A Lady Betrayed (2 page)

Adrian sighed.

A few feet away, the gelding snorted.

“I didn't ask you,” he snapped. “At least she's still alive. That is, if I haven't scared her to death.”

But her body was growing warmer, he was sure of it, and even though he might have caused her alarm, at this point he decided to remain close to the unconscious woman. Night was upon them, the air was colder than ever, and he dared not allow her to become chilled again. If she woke once more and railed again his ungentlemanly behavior, he would explain and, if she insisted, give her a more proper space. Until then…

He didn't want to let her go, dammit!

How long had it been since he had held anything so precious in his arms? Hellfire,
had
he ever held anything so precious as this lovely woman with the look of pain etched onto her face?

A brief look—he was not sure what her expression had meant—but he would dearly like to convince her to stay, convince her to know him, allow him to know her…for as long as she might.

For now, he only wanted to wrap his arms about her, enfold her, hold her tight, hold her close.

Rain spattered beyond the roof, the cold wind whistled, the gelding stamped its feet and snorted its opinion of these drafty lodgings and lack of proper provisions. The trees beyond were indistinct, cloaked in the fog that made the moors beyond the small pocket of woods too dangerous to travel tonight, even if he had wished to dare the dark road. He would have had to stop, regardless. But who could have predicted such a find?

Adrian lay as close as he could to the woman whose name he did not know, tried to endow her with every scrap of warmth that he might, and waited for dawn to break.

For a long time he lay stiffly, afraid to relax in case in his slumber he allowed his arms to slacken and drift away from her, permitting the cold to seep in and envelop her in its killing shroud. But eventually sleep overcame him.

When the faintest glimmer of light streaked the sky and the first bird calls rang through the woods, he opened his eyes.

One arm had loosened its grip, but the other still cradled the mystery woman, still held her close to his body. Her eyes were closed, but she seemed to breathe more easily, and she had shifted a little to lie with her cheek against his chest. His coat had slipped slightly, exposing her bare arm. He reached to pull it up so that it would cover her nakedness more completely.

And as he did, he looked up to see, past the splintered column of the gazebo, a trio of staring faces.

E
yes wide, the villagers—he judged by their dress
that these were likely inhabitants of the hamlet where he had stopped briefly yesterday to feed and water his horse and take a quick luncheon himself—stared at him as if he were an invading Goth, or one of the Vikings who had once overrun these shores. They, too, had savaged the Yorkshire women, he remembered from early history lessons, though the prim cleric who had taught him had sidestepped the grimmest details.

Had he saved the unknown young lady's life only to destroy her reputation? The way they gazed at her with mingled relief—to see her alive and not dead in some grasping boggy moor—and horror told him without a word spoken that she
was
a lady, not simply another village lass. Although he supposed village lasses had reputations to uphold, too.

All this flashed through Adrian's mind as the trio glanced at each other, replacing their first looks of astonishment, alarm, and horror with expressions of disapproval. Two were women, and the lone man was a short, stout fellow of advanced age. Adrian had to admire his boldness as the man drew a deep breath and stepped forward. He had no weapon except a narrow walking stick, and only his righteous resolve to stiffen his backbone. He drew himself up and faced the ravishing blackguard.

“Sir! Explain yerself! How 'tis that we find ye thus? Thou hast attacked a virtuous lady of our shire, Miss Madeline—”

One of the women hissed at him.

He recovered quickly. “That is, Miss Applegate. Ye must unhand her at once!”

At least he now knew her name, the ravishing blackguard told himself. This would take some delicate handling…if it could be done at all. His mind was blank as an empty card table beneath the scorn of the two goodwives who gazed at him as if they knew his type, oh, yes…

Rapidly, he shuffled through a dozen explanations, including the unmarked truth, and he knew that the most strenuous effort would slide off shuttered minds as quickly as any of the others. These three had already made their judgments, and so would the rest of the shire.

Miss Madeline Applegate's good repute was doomed. No one—absolutely no one—was going to believe that they had spent the night together in this lonely place, that she had lain naked in his arms and not surrendered her maidenhead.

Such was his reward for the most difficult feat of self-control he had ever maintained!

Still, Adrian had to at least try to save her good name. Drawing a deep breath, he dropped caution into one of the soggy Yorkshire moors that surrounded them. It was not as if he had much to lose.

