The Rogue's Reluctant Rose (10 page)

She had not been galloping five minutes when the sky turned a menacing shade of black and purple. It had been so sudden! Before she knew it, lightning was splitting the sky and rain was coming down in sheets. Araminta cursed herself for such a miscalculation, trying to see her way through the downpour. She knew she had to make it to Dillwood Park. Nightstar had begun to panic, and it was all she could do to maintain control over the usually obedient, gentle animal. She hoped that they would not encounter any pitfalls or streams as they flew blindly through the rain, for Nightstar might twist an ankle on uneven footing, but caution was not an option. Her breathing heavy and her heart drumming furiously in her ears, Araminta let go the reins with one gloved hand, to brush rainwater out of her eyes.

For a moment, she imagined she could just make out the light of Dillwood Park in the distance, and a grim smile etched itself on her pale face as she directed Nightstar towards the light. Wet tendrils of her hair had escaped the confines of her hat and numerous hair pins, and stuck to her equally wet cheeks.

Araminta berated herself mentally for her foolishness in going so far, as she pressed on. How Harriet would worry. As if poor Harriet didn’t have enough to worry her.

Her velvet dress was soaked through within minutes, and she clung to the reins for dear life, when a particularly loud crack tore through the sky, so ferocious that Araminta was sure the sky would shatter above her. The stallion, frightened beyond reason, reared, hoofs lashing in the air before taking off at a right angle to the house. It was all Araminta could do to hold on, even with all her years of experience in riding. She struggled to control Nightstar, and she could not calm the panicked animal. Her heart was in her throat now, as she did her best to stay atop the stallion, praying that her foolishness would not bring about her untimely demise.

A wooden fence came into view through the rain, and Araminta tried to rein Nightstar in, to divert his flight away from the obstruction. She did not think the horse would be able to jump the fence in his current state, and she particularly doubted her ability to hang on if he were to do so.

“No, Nightstar! No, stop!” she cried, as she pulled hard on the reins.

But it was too late. Deafening thunder shattered around them once again. There was no stopping the stallion as his powerful legs kicked away from the ground and he flew over the high fence. With a frightened cry, Araminta lost her gip on the horse, her wet gloves slipping, and her small body was flung from the saddle.

Minta felt herself hurtling through the air towards a muddied, wet track and ineffectually flung out her arms to break the fall. She knew a moment of guilt for Harriet, and resignation that there was no one to find her out in the rain, and then her head hit a large stone in the track and she lost all consciousness.

Jasper Devereaux, sixth Marquis of Chestleton, mentally cursed the damnable letter that had summoned him down from London. He had ridden out immediately, and decided to press on through the previous night with only a brief stop at a carriage house along the way. Now, as a storm brewed all around him, having been threatening all day, he regretted his hasty decision. His stallion, Dante, raced on through the murk and rain. Chestleton’s black greatcoat was billowing behind him, making him look like some avenging spirit, traversing the night. He felt the last dregs of his good temper dissipate as the weather grew progressively worse. Dante was a steady horse, trained for the wars on the peninsula, and it was only this training and Chestelton’s superior control of the animal that kept the horse from bolting as lighting and thunder made their inevitable appearance.

He knew that he had to be drawing near Dillwood Park, the house he had rented. He was meant to have been there hours ago, but he was entirely unfamiliar with the Colestershire countryside, and had managed to get lost along the ridiculously twisty country lanes. When he had begun to look for any locals who might put him in the right direction for the house, the weather was already bad enough that none were about, and he had decided against deviating from his route long enough to seek out a cottage or a village. He had been relieved to spy the large house in the distance.

Chestleton had failed to meet a single person on the road all day, and thus he was surprised when, staring ahead towards the house, he could just make out an outline of a figure approaching the road on which he was travelling, at a right angle. He wondered what crazy soul would be out in such abominable weather, before he realised that the rider was moving too fast and too erratically to be fully in control of their mount. A bright bolt of lightning lit up the sky just as the figure was nearing a high, wooden fence separating the road from the stretch of field beyond it.

