The Misguided Matchmaker (10 page)

Hot,
angry blood throbbed in Maddy’s temples. Her legs were still trembling so
violently she dared not step down from her perch, and this idiot was accusing
her of endangering the safety of his horse! “What of me, you clumsy
cochon
,”
she shouted back. “You’d have killed me if I hadn’t been too quick for you.”

“And
good riddance. One less piece of riff raff to join the Corsican’s band of
cutthroats.” Brandishing his sword, the young Royalist galloped back over the
bridge toward her. She had no choice but to leap into the stream or be run
through by his blade.

The
water was cold, no doubt fed my mountain snows, and the rocks in the streambed
were slippery. No sooner had she landed than her feet went out from under her
and she ended up sitting waist deep in the icy water. Frantically righting
herself, she waded toward the nearest bank. But her tormentor would have none
of that. Still waving his sword threateningly, he galloped toward her, forcing
her back to the middle of the stream.

“Go
on your way, you fool,” she sputtered. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one
day!”

“Fool?
You dare call me, the Chevalier de Montrassat, a fool? It is time you learned
respect for your betters,
paysan
!” Prancing back onto the bridge, he
poised above her and swished his sword back and forth as if preparing for a
duel. “We shall see how hot your peasant blood flows after you have cooled your
heels in this stream for an hour or two.”

“You
c-c-cannot mean to l-l-leave me in this freezing water,” Maddy stammered,
though she could see from his expression of fiendish triumph he meant to do
just that. But if the arrogant young
buffoon
thought she would docilely
submit to such barbarism he had another think coming. Bending over, she scooped
up a handful rocks and began winging them at him, just as she caught sight of
another rider astride a huge bay gelding and leading a chestnut-colored mare
approaching from the direction of the village.

The
sun was in Tristan’s eyes, so it took him a minute to register what was causing
the commotion at the small stone bridge that stood between him and the inn. He
squinted. The redheaded horseman was the young hotheaded Royalist from the inn.
It looked as if he had knocked someone off the bridge—a Bonapartist, no
doubt—and was heartily enjoying his victim’s discomfort.

He
looked again, scarcely believing his eyes. My God! It couldn’t be! But it
was
Maddy standing knee-deep in the stream!

He
opened his mouth to call her name, but before he could get a word out, she let
fly a rock that struck her tormentor squarely on the forehead. With a yelp, he
dropped his reins. His horse bucked and he catapulted backward out of his
saddle to land flat on his back in the middle of the bridge, where he lay in a
crumpled, moaning heap.

Tristan
leapt from his horse and rushed to the bank of the stream. “Devil take it,
Maddy, are you all right?”

“Do
I look all right, you fool?” she snarled, eyeing him with a malevolence that
suggested she would wing one of her missiles at him if he posed another such
question.

With
a shrug, he left the shrew to fend for herself and made a cursory examination
of the loser in the bizarre battle. A welt the size of an egg had already risen
just above the young Royalist’s one good eye and he was moaning pitifully.

Tristan
looked up in time to see Maddy crawl up the slippery bank onto the far end of
the bridge. She was dripping wet from the waist down and shivering
convulsively.

Eyes
wide with horror, she stared at the prostrate form at Tristan’s feet. “Did I
k-k-kill him?” she stammered trough chattering teeth.

T
ristan was tempted to tell her she
had indeed done the fellow in. If ever a woman needed the fear of God drummed
into her, that woman was Maddy Harcourt. Every time he took his eyes off her,
she did some outrageous thing that was completely beyond his comprehension. But
she looked so frightened and miserable; he couldn’t bring himself to add to her
distress.

He
pressed his fingers to the pulse beating in the young Royalist’s neck, a trick
he’d learned from the Paris gendarmes who were frequently called upon to
determine the chances of survival of one of the
canaille
after a street
fight. The boy’s pulse was strong and steady.

“I
believe I can safely say he’ll survive,” he said dryly. “But, thanks to you, he
is almost certain to have two black eyes instead of one, and twice the headache
he already had.”

The
color returned to Maddy’s pale cheeks at the welcome news. “Well, I’m glad I
didn’t kill him, for I’d not like to be responsible for terminating any man’s
life, no matter how much he deserved it.” She tossed her head defiantly. “But
as for a black eye and a headache, I cannot say I am sorry about that. The
beast tried to run me down when I was walking across this bridge.”

“Why?”

“For
no other reason I could see than that he thought I was a peasant.”

Tristan’s
scowl was so black it sent shivers down Maddy’s spine that had nothing to do
with being chilled to the bone. “I wasn’t asking why the fellow tried to run
you down, but rather why you were walking across this bridge.”

Maddy
almost said “to reach the other side,” but resisted the temptation. Instinct
told her it was a poor time to introduce humor into their conversation. She
stared at the two horses tethered nearby and suddenly remembered Tristan had
mentioned he meant to do some horse-trading at the village market. So he hadn’t
abandoned her after all. The comforting thought kindled a spark of warmth
somewhere in her chilled body, as well as a touch of chagrin. Her foolish fears
had all been of her own making.