“Last night I discovered Miss Applegate alone in the woods and in obvious distress,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I felt it unsafe to attempt to move her unassisted, so I tried to warm her so that she would not take a deep chill. She is still in a poor condition, and I am quite concerned. If one of you will go to her home, reassure her family of her safety, and bring back a carriage so that I can return her there without risk, she can receive proper care.”

They gazed at him, and their collective scorn, if not banished, perhaps wavered just a bit.

“A likely story, sir!” The man, who seemed to have taken on the role of spokesman, replied, while one of the women sniffed. “And who be thou that we should accept such a fardingle?”

“I,” Adrian said, his voice cool, “am Viscount Weller, Miss Applegate's fiancé. And this is no time to stand about with mouths agape. If you would, step lively, please!”

The man dropped his walking stick. All three showed expressions of pure astonishment.

“B-but we have not heard the banns read!” one of the women stuttered.

“Miss Applegate was waiting for me to join her for the occasion,” Adrian said, his voice smooth. “Why are you standing there? Miss Applegate needs assistance!”

“I-I—yes, sir—I mean, ye lordship, sir,” the man stuttered. He turned and took out his bewilderment on his companions. “Ah, get a move on, Maud, Sil, don't jest stand here!”

They departed as abruptly as they had come. Adrian looked down to see that Madeline Applegate had opened her lovely eyes. How much had she heard?

“Help is on the way,” he told her. “How do you feel?”

“My head hurts,” she said, her words a little slurred. If she had been some young buck, he might have suspected a late night and too much wine, but he could smell no wine on her breath, and it seemed out of character for a young lady.

“What happened? Did someone attack you?”

“No.” She shut her eyes again. “My mouth is so dry. I'm cold.”

He tried to pull the coat more securely around her. Now that she was awake, he didn't dare put his arms about her and pull her close to him, though he would have dearly liked to do so. He went to his saddlebags and took out his silver flask, bringing it quickly back and kneeling beside her.

He offered a sip. She took it, swallowed, then coughed.

“What is it?”

“Wine,” he told her. “It will be good for you. You've been asleep for a good while.”

She blinked at him, then shut her eyes again. “It's too bright,” she murmured.

Indeed, the sun had risen above the trees. Sunshine slanted across the floor of the gazebo, and the fog seemed to have burnt away.

He sat down beside her and allowed himself the luxury of putting one arm lightly about her to hold the layer of clothing closer to her body, trying to keep her warmer. In the daylight the air was not as chill, but the breeze was still brisk.

Miss Applegate opened her eyes again at the unaccustomed touch, and a look of alarm crossed her face. “Where are my clothes?”

“They were drenched in the storm last evening,” he told her, his voice matter-of-fact. “I feared you would be very ill if you lay in the wet and cold.”

“But…”

She looked dazed, as did soldiers who had suffered blows to the head during a battle. He kept his voice low and soothing. “Help is coming.”

“My father—he will be very worried—”

“It's all right. I have sent word to your family.”

The tenseness in her face eased, and she shut her eyes again. “You're being very kind,” she murmured. “I'm so sleepy.”

“Then rest. I will not leave you,” he promised, remembering her whispered plea.

She shut her eyes again, and he sat beside her without speaking. Around them, a manic chorus of birds trilled in the treetops, the sun rose higher in the sky, and a deer ventured out of the edge of the copse to drop its head in the tall grass and sample the greenery.

It had been a long time since Adrian had experienced this sense of harmony, as if all were right with the world, even for just a golden moment. Whatever had happened to Miss Madeline Applegate, she seemed to be recovering, and that brought him a feeling of joy he had not known in years.

And his lie—when she learned the deception within whose deep folds he had felt compelled to enshroud them—it could well shatter the brief accord of this moment. So he might as well enjoy it while he may.

Within the hour, Adrian heard a heavy tramping of
footsteps, and then an elderly manservant appeared on the path between the trees, followed closely by a maidservant, also of advanced years. They both wore expressions of mingled hope and anxiety.

The man paused when he set eyes on Adrian, but the woman—either more anxious or simply more stubborn—plowed ahead and didn't stop until she could fall to her knees beside Miss Applegate.

Their noisy passage had given Adrian time to extricate himself from close contact with the sleeping young lady, so this time the scene that met their eyes was not quite so scandalous. Even so, the sight of their beloved mistress lying on a horse blanket beneath a stranger's clothing, bereft of her own, made the maid suck in her breath.

