The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella (13 page)

She was no child; he could see that now. Although the coat hid her figure, he could see by the way she held herself that she was a woman and one of some standing. She held her chin high in a haughty manner, and her gaze swept down him with an imperiousness he recognized from more than one
ton
ballroom.

She obviously decided he was no threat, because her gaze quickly moved past him to scan the area around her. She reminded him of a hunted animal, a fox cornered by hounds. He wanted to reach out, lay a hand on her and reassure her, but he didn’t dare touch her. The look in her eyes was too feral, too full of fear.

“Where am I?” she demanded, her eyes darting all around her, searching, searching. What was she looking for? What was she scared of?

“Sedgemere House,” he answered. ‘The residence of the Duke of Sedgemere.”

“Are you he?”

If she didn’t know Sedgemere, she wasn’t local. But if she didn’t live in the area, then how had she come to be on Sedgemere’s estate? He saw no evidence of a horse or conveyance. She must have walked. Another glance at the state of her clothing confirmed she must have been traveling for some time. Or perhaps not traveling but running. But from what or whom?

“No. Miss, you look as though you need some assistance. May I escort you back to the house?” Damn the taunts and teasing. The woman needed help.

She shook her head so violently that flecks of mud scattered in the breeze. “I must be going.”

She turned in a full circle, obviously trying to decide which way to travel. Her muddy hair trailed down her back, almost reaching the hem of the thigh-length coat. Sections of it were still braided, indicating at one time it had been styled in some fashion or other.

“Which way to London?” she asked.

He almost answered. Her tone was such that he felt compelled to snap to attention, as though he were the butler and she the master. Something else was familiar about her. The way she spoke, that accent. She wasn’t English. Not French or Italian. He’d traveled the Continent years ago, when he’d been about two and twenty. He knew that accent, just couldn’t place it at the moment.

“Why don’t we discuss it inside over a cup of tea?” he said. “If you’ll follow me—”

“I don’t have time for tea. I have to run. Hide. They’re looking for me. If they find me...” She shuddered, and that one gesture said more than any word she’d spoken.

“Let me help you.”

Her gaze landed on him again, ran quickly over him, and dismissed him just as quickly.

“If you want to help, tell me which way to London.” She shook her head. “
Ne rien
! I’ll find it on my own.”

She swept past him, obviously intending to go on without his assistance. She might have climbed the embankment beside the bridge, but Wyndover suspected the exertion would have been too much for her. She would probably take the easier path around the pond and then double back and head south.

Ne rien
. He’d heard that before, and quite suddenly he knew exactly where she was from.
Ne rien
was a Glennish phrase meaning
never mind
or
forget it
. Glennish was the mix of Gaelic and French spoken in the Kingdom of Glynaven.

He’d read reports of recent unrest in Glynaven. Another revolution ousting the royal family.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he muttered as another thought occurred to him. He turned just in time to see her stumble. In two strides he was beside her, his arms out to catch her as she fell.

He lifted her unconscious body, cradling her in his arms. She’d barely made it three feet before she’d collapsed from what he’d hoped was only exhaustion and not something more serious. She might smell of manure and rotting vegetables, but with her head thrown back, he could see her face more clearly now. The high forehead and sculpted cheekbones, the full lips. She had all the features of the royal family of Glynaven.

But the unusual color of her green eyes gave her away—Her Royal Highness, Princess Vivienne Aubine Calanthe de Glynaven.

“Welcome to England,” he said as he started back toward the house. She was light as a spring lamb, but he knew under the bulky clothing she had the full, supple body of a woman.

A beautiful woman.

She hadn’t even recognized him. Other women might swoon at the sight of him, but her gaze had passed right over him, just as it had when they’d first met.

“You’re in danger,” he remarked to himself as he left the pond behind and started across the lawn. Not toward the house. He didn’t dare take her to the house. One of the outbuildings. His gaze landed on a small shed, most probably a boathouse. He’d tuck her there and then fetch Sedgemere or his duchess.

“Princess Vivienne.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Bet you never thought I’d be the one to save you.”