“I
am waiting for an explanation, Maddy. Why were you walking across this bridge a
good distance from the inn, instead of waiting for me to return as you should
have?” Tristan’s voice carried a note of sharpness, as if he was at the end of
his patience, and Maddy knew he would be satisfied with nothing less than the
truth.

She
wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to stop shivering. “I was afraid,”
she said hesitantly. “I couldn’t find you and the little maid said she’d seen
you drive away.”

“And
naturally you thought I had abandoned you.” Tristan rose to his feet to tower
over her. “Why, Maddy? What is there about me that makes you think the worst of
me? First you took me for a thief and murderer, then a ravager of innocent
females, now a heartless blackguard who would leave you alone and penniless in
a country torn apart by civil war.”

Maddy
hung her head, embarrassed that he had so easily guessed the insulting
conclusion to which she had immediately jumped when she’d found him missing
from the inn. In retrospect, it did look a little foolish. Whatever he might
have been in his previous life, Tristan had been completely honorable where she
was concerned. The only thing she could honestly accuse him of was a testy
disposition.

“If
it is my bastard status the worries you,” he continued with a tough bitterness,
“let me assure you that I was raised by a woman who taught me how to act like a
gentleman even if I could never actually become one.”

“It
has nothing to do with your…your unfortunate birth,” she said contritely.

“I
see. My profession then.”

“As
a spy? Heavens no. That just makes you all the more intriguing.” Maddy felt her
cheeks flame when she realized the slip she’d made.

Luckily,
the young Royalist chose that moment to interrupt them with a groan and Tristan
bent to once again place his fingertips at the spot in the lad’s neck where his
pulse throbbed. Maddy knew it was only a temporary interruption and her
interrogator would still expect an answer to his probing question when he stood
up.

But
what to say? She could hardly admit the truth that had just moments before
occurred to her—that she had unconsciously judged him far too harshly because
it was more comfortable to find fault with him than to acknowledge the
frightening effect he had on her.

She
could just imagine the start she’d give him if she told him that every time he
looked at her, her heart pounded and a queer kind of ache started in the most
secret part of her body. And when he touched her!
Nom de Dieu
, the
feeling that engulfed her then defied description.

So,
she simply said, “I apologize. I am not normally such a missish creature. But I
have never before had to deal with an Englishman. The experience has been a bit
bewildering.”

She
raised her eyes to meet his. “But I have regained my equilibrium. I promise I
will never doubt you again. From this moment forward, I will trust you
completely.”

A
rare smile brightened Tristan’s lean features. “Do not go that far,” he said
gently, as he unrolled the carriage blanket which rested across the stallion’s
rump, wrapped it about her shivering shoulders, and secured it with a knot. “No
man is completely trustworthy where a beautiful, desirable woman is concerned.”

A
beautiful, desirable woman.
Because such a monstrous lie cut her to the
quick after the bald truth he’d blurted out just hours before, Maddy resorted
to a sharp retort to cover the stab of pain. “You have odd taste in beauty for
a man of the world, monsieur. A scrawny creature with the figure of a boy and
tongue of a wasp would not be the choice of many men.”

“Hell
and damnation, Maddy, you know very well those were simply words said in anger.
What could you expect me to say when you’d just called me a lecher?” he sounded
so sincere, she almost believed him. Almost, but not quite.

He
held out his hand. “Shall we agree—no more angry exchanges for the duration of
our time together? Surely we can manage that if we both try.”

Maddy
shook his hand solemnly, acutely aware of the note of finality in his voice
when he’d said “the duration of our time together.” It suddenly occurred to her
that once Tristan had paid his brother’s debt by delivering her to her father,
he might well disappear from her life forever. The thought was oddly
depressing.

She
withdrew her hand from his. Strange as it seemed, she would miss him. The way
one missed a toothache once the tooth was pulled, no doubt, she decided sourly.

She
watched him prop the groggy young Royalist against the wall of the bridge…then
chase down and tether his horse. “We cannot just leave him here like this
surely,” she protested.

Tristan
raised an eyebrow. “What do you suggest we do with him?” he asked, laying the
unconscious man’s sword across his lap. “Tie him to his saddle and take him
with us? His compatriots are sure to be along soon. They will see to him.”

“But
what if the Corsican’s advance guard reaches him first?”

“Believe
me, Maddy, if General Cambronne’s
gronards
are that close, we should be
worrying about our own necks, not his.”

Tristan
rose and walked to where the two horses he’d brought from the village were
tethered. Beckoning Maddy forward, he cupped his hands to give her a leg up on
the mare. But even with help, her effort to mount was clumsy, to say the least.

