Once Upon a Wallflower (21 page)

Abruptly, Beatrix did away with the social niceties. “So, Miss Fitzhenry,” she said, suddenly sounding as serious as the grave, “what have you learned about our local scandal?”

A frisson of foreboding slithered down Mira’s spine. If Beatrix also suspected that her husband was the murderer, what might she do to protect him…and her own good name? A sudden image of Beatrix striking Bella flashed through Mira’s mind, and she lost her breath. Abandoning all pretense of grace or dignity, she clawed at the velvet upholstery of the settee until she managed to pull herself onto it. Quickly she stood, and sidled away from Beatrix.

“Um,” she responded, straining to keep her tone light, “nothing really, I’m sure. All three deaths were such tragedies, but it seems that they must forever remain mysteries.”

Beatrix was silent, her narrowed eyes fixed on Mira in a most unnerving manner. “Mmmm,” she murmured, her searching gaze never wavering.

“Well,” Mira said, “if you will excuse me, my lady, I was just about to take a short constitutional. After all the rain, I find I am a bit restless and could use the air.”

“Of course, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix responded, a knowing smile tipping at the corners of her mouth. Without any further chitchat, Beatrix turned away and began to peruse a shelf of books as though she truly had come in search of something to read. Still, Mira could not shake the feeling that Beatrix had sought her out, that there was nothing at all casual about the encounter.

Mira glanced once more at the clock as she retrieved her green Kashmir shawl from the arm of the settee. Nine thirty-seven. Nicholas was definitely not coming.

With a smothered sigh, and a quick curtsy to Lady Beatrix’s back, Mira wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and hurried from the library.

Apparently she would have to find Dowerdu—and the truth—on her own.

Mira picked her way carefully along the uneven ground of the path to Dowerdu. The pathway ran perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Indeed, the pathway was really more of a wide ledge, with boulders and crags rising on the landward side to meet the moor above.

Morning sunlight threw the shadow of the land across the waves and boulders below. The cold wet breath of the sea sighed up from the depths and tickled her cheek. And to the west, a wall of dark cloud was building, its own shadow turning the water beneath it black as night. Now and again, a ragged gash of lightning would tear the thunderhead asunder. The contrast of the lightning in the distance with the sun shining overhead was eerie, and pushed her to hurry along her way.

Although most of her concentration was focused simply on keeping her footing, she tried to watch for any sign of fishing boats on the water below or for a pathway leading down the cliff. From what she recalled of Nicholas and Nan’s descriptions of the area, Dowerdu would be just past the first inlet of fishing boats.

She walked and watched, the rhythmic crashing of the waves the only sound, until suddenly another sound intruded, a syncopated counterpoint to the percussive thunder of the sea. A horse. Behind her. Close. Moving fast.

Mira turned to look just as horse and rider came upon her. She caught only a fleeting image, a cloaked and hooded figure atop a pale gray beast, enormous and galloping flat out. Then, the rider’s arm jerked, the horse swerved, and its hurtling bulk flew at her.

Her first thought, even before she thought to move, was that the rider’s movement was no accident. He meant to direct the horse at her. He meant to run her down.

The pathway was too small. As Mira scrambled to avoid the charging animal, she lost her footing.

Time slowed. Loose pebbles and dirt gave way beneath the soles of her boots. Her shawl caught on something and slipped from her shoulders. The heaving pants of the horse and her own rasping gasp of breath met her ears, and she smelled animal sweat and something else—something sweet and familiar—as the edge of the rider’s cloak brushed past her face.

And then the world turned upside down. Sky beneath her feet, waves at her back, a sense of unbearable disorientation. She was flying, she thought, flying without wings. There was no panic or fear, only a sense of weightless calm.

A heartbeat later, the instinct to live flared to life, galvanizing her into action. With all her strength she twisted about, arms outstretched toward the cliff face, hands grasping for any hold at all. Her forearm cracked against an outcropping, sending a blinding bolt of pain through her body, and her hands brushed the jagged rocks, abrasions burning like fire.

Then, as abruptly as her fall began, it ended, her body coming to rest with a jarring thud on a narrow ledge.

