice dripped sweetness, though he swore he heard sarcasm beneath the sugar. “Now if you'll excuse me, I must see to my aunt while I'm still
allowed
to stay with her.”

Throwing her head back, she flounced back to the room. That's when it dawned on him that he'd perhaps been a bit too forceful in his statements. In the heat of his temper, he sometimes said things he regretted later.