Jasper was further surprised when he saw that the figure was a female. He spurred Dante on towards the woman, but it was too late. He watched in horror as the woman’s mount leaped over the fence, and the woman lost her tenacious grip on the reins. As he drew ever nearer, she was flung from the saddle, and he thought he heard her cry out as she flew towards the waiting road, before landing and going limp. The doubtless-terrified horse galloped away before coming to a halt and dancing nervously in place, terror warring with the steed’s loyalty to its mistress.

As Dante drew near the fallen figure, Chestleton leapt from the horse and hurried over, kneeling on the wet road, heedless of his leather breeches. Chestleton could never resist helping a woman in such obvious distress.

Taking the unconscious woman by her wet shoulders, he carefully turned her over. Another flash of lighting illuminated her face, and in the unnatural light, her face appeared deathly white.

Jasper gasped at the unexpected vision. The woman inert in his arms was none other than Miss Araminta Barrington herself. Her hat had come off some time during her mad ride, and her hair had come free of its pins. The dark strands curled wetly around her face, framing her fragile, high cheekbones and her beautiful jawline. Her usually vibrant eyes were closed, as if in repose. Rainwater ran down her lovely face.

Cradling her delicate frame in his arms, Chestleton checked her pulse, his own racing at the thought that she might have done serious injury to herself in her fall. Although a pulse still beat faintly beneath her skin, she was soaked through from the rain and as still as the grave. Chestleton felt worry pierce him through the heart. For some reason he could not name, the marquis felt unusually protective towards the girl. He could not stomach the thought of letting her come to harm. He thought of her flashing eyes and unguarded laugh, and his stomach twisted with an emotion almost unfamiliar to him. Her pulse fluttered steadily against her throat, though it was weaker than it should have been. He hoped that she had not hit her head.

Dante whinnied skittishly as another rumble of thunder punctuated the steady pounding noise of the rain. Araminta’s horse looked about to bolt. Knowing that he had little time to waste, and hoping fervently that he was not too late, Jasper swept the unconscious young woman into his arms in a quick, determined motion. She was light in his arms, and he had no trouble lifting her onto his horse. With no time to waste, Jasper quickly retrieved Araminta’s own frightened horse and secured it to his stallion, Chestleton mounted and urged Dante toward Dillwood Park. He held Araminta pressed securely against his chest, one arm firmly around her waist and her head against his shoulder, as he pushed on towards the house.

All the while, his mind raced. What was Miss Barrington doing in the middle of Colestershire, when she ought to have been enjoying plays and soirées up in London? How had she happened across the country house he was renting for the summer? And what had she been doing, racing her horse all alone in the middle of a thunderstorm? Had the girl no sense at all? Or had something happened to drive her out in such weather? He felt the desperate need to have his questions answered, but he knew that it would be some time before the young lady could oblige him. All the while, he tried to ignore the strangely comforting feeling of protectiveness that enveloped him as he tightened his grip around the girl. His strong arm encircled her slender waist and he noticed how helpless and fragile she appeared. He could not bear to consider what might have become of her had he not happened past when his did — his heart constricted painfully at the thought.

***

The first thing she knew was the sound of birdsong, somewhere in the distance. She could also feel the warmth of the sun on her face. Araminta shifted slightly, still not quite awake. She wondered dizzily why the curtains were open. Kitty never opened the windows until Araminta woke up. She felt very warm and comforted, as though in a cocoon.

She had had the strangest dream in the night, and she knew that when she told Kitty about it, her duenna would laughingly dismiss it as a night-time fancy. And yet the dream had felt so real! She tried to remember it exactly, but it was as if the dream was broken into puzzle pieces, and as soon as she tried to put it all together, it would start to come apart again. She remembered a thunderstorm, and Nightstar, and a sense of falling that made her stomach wobble uncomfortably. She struggled to remember anything past that point, except a sensation of being held in a comforting pair of arms. A sense of warmth, contentment and security had surrounded her in the dream, and even now that she was awake she could clearly recall how it had felt. She thought she might have tried to speak, but had not been able get the words out, and the voice had murmured for her to be still. It was a kind, low voice that rumbled in the speaker’s chest. The warm arm around her had tightened, and a scent of spice and leather, a scent of masculinity, had filled her nostrils, making her head spin. She didn’t know anyone who smelt like that in real life — like danger. Like things rarely voiced and very much forbidden.