At first, she simply lay there, savoring the stillness and taking mental stock of her physical well-being. Her hands were raw, her right arm throbbed, and she felt bruised all over. But she seemed otherwise whole.

Slowly, she raised her head to examine her surroundings. She had fallen no more than fifteen feet from the pathway. And she had just caught the edge of the ledge… If she had not been reaching toward the cliffs, the momentum of her fall might have carried her right past this tiny salvation and to her death on the rocks below.

She gingerly pulled herself closer to the cliff wall. She could not move far along the face of the cliff, as the outcropping on which she rested was no more than five feet wide. She huddled against the rock, a margin of two feet separating her from the precipice on every side.

A rumble of thunder, clearly audible now over the roar of the sea, reminded her of the need to find a way off of the cliff and back to the pathway. But her battered and breathless body—and the fear that the hooded rider might be waiting for her above—kept her rooted firmly in place.

Then the rain began. Large fat droplets landing with solid plops gradually gave way to a steady barrage of water and finally to a torrential downpour. The wind increased and Mira curled up tightly, making herself as small as possible as the gale rocked her from side-to-side on her fragile perch.

As the storm raged, she allowed the tears to come, tears of physical pain and shock and fear, tears that melted into the rainwater and rushed into the sea.

The thought echoed over and over in her mind. Someone had tried to kill her. And, she realized, if the storm did not let up, and she did not find some way off of this ledge, the someone who had tried to kill her might yet succeed.

With a grim flash of humor, she chided herself for being so critical of magical intervention as a plot device. She could use a little magical intervention of her own, right then.

Magic. Mira’s hand flew to her throat, and a rush of relief filled her when her fingers brushed the delicate chain there. With fingers already clumsy from cold, she tugged on the chain to free the pendant hanging around her neck. As she huddled on the cliff ledge in the pouring rain, she caressed the small pendant, and, sheltering it with her hands, she released the tiny catch to expose the ivory jonquil inside.

So delicate, the flower. Yet it found a way to fight through the earth and strive for the sun.

She closed the locket and wrapped her cold hand about it, clutching it close like a talisman. If a flower could find its way, she could too.

…

Cloves and heat and wet wool. Lulled by a gentle rocking motion, Mira burrowed deeper into the sudden warmth and breathed in the intoxicating scent of Nicholas.

Nicholas.

He was here.

“Mira-mine, open your eyes.”

It was difficult, so difficult, but Mira did as asked and looked up into Nicholas’s face, meeting his silvery gaze. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw hard, the force of his will rousing her from her stupor.

“Good girl,” he said.

“Where am I?”

“On a horse.”

“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes again and leaned into the shelter of his embrace.

Without stirring, she muttered against his waistcoat, “A horse going where?”

“Going to Dowerdu. It is closer than Blackwell.” She felt his voice as much as she heard it, rumbling beneath her cheek.

“Mmmm. I was on a cliff.”

“Yes, Mira, I know you were.” His words were clipped. He sounded angry.

Details of the incident began to intrude on the muzzy warmth in Mira’s mind: the horse and rider, the fall, the rain pummeling her on the ledge, and then blackness. She had no recollection of her apparent rescue.

She struggled to sit up again, to look Nicholas in the eye. “Where did you come from?” she asked. “I waited in the library for you, but you did not come.”

Nicholas paused, and Mira thought she saw a hint of color tinge his cheeks. “Yes, I went for a ride late last night and ended up staying at Dowerdu. I thought to wait for you there. When the storm hit, I assumed you had changed your mind.” There was a catch in his voice, and he continued on in a gruff whisper. “I waited out the storm at the cottage.”

She looked about, taking stock of her surroundings. There was a light mist in the air, but the rain had ceased. It was nearing dark, a wash of orange and red across the ocean heralding the last glimmer of daylight. She must have been on the ledge for hours. That would certainly explain the bone-biting cold she felt, the grinding ache in her limbs, and the stirring of hunger deep in her belly.

“But how did you ever find me?” she whispered, marveling at her good fortune.

“Your shawl. The green one.” A faint smile brushed his face. “The color suits you,” he added with a shrug. “It was caught on a bit of gorse by the edge of the pathway. You were not far below.”

