Amy Lake (31 page)

–one more hill.

How can it not be here? she thought. I’m sure I headed in the right direction!  Panic threatened, and Claire fought the urge to take off in mindless flight. She forced herself to sit down in the grass at the top of the hill and think.

The situation was not that serious, she decided. She was sure she could find the path again, retrace her steps, and get back to the road.

Of course this would all take time, and make explanations that much harder once she arrived at the hall. But it couldn’t be helped. Her shoes–which had been intended for a day’s coach ride and definitely not for hiking–were a hopeless mess. Claire tugged them off and threw them down the hill, followed by her stockings. That felt much better. Standing up, she decided–I’ll try just one more hill. Then I’ll turn back to the road.

* * * *

Edward came around the sharp curve and saw the coach overturned at the side of the road, with the two bays still grazing nearby. Fear, which had been having occasional skirmishes with anger in his mind, now declared an abrupt victory.

“Claire!” he shouted, spurring his mount. “Claire!”

There was no reply. An overturned carriage easily broke bones, and the thought that his wife might be lying unconscious in that wreck, or worse–

“Claire!”

When he reached the site of the mishap, however, he saw no sign of either Claire or the driver.

Of all the idiotish things to do–she hadn’t stayed with the coach!   Anger staged a quick comeback, and Edward muttered one curse after another as he searched the area for any indication that she might have been hurt.

No, he concluded, a wave of relief making him almost dizzy. Doesn’t she know any better than to scare a man out of his wits?  When I find her– 

Edward’s found that thoughts of how he would berate his wife were somehow easier to endure than his previous thoughts of Claire kidnapped or Claire injured. He would find her and take her to Wrensmoor, or to London, or  wherever she liked, and if she ever
dared
to leave his sight from this day onward–  

Edward had remounted and was about to continue on to the castle when he noticed a scrap of muslin on the grass, well away from the road. He recognized the fabric at once as a piece of one of his wife’s dresses. And she’s heading off down
that
path?  Well, the silly chit will be good and lost by now, thought Edward. I’d better go rescue her.

* * * *                                         

Exhausted, her feet protesting every pebble underfoot, Claire climbed to the top of the next hill. A drizzle had started sometime during the last hour and it showed no signs of letting up. She wished she had thought to bring her parasol–water was dripping down her forehead into her eyes and she was too tired to brush it away.

No. The parasol was ripped. Remember?  Claire began to feel afraid. The day was almost over, and if she didn’t find the castle before dark she would be stuck here–cold and wet–for the entire night. Quit fussing, she tried to tell herself. You’ll manage it somehow. This is England, after all, not the wilds of America. She continued to plod wearily upwards, slipping several times on the wet gravel of the path. Her hands were scraped raw from the falls, and as she reached the summit of another hill she prepared herself for disappointment. But, then–

Wrensmoor. The castle–seeming so close she could reach out and touch it–had never looked more beautiful. Claire felt the tears well in her eyes, and she collapsed at the crest of the hill, content for the moment simply to sit there in the drizzle and gaze down at her home.

Edward. Oh, Edward, why won’t you come back and live with me in paradise?

Minutes went by. Filthy, wet, and barefoot, Claire tried to talk herself into getting up and walking down the hill to the castle, but it seemed almost too much trouble to move. Her hands were oozing blood from the accumulated scrapes and, absently, she wiped them on her skirt. Then, as the light continued to fade, she saw a horse in the distance. Claire’s heart leaped, but–no, it wasn’t Achilles. Still, the man did seem to be traveling in her direction, and she was ready to request his assistance, highwayman or no. As the rider drew closer, she recognized–

“Edward!”  Claire jumped up and started to wave, but the moss and rock of the hilltop were slick from rain. Her bare feet slipped out from under her, and she overbalanced and fell, tumbling headlong down the far side of the hill.

Chapter Twenty

Edward jumped down from Rutherford’s horse and ran. He reached the crest of the hill with a few long strides and, to his horror, saw his wife lying motionless some ways below in a jumble of blood-stained skirts. A large clump of bracken had stopped her fall and Edward was kneeling at her side in seconds, his heart racing, slamming violently against his ribs.