It had certainly been an odd dream, and for a moment, despite herself, Araminta felt a stab of disappointment that it was nothing more than that.

There had been other dreams too, of a fire-lit room, and voices murmuring over her, and of a cool cloth on her forehead. She was sure that she had woken up at some point, her mouth dry and her body on fire and she had tried to throw off heavy covers, which had been stifling her body, like a funeral shroud. Steady hands had held her down, and had given her something bitter to drink, and then she had been so terribly, terribly cold and the blanket had been as thin as a sheet of muslin over her. But the memory was feverish and episodic, and she was sure that that could not have been real either.

She opened her eyes, and looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Sitting up quickly, her eyes darting around, Araminta felt a sharp stab of pain in her head. Her heart was racing. Where
was
she? It was an elegant, well-appointed room, decorated in green and gold, with rosewood furniture and a large canopied bed, in which she had been sleeping. Panic rose as she realised that she was not in her room at Fanshawe Hall, or at the Worthings’ London townhouse. She was not in any bedroom she had seen before — she had no idea where she was! Could she have been abducted? But surely such things only happened in novels. Araminta’s head pounded and she struggled to straighten her thoughts, as she wondered what she ought to do.

A door opened on her right, and a matronly, steely-haired woman came bustling in. She stopped suddenly, appearing momentarily surprised that the young woman was awake. She recovered quickly, however, and approached the bed, taking a washcloth from a basin of water on a table by the bed.

“You’re awake, my girl. That is good to see. Relax now, child, it is alright. You are quite safe. Lie down, now. Your head must be paining you something dreadful. And you must feel very weak indeed.” With gentle hands, she pushed Araminta back down onto the pillows, and the pounding in Araminta’s head prevented her from resisting. Araminta’s arms ached from the effort of having pushed herself up.

The woman wrung out the washcloth and placed it on Araminta’s forehead. The gentle coolness made Minta release an involuntary sigh as her headache fractionally subsided.

“There, now isn’t that better? We were so worried last night, dear, that you would not wake up. Head injuries are always tricky, and you have had a fever, too. No doubt, it comes from going out in the rain like that. It took all my medicine to break the fever, you know. You were quite delirious for over two days. But now, I daresay, your headache will pass and you will be right as rain in no time. Though I suppose you’ve had enough of rain. What were you thinking, out by yourself in such a storm? It was lucky his lordship found you when he did.”

Confused flashes of dream and memory crowded Araminta’s thoughts as the woman spoke, and she felt overwhelmed by what she heard. Lordship? Who could the woman be talking about?

Forcing herself to focus, she tried to speak, but found that her mouth was parched and her throat was raspy.

“Ah!” the woman exclaimed, getting up again and moving to the table, this time to pick up a porcelain jug and a glass, pouring some water in it and bringing it over to the girl. “I’ll wager you’ll be wanting some water.”

With the woman’s help, Araminta gingerly lifted her head and drank some of the water. The liquid felt heavenly on her parched tongue. She was sure it was the best thing she had ever tasted. Somewhat recovered now, she attempted to voice her questions again.

“Where am I? How came I to be here? How long have I been here? Who are you?” she asked weakly, ignoring the stabbing pain in her head.

The woman tutted disapprovingly. “Easy, child. You will upset yourself. Now, you just lie back on those pillows, my girl.” She waited patiently for Araminta to obey before continuing.

“Well then. You are currently at Dillwood Park. His lordship is renting the house for the summer, and he found you outside, in the middle of a raging storm, when he returned here three days ago. It is lucky that he was passing when he did, because otherwise goodness knows how long you might have been out in that storm. I am Mrs Dorothy Becker, his lordship’s housekeeper, and I have been tending you since.”