Mira remembered, now, the feel of the shawl sliding off as she fell. She glanced about vaguely. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“My shawl.”

Nicholas glanced down at her, eyes wide with incredulity. “You might have died, Mira. You are battered and wet and freezing. But you are worried about the location of your shawl?”

She shrugged.

His expression turning hard, Nicholas said, “It is gone.”

“But you said you saw it. How can it now be gone?”

“I… When I saw you on the ledge…” He paused and returned his gaze to the pathway. Now there was no mistaking the flush that crept up his throat and suffused his face. “I could not reach you myself,” he ground out. “I had to leave you there and return to Blackwell for help.”

Straightening as much as she could, Mira peered over Nicholas’s broad shoulder. Just behind them rode another man. He wore a hat pulled low to protect him from the lingering drizzle, but based on the man’s rangy build and the tawny curls that poked from beneath his drooping brim she recognized it was Pawly. He raised a hand in silent greeting, and Mira gave him a tiny wave in return.

“When Pawly and I returned to fetch you, the shawl was gone,” Nicholas continued in a tight voice.

“Oh.” Mira suddenly realized that she must sound ungrateful, fretting over the loss of her shawl when Nicholas and Pawly had surely risked their lives to pull her from the cliff ledge. “The shawl really does not matter,” she said, “I was just curious. And, um, thank you for saving me.”

“I could hardly just leave you there,” Nicholas responded, the tension draining from his form and voice. “People would talk,” he added, giving her a teasing wink.

“Still, thank you.”

He met her eyes, and the passionate intensity of his gaze sent a wave of heat washing over her. “My pleasure,” he purred, shifting in the saddle and making her acutely aware of his hard thighs beneath her. Even battered, soaking wet, and freezing, her body responded to his proximity with a blissful melting sensation.

“But, Mira,” he continued in his low, liquid voice, “please bear in mind how lucky we were today. If you had not caught that ledge, or if I had not happened to notice your shawl, things might have ended…badly. You must be more careful in the future to stay away from the ledge, especially in the rain.”

Mira stiffened, the sultry pleasure of his embrace forgotten. He thought the fall was her fault, that she had been clumsy and careless.

“I
was
careful, Nicholas. I am not a reckless, impulsive person. But I was run off the path by a horse and rider.”

His arms tightened around her as he drew up the reins and brought the horse to an abrupt stop. He cupped her cheek with one hand so that she could not avoid his penetrating stare.

“What horse? What rider? Mira you must tell me exactly what happened.”

“I was walking toward Dowerdu, keeping quite well away from the cliff edge,” she said pointedly, “and keeping an eye on the approaching storm, when I suddenly realized that the noise I heard was not thunder but a horse. I turned to see who was approaching, but the rider was already upon me. He pulled on the reins, directing the horse closer to the cliff edge and crowding me off. I had no choice but to move closer to the precipice. It was that or be trampled. And then I lost my footing and fell.” Her voice caught on a lump of tears as she relived the terrifying incident.

“Mira, who was on the horse? What did you see?” There was a frantic edge of panic in his voice.

“Nothing. I mean, I do not know. The rider was wearing a long hooded cape, and I could not see his face. But there was something…” She trailed off, uncertain whether she really did remember the detail, or whether it was only a flight of fancy.

“What?” Nicholas urged.

“It is probably nothing. I may have imagined it. But there was a smell, something familiar. I am not certain what, exactly, but it sparked something in me, seemed important somehow.”

“Mira, are you quite certain that the rider aimed the horse at you on purpose?”

“Absolutely. He meant to run that horse at me, to push me over the cliff.”

All the color drained from his face. “Bloody hell.” With a glance over his shoulder at Pawly, he pulled Mira tight against his chest, his strong arms stilling any protest she might have made. He shifted again, urging the horse forward along the path to Dowerdu.

For the remainder of the short ride, Nicholas was silent. Mira relaxed against his solid form, absorbing as much of his generous heat as she could.

She was beginning to doze again, when the horse stopped swaying beneath her. Mustering what energy she could, she looked around, eager for her first glimpse of Dowerdu.