Not wanting the woman to fall into hysterics, Adrian said quickly. “Do not shriek! I found her unconscious and soaked to the skin in the storm last night. I feared for her health if she lay in her wet clothes. She has not been harmed in any way, I give you my oath as a gentleman.”

“Of course I wouldna scream out, noises 'urt her poor 'ead at such times as these,” the serving woman said, to his mystification. They both stared at him with distinct suspicion.

“Ye told the baker that ye were Miss Applegate's betrothed,” the man said now.

“I did,” Adrian agreed, meeting the man's narrowed eyes.

“Miss Applegate,” the elderly man continued stubbornly, “has na betrothed.”

“I would suggest that you speak to Miss Applegate about that,” Adrian said, his tone firm.

The man pursed his lips together and hesitated, and Adrian hoped he had the chance to speak to Miss Applegate first.

“Did you bring a carriage so that we can convey her to her home?”

The man nodded slowly. “It be there on the byway.” He motioned toward the road that Adrian's mount had left before plunging into the trees. “We will ha' to carry her there.”

But first, the maidservant insisted on making her mistress more respectable, taking up the damp clothing that Adrian had stripped off the night before. So Adrian turned his back and walked over to his gelding, patting the sulky beast and promising it a proper breakfast soon.

“Unless we are both of us fed first to the Yorkshire lions, of course,” he added beneath his breath. Playing Good Samaritan might become a dangerous pastime.

But Miss Madeline Applegate had, with her wistful green-eyed gaze and alabaster clean-lined body, already taken hold of him in a way that was hard to explain. He could mount his bedeviled horse and ride away, he told himself, now that the mystery lady of the moors had a name, had others to aid and succor her—he told himself that, but he knew it was not true.

She had already woven a spell about him, even though he knew she was no sprite, no changeling, but a real woman in real distress, and in some ways he had added to her problems when all he had meant to do was help her.

Although he had a would-be killer riding behind him—although time was slipping away—he felt the tiny bulge in his waistcoat and resisted the urge to pull out his watch with the tiny charm attached.

Adrian bit back an oath.

The die was cast.

When the maid indicated that masculine eyes could once more be properly cast in the direction of her mistress, he and the elderly manservant returned to the gazebo. The male servant, whose name it appeared was Thomas, hesitated.

Adrian walked over and leaned to pick up the still sleeping woman. He lifted her easily in his arms, carrying her cradled like a child.

“If you would lead my horse?” he suggested.

He would not have been surprised if the man had argued, but instead Thomas looked relieved. The man took the blanket from the floor of the gazebo and tossed it over the gelding, and the two servants walked just behind as Adrian followed the path back to the public road. He could feel their gaze upon his back, as if making sure that he did not abscond with their mistress.

Miss Applegate seemed to inspire loyalty in her staff, at least, he thought wryly. And now he would have to face her father and the rest of her family…

When they reached the road, he saw that the Applegate carriage was like the gazebo, once well made, now somewhat run down, although not as ramshackle as the structure in the clearing. He suspected that Thomas worked hard to maintain the vehicle and the single elderly mare who pulled it.

He placed Miss Applegate carefully into the carriage, and the female servant climbed in, as well, to make sure that her mistress did not fall out of the seat. Thomas clambered up to take the driving reins and clucked to the mare. Adrian mounted his own horse and followed at a slow but steady pace.

As he had suspected, his “fiancée's” home was of similar cast as the rest of the Applegate property. Her family was making a brave effort against looming penury, he thought, wondering what had brought them down—a father addicted to cards or a fast life of drinking and womanizing or all three?

The maid bustled to open the front door, and it seemed to be left to Adrian to again lift Miss Applegate from the narrow seat and carry her inside.

She opened her eyes once more. Blinking, she seemed to recognize him.

“Where—”

“You are home, now,” he told her. “Do not fear.”

She smiled up at him, a smile so sweet and untrammeled by any care that he ached for the approaching storm that full knowledge of their unchaperoned overnight stay would incite.

He tried to fix the sweetness of that look in his mind's eye as her eyelids drifted shut, and he carried her inside. He had expected to meet a noisy crowd of family members awaiting the lost lamb's return. Instead, he saw only one figure in the entry hall. An older man, his expression concerned, sat in a wheeled chair.

“How is she?”

He was not very like her in the face, but this must be her father, Adrian thought, the head of the Applegate household. An invalid—perhaps that was the reason for the family's downward spiral of fortune.