Two Turtledoves (14 page)

Perhaps not such a blind stumble after all. Something
deep inside her had guided her to the one place she had always felt
free and safe.

The throbbing pain in her left hand drew her
attention. Her glove was drenched with warm moisture out of place
in the dead of winter. She lifted her hand to the space right in
front of her eyes, but the darkness made it impossible to see any
more than a silhouette.

She peeled off her glove and wrapped it tightly
around the cut, then clutched the wounded hand to her chest.
Anastasia could find her way back to the house blindfolded, but she
wasn't ready. Not ready to face him yet.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the memory of that
afternoon so many years ago. Perhaps she had been far too absorbed
in her fantasy. Perhaps she had looked at the man through the eyes
of her fancy for too long. He might never be to her everything she
imagined him to be.

But she simply wasn't ready to give up on him.

Anastasia huddled closer to the ground and shivered.
She should be heading back.

****

It was pride. Plain and simple.

He should have gone after her right away, but he
didn't. Instead he stood nursing his ego on the terrace for several
minutes. He had told her how he felt — she had cursed him and run
away. A relationship made in Heaven.

None of that mattered now. Lady Anastasia had been
gone far too long.

Baldwyn paced the hall outside Lord Marks's chamber
door.

He would have to go after her, but he hadn't been to
visit the country house in over five years. She could be anywhere
on the grounds, and with the snow coming down as it was, there
would be no trail to follow.

Blast him.

He had waited too long.

And now she was lost out there in the storm in
nothing more than a light shawl.

Abruptly he approached the door and pounded on
it.

No answer.

Baldwyn pounded again, more insistently.

After what seemed like hours, the door creaked open
and Lord Marks peered out through bleary sleep-filled eyes.

"Your grace? What is it?" Lord Marks blinked several
times and concern grew in his eyes.

"Lady Anastasia. She is missing." The words barely
choked through the knot in his throat.

The door closed in his face. Baldwyn sighed. Was the
man still asleep? He slapped his hand against the door frame and
spun on his heel. He couldn't wait for Lord Marks to realize it
wasn't a dream.

Halfway to the stairs, Baldwyn heard the click of the
door behind him.

"Paisley, wait. We shall need lanterns."

****

Anastasia hadn't intended to fall asleep. A chill
racked through her as she woke. How long had she been out here? Her
hand still throbbed, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

The stiffness made it hard to move, but she pushed
herself up to stand, stomping her feet briskly against the cold
hard ground. Fresh powder flurries blew off her skirts as she shook
them out. There was no feeling left in her feet. She stomped them
again harder, trying to reclaim sensation. Nothing.

She had to get back to the manor house. Flurries of
snow blurred her vision, making all the trees around her look the
same. Which way was it? Her head swam in a haze of confusion. She
had been in these woods a hundred thousand times. Whirling around,
she glanced all about looking for a clue of what direction she
should take to return to the warmth of her father's fireplace.

Her heart leapt to her throat when she realized she
was hopelessly lost. Lost in a place she should know like the back
of her own hand. Frigid tears stung her eyes, and surges of chills
swept over her again and again.

A loud steady rattle split the air around her, and
Anastasia studied the shadows for signs to explain the noise. She
lowered herself to the ground and slid up against the old oak tree,
staring wide-eyed into the darkness. The rhythmic tapping tore
through the silence, and she wrapped her arms around herself to
keep from shaking.

Then she realized… her teeth — the ear-splitting
clatter was coming from her own chattering teeth.

Anastasia chuckled, pulled her knees to her chest,
and wrapped her arms tightly around them.

****

Armed with a lantern, a flask of brandy, and a pile
of warm woolen blankets, Baldwyn trudged into the darkness heading
toward the fields, while Lord Marks took the trail toward the
pond.

The bitter wind whipped the flame within the glass,
casting a flickering curtain of light against the freshly fallen
snow.

He followed his feet, not certain exactly where they
were taking him, but trusting they knew something he didn't. The
only sound was the frantic icy crunch beneath his boots as he broke
into a trot.