“Claire. Oh, my love, please–”

She was bleeding. He was afraid to move her, but–she was bleeding–her skirts–

“Claire–”

“Mmm,” said Claire. She opened her eyes for a moment, then shut them again.

No. Oh, no, no. Edward wanted to scream at her, to shake her–

“Edward?” whispered his wife.

 “I’m here. I’m right here. Don’t move,” said the earl.

“No–I’m fine. Just a second. Help me up.”  Claire tried to get her hands underneath her, to push herself up–

“Lie still!  You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just my hands,” said Claire. “Scraped. From falling.”  Her eyes were open again, and she attempted a weak smile. “Sorry–”

“Sorry!”

“I don’t think I’ve broken anything. Really.”  Her voice was stronger now.

“Be quiet.”  Edward was carefully feeling her legs.

“Edward, really,” said Claire, a bit of color returning. “I’m quite sure I’d know if I had broken my leg.”

He continued his examination, ignoring her protests, but was eventually satisfied that, apart from scrapes and bruises, his wife was unharmed.  He rose shakily to his feet, his emotions fluctuating so wildly between rage and relief that he could hardly speak.

“Of all the idiotic, irresponsible, harebrained stunts!”  he flared, abruptly finding his voice.

“Oh!”  Claire stood up and faced him, her expression mutinous.

For some reason the sight of her bare feet, dirty and with a smudge of two of blood, made him even more furious.

“I ought to put you over my knee and spank you!  I ought to lock you up in the tower donjon!”  He was in front of her now, his fists clenched, his heart pounding. She looked up at him with silver eyes blazing fire.

“It was an accident!” she cried, matching his fury with her own.

“An accident–?”

“I checked the carriage and there was little damage beyond some scraped paint and one broken rim!  I’m sorry that it happened, but it won’t cost much to repair–certainly not as much as one more trinket for your . . . your floozy!”

“Repair–?  A broken rim–?  What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”  Edward was at sea. Was Claire telling him that her abduction was an accident?

“The carriage, you . . . you blockhead!  We caught a wheel and overturned. Didn’t you see it by the side of the road?”

“Yes, but–” Edward was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Oh,
that
accident.”

Claire looked confused. “What accident did you think I was talking about?”

“The–oh, never mind.”   Edward felt an edge of sanity return. He looked down at his wife and saw that her toes were once more peeping out from under the hem of her traveling dress. The dress itself was no longer particularly clean, and he saw several tears in the fabric of the skirt. He held out the scrap of muslin he had found.

“I believe you lost this.”  He meant it as a small jest, a peace offering, but Claire glared at him and snatched the fabric out of his hand.

“Thank you!” she said. “I was doing perfectly well on my own, you know. There was no need to come galloping up like some . . . like some . . . ”

“Knight in shining armor?” suggested the earl.

“Exactly,” said Claire. “Wrensmoor is just over this hill, and–”

Suddenly Lord Tremayne started to laugh.

“I fail to see what is so humorous,” said his wife. “I saw the castle, and–”      

“My floozy?” said Edward and let out a guffaw. “My
floozy
?” 

Claire looked at him in indignation. “You know very well what I mean!  Your mistress!”

“Claire–”

“Your doxy, your
chère amie
, your . . . well, I don’t know all the words!  That . . . that
woman
with the red hair!”

“Lady Hansfort,” said Edward. He was still chuckling.

“Well, whoever she is. And stop laughing at me!”

“I am actually,” said the earl, “laughing at myself. And Lady Hansfort is not my mistress.”

“Well, who is–? 
What?
” said Claire, doubly outraged. “If she’s not your mistress, why were you embracing her?”  She looked daggers at her husband. “Are you telling me you have a mistress
and
a floozy?  Or do you just hold
every
woman who looks like her breasts are about to burst from her gown?”

“Nonsense, I’d hardly have the time. Besides, Danilla’s breasts only fell out that once.”

“Oh!  Men!”  Claire looked around for something to throw at him and then, abruptly, burst into laughter. “Yes, I heard about that,” she said. “Lord Radleigh said–”

“Lord Radleigh!  How dare he discuss such a thing with–”

“Don’t change the subject. Who is your mistress?  You promised to tell me.”