Tristan’s
brows came together in a scowl. “Devil take it, I didn’t think to ask if you
rode.”

“Of
course I ride,” Maddy said haughtily. “I am an excellent horsewoman. I am just
not accustomed to this kind of saddle.”

Tristan
slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. “How could I be so stupid?
Naturally, you ride sidesaddle. Well, that’s out in your present disguise.” He
frowned. “Do you think you can manage?”

“I
can manage. It is just a matter of adjustment,” Maddy declared, with a great
deal more confidence than she felt. But she did manage—better than she
expected, actually. Awkward as the saddle felt, it was still good to have a
lively mount beneath her again, and the little mare was a sweet goer.

She
watched Tristan wrestle with the narrow cassock which was never designed for
sitting astride a horse. It rode up his powerful thighs and bunched beneath his
hips, until he finally yanked it impatiently up around his waist. “Our roles
appear to be reversed, Father Tristan,” she suggested, struggling to keep a
straight face. “Perhaps we should procure a sidesaddle for you.”

To
her surprise, he merely grinned. “We shall see which of us is laughing at the
end of the day,
paysan.
”

He
started off at a slow trot, but once Maddy began to relax in the saddle, he
gradually increased their leisurely pace until they were heading northward at a
full gallop.

Instinctively,
Maddy pressed her thighs against the little mare’s flanks, dug in her heels,
and kept up with Tristan the best she could. Despite the monumental effort it
took, her spirits soared. The sun was bright, the air fresh, and the day
already bidding fair to being unusually warm for early March. Gratefully, she
soaked up the comforting heat, feeling it dry her soggy clothes and thaw the
chill from her body.

After
half an hour, she shed her blanket, tossing it across the saddle in front of
her and with it the aura of fear and death that had haunted her during the long
weeks of her grandfather’s illness. Reveling in the feel of the warm breeze
caressing her body and rippling through her cap of curls, she made a vow that
from now on she would take each day of her adventure with this puzzling
Englishman as it came and never again look back at what might have been.

They
rode hard and fast for the next two hours, and Maddy soon learned what Tristan
had been alluding to in his cryptic remark. Riding astride worked a completely
different set of muscles than riding sidesaddle; in no time at all her thighs
and buttocks began to ache abominably. With dogged determination, she ignored
the discomfort and concentrated on the exhilaration of the ride. Pride dictated
she neither ask any quarter of Tristan nor slow him down until he saw fit to
rest the horses.

The
sun was close to its zenith when they clattered across a covered wooden bridge
and stopped beside a gurgling stream that wound through a grove of silver
aspens. Maddy dismounted gingerly and hobbled to a spot upstream of the horses
where she could drink deeply and splash water on her heated face.

Tristan
stretched out on the grass at the stream’s edge and watched her painful
progress. He bit back a smile. What she needed was a good rubdown. But aside
from the affront to her maidenly modesty, he would be subjecting himself to the
worst kind of torture if he dared touch the intriguing little hellion in such
an intimate manner. The thought was tempting, but Maddy would just have to live
with her aches and pains.

Meanwhile,
he had yet another problem to present her. “We’re a bit short of money,” he
said casually as they sat on the bank of the stream while the horses drank
their fill. “Your father gave me a generous amount to cover the trip, but he
expected us to ride in public coaches, not purchase horses—three in all,
counting the one I rode south.”

He
glanced anxiously at her face, trying to read her expression. “The few francs I
got for old dobbin and the carriage didn’t begin to cover the cost of two fast
horses. But I opted for them anyway. The sooner we quit France, the better.”

Maddy
nodded her agreement. “Do we have enough money for one good meal? I doubt I can
choke down another bite of bread and cheese.”

“We’ve
enough for several good meals…providing we don’t waste any money on sleeping accommodations.”

“Does
that mean we’ll be sleeping in haylofts?” she asked, looking not the least bit
disconcerted by the possibility.

“Haylofts,
haystacks, horse stalls—who knows what will present itself for our use.”

She
leaned back on her elbow and stared up at the cloudless sky. “I vote for
haystacks. I’ve always had a secret desire to sleep out under the stars. This
may be my only chance.”

Tristan
couldn’t help himself. As if on its own accord, his hand snaked out and ruffled
her wind-tossed curls. “I’ll say one thing for you, Maddy Harcourt. You’re game
as a pebble.” For the first time, he found himself wondering if his very staid
and proper brother would be capable of appreciating this plucky young original
that fate had decreed he make his wife.

The
rest of the day passed quickly. When the road became too dusty, Maddy moved up
to ride beside Tristan. They spoke little, but there was a harmony in their
silence that he found surprising. It had been his experience that most women
were uncomfortable with silence, especially silence between them and a member
of the opposite sex.

Dusk
was falling when he spied a small slate-roofed inn set off the road next to an
ancient stone gristmill. “This looks promising,” he declared, reining in the
stallion. “We’ll take our meal here.”