"Anastasia!" he belted out. His voice echoed back at
him.

He listened and heard nothing in return but the sound
of his feet pounding the ground.

Again and again he yelled her name, growing more
anxious with each unanswered call. It was only a little over an
hour she had been gone, but it was so cold, and she had only a
light shawl. What if she was injured, lying somewhere unconscious
in the snow? Baldwyn's chest constricted around his lungs, and he
struggled for enough breath to call her name again.

"Anastasia!" he forced out with a mournful gasp.

****

Anastasia lifted her head. The cold air was a
shocking slap in her face, stinging her cheeks and nose. What was
that sad wail floating toward her through the darkness? It rang in
the tree branches overhead — the call of the turtledoves flittering
from tree to tree high above her.

They called to each other over and over. They must be
lost in the cold and the dark as well. Somewhere in the frosty haze
of her mind she recognized the faulty naturalism. Turtledoves
didn't muddle about in the English countryside in the winter, but
her ears told her it was the same sad cry, the resounding despair
of a turtledove searching for its lost mate.

"Anastasia!" The doleful moan hovered in the branches
overhead. Was the turtledove calling her name? She blinked and
looked up, scouring the inky black sky for signs of the
unseasonable birds.

"I'm here, little turtledove… I'm down here on the
ground," she crooned in a sing-song voice, hardly more than a
whisper.

"Anastasia!" Her name drifted to her ears again,
growing closer and closer, like a bird spiraling down to alight by
her feet.

She closed her eyes tight and rested her head against
the trunk of the tree. This must be what death was like. And now
the light shining all around, so brightly she could see it through
her closed lids. Any moment she would feel the warmth of the
angel's arms encircling her, carrying her on to Glory.

"Anastasia," the angel's voice cracked. Nothing like
she would imagine an angel to sound. "Anastasia, are you hurt?" An
odd question for an angel to ask.

She struggled to open her eyes, finally earning a
squinting glance. The bright halo trimmed an angelic face with eyes
blue as cornflowers.

Warmth spread from her shoulders, as two strong hands
grasped her and pulled her slightly forward, and then draped a
thick blanket of heaven around her, wrapping her tightly.

"Your lips are blue, Princess." The deep voice found
its smooth timbre and ran over her like warm honey, heating her
from the top of her head to the bottom of her toes.

"Is it you?" she whispered.

The angel nodded. "It's me, Princess. Your loyal
knight." His hand smoothed her cold cheek in a slow, deliberate
stroke. "I've come to rescue you."

She smiled dreamily as he lifted a shiny flask to her
lips. "Drink this. It will warm you."

The liquid slipped down her throat, radiating heat
all the way down.

Anastasia gazed at her rescuer. "Are you my
turtledove?"

"Yes, yes!" He laughed and scooped her up in his
warm, protective arms, bestowing a light kiss on her forehead.
"Your turtledove… and I've been calling for you, my lost love," he
crooned against her ear.

"And you have found me?"

"Yes, at long last, I have found you."

She nestled her head against his broad shoulder and
wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Then… take me home. Take me home where I
belong."

Baldwyn wound the blankets tightly around Anastasia
and poured her another tumbler of brandy. Hot tea was coming, but
he was anxious for her color to return.

She lay against the divan peacefully, never taking
her eyes from him as he worked. He lifted her hands gently, freeing
them from the entanglements of the blanket, and examined them.

A deep cut creased one of her palms. She had wrapped
one glove around it to staunch the bleeding, which was now
congealed. He would have to soak it to dislodge the glove without
reopening the wound.

Two or three maids hovered about, stoking the fire
and such other fidgety tasks.

"Bring me a basin of warm water and some clean
bandages," he ordered the nearest one, startling her with the
sternness of his voice. She scurried out of the room to do his
bidding.

He carefully removed the glove from her uninjured
hand and held her red fingers in his warm grasp.