“Claire.”  Edward reached for her hand. She backed away, stumbled over a rock, and sat down hard. He bent and dragged her up, holding her locked against his chest. They stood there silently  for a moment, Claire trying her best not to burst into tears, until the earl spoke again. “Claire.”

“Mmm,” said Claire, her voice muffled by his shirt.

“Claire, Lady Hansfort was never my mistress. She was a . . . mistake.”

“Mmm,” he heard again, this time with a distinctly skeptical note.

“Look at me,” he said. He tipped her chin up until her silver-grey eyes, bright with tears, stared into his own. “I may have not been as forthcoming as you might have wished, in many ways, but have I ever lied to you?”

A shaky “No . . . ”

“What you saw in the gardens was all there was to see. It never went any further, and it won’t happen another time. I don’t have a mistress. I’ll never have a mistress again.”

Claire looked at him and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I love you, Claire,” said Edward. “I want to live with you now, and forever, at Wrensmoor, or London, or–wherever you wish.”  He smiled. “I don’t plan on having the time or the energy for a mistress.”

Claire could no longer hold back her tears. Edward kissed them away, and then his lips moved to her forehead, the tip of her nose, her mouth–

“Mmm,” said Edward after a while.

“I love you, my lord,” said Claire.

“I love you, my lady wife. Let’s go home.”

* * * *

They walked hand in hand down the hill to Wrensmoor, as the drizzle ceased and the sun set behind the ramparts of the castle in a blaze of scarlet and orange. Sheep bleated lazily in the distance and Claire thought how wonderful it would be to see the river and the quail and even the silly geese again. Her heart was full. From time to time she looked at her husband, who was whistling cheerfully out of tune and leading a chestnut stallion nearly the size of Achilles.

A stallion–

“Edward, where did you get that horse?”

“Ah.”  Her husband chuckled. “Well, that’s another story. Now what’s all this I hear about your cousin Harry–?”    

Epilogue

It was a fine day in early spring. The grass in Green Park was at its most fresh, the meadows dotted with crocuses and daffodils. Lady Pamela rode slowly along the path, breathing in the scent of French lilacs and keeping her mare firmly in hand so as not to outpace Lady Detweiler. Amanda’s seat had never been reliable, and she agreed to these occasional rides only to humor Lady Pam. “An open carriage is so much more sensible, my dear. Why should
I
be forced to steer the silly animal?” was her usual complaint.

“It’s almost a shame to leave London at this time of year,” commented Pam, watching the fountain spray glittering in the sunlight. “I can’t imagine the Cotswolds will be one bit nicer than this.”

“
Les petits horreurs
won’t be in residence, will they?” said Amanda. “You know I adore the duke, but his children–”  She shuddered.

Pam laughed. “I’m sure the governess will keep the littlest ones out from underfoot.”

“Ah, the governess!  But has His Grace been fortunate enough to find someone like Charles’s Helène?”

“I understand that Miss Taylor is nearer sixty.”

“Worse and worse.” 

They rode on in silence for a few minutes. Clouds scudded across the sky in the cool breeze, but the sun on their backs was warm.  

“Hmm,” said Lady Detweiler, still thinking about the invitation to the duke’s estate. “Darling, I’m just not sure. If Gloucester is still determined to invite some scruffy, impoverished
artiste
to every one of his house parties–”

“Just think of the possibilities. Remember the time Lady Gregory ran off with the violinist?”

Amanda snorted. “She must have seen something in him the rest of us missed. He was hopeless at the violin.”  She paused and reached up to adjust the tilt of her shako. “Oh, very well,” she told Pam. “I suppose it might be entertaining, at that. Is the Marquis of Lidgerwood really planning to offer for that ridiculous Forsythe chit, do you suppose?  Gwendolyn claims that he is smitten, although how anyone could be
smitten
with Susannah Forsythe is beyond my comprehension, I can just
imagine
what the children will look like.”

“Ah . . . Miss Forsythe?  Well, I’m not sure,” said Lady Pamela absently, catching sight of  a group of riders in the distance. She watched them carefully.

 “I know he’s more than desperate for the cash, but really, my dear, the child still has spots.”