Her brown eyes scrutinized his face, but she didn't
speak.

This was all his fault. Baldwyn knew it. He could
feel her accusation assail him, though she neither frowned nor
smiled.

"Can you feel your toes yet?" he asked, turning his
attention abruptly to her thin shoes. He knelt beside her and one
by one, slipped them off and warmed her feet with his hands. They
were so cold, almost blue even now.

She shook her head and dropped her gaze to her feet
propped on the divan, watching his hands knead the color back into
them.

A clatter of excitement erupted just outside the
door, and Lord Marks burst into the room, his eyes bright with both
relief and concern.

"You found her!" The earl strode to his daughter's
side and knelt beside her. Tenderly he brushed a wayward curl of
hair from her face and smiled.

"Is she…?" he began and turned to Baldwyn.

"Intact, my lord. Half-frozen, but all will be well
again soon."

Anastasia's deep brown eyes cut to her father. Her
expression remained unchanged.

"Hmm…" Lord Marks observed. "Still in shock I'd
wager. What has been done for her?"

"Brandy, blankets, the fire… I've been trying to rub
the sensation back into her fingers and toes, and I sent someone
for dry clothes and warm water." He gestured to her wounded hand,
which lay atop the blanket, still wrapped with the blood-matted
glove.

"Very good, very good." Lord Marks smoothed
Anastasia's hair another moment. They stared at each other so
intently, Baldwyn was certain they were communicating some deep
message that words failed to express.

After a long marked silence, Lord Marks spoke to
Baldwyn. "You seem to have this well in hand, Paisley. If there are
any developments, send Bernard."

"Of course."

Marks rested a reassuring hand on Baldwyn's shoulder
before moving to the door. "I'm counting on you to take care of my
little girl."

"Not to worry, my lord. The lady is in good
hands."

"I know she is." Lord Marks drew in a deep breath and
set his jaw in resolute determination, and with one more pat on the
shoulder, he turned and left Anastasia in Baldwyn's care.

The servants arrived with a change of clothes and the
basin of warm water. He would have to leave while they helped her
out of her wet things, but he dreaded leaving her for even the
short time that would take.

"Can you sit up, m'lady?" the maid asked. Baldwyn
knelt beside the divan and slipped his arm around her, shifting her
into an upright position.

"Your grace?" the servant prodded. She cast her gaze
toward the door to indicate his place.

Grudgingly, he rose and whispered to Anastasia, "I'll
be right outside."

She nodded in silence and forced a weary smile.

When he returned several minutes later, she lay
across the divan once again, looking much more comfortable in her
heavy winter housecoat. Someone had tucked her feet under several
blankets along with a bed warmer.

"Well, then, shall we see to that hand, my lady?" He
situated the basin of warm water on a stool beside her and knelt
near her head. Gently he lifted her injured hand then submerged it
in the basin, allowing the glove to soak until it was loose enough
to pull away.

He struggled to focus on the task at hand, but his
patient focused only on him. With careful strokes, he cleaned the
deep gash and patted it dry with a towel, then he wrapped it in
fresh bandages and laid it back on her chest, pulling the blanket
up around Anastasia's chin to cover her thawing extremities.

"Now that is done. Are you warm enough?"

A full-body tremor followed her unconvincing nod.

"Liar." Baldwyn allowed the hint of a smile to tug at
the corner of his mouth. Everything he knew to do for her had been
done.

All but one thing.

He glanced around the room nervously. Sweat beaded on
his forehead, and he wiped his clammy palms on the sides of his
breeches.

"Your grace? Is something wrong?" Bernard stood a few
feet away from him, studying him with concern.

Baldwyn shook his head. "The lady. She's still
trembling. She needs… that is, I shall have to…" He swiped his
hands down his thighs once more.

Bernard followed Baldwyn's gaze to Anastasia who was
racked with chill. "It is necessary, your grace," he reassured the
duke.

Baldwyn nodded.

The old butler stepped behind him to help him slip
out of his fitted jacket.