How to Treat a Lady (3 page)

Sophia eyed the horse with an interested gaze. “He's beautiful. Whoever owns that horse must be mad to find him.”

Ophelia snorted her disbelief. “Whoever owns this horse is probably laying in the mud somewhere. See how the stirrups are twisted? I'd say the owner took a rather violent fall.”

Harriet took a step forward, then slowly reached for the reins. The horse shied, backing warily out of reach, head lifted, eyes wild.

Harriet dropped her arms back to her side. “Ophelia, you try. You've a way with animals and this one is horribly frightened.”

Ophelia walked slowly toward the horse, talking in a low, quiet voice. Though he made a tired show of tossing his head, this time he didn't move when
approached. Ophelia reached out and easily caught the reins. “There you go,” she crooned, patting the animal's neck.

“I wonder if he's one of the new horses Baron Whitfield just purchased,” Harriet said. “Tie him to the back of the cart for now, and we'll stop by there on the way to town.”

Ophelia sighed. “I wish we could claim him. Wouldn't Stephen be so jealous if we found—”

BAM
! The sharp sound cracked the air about them. The horse half reared, but Ophelia kept a tight grip on the reins. Max whirled to face the forest, his ears lifted.

“That was a gunshot,” Sophia said into the silence that followed.

“It certainly sounded like it,” Harriet said. “Someone must be hunting nearby.” She climbed into her seat.

Max lifted his nose to the faint breeze and growled, his teeth flashing whitely. The sheep stirred uneasily.

Ophelia tied the horse to the back of the cart. “I wonder what's wrong with Max? Do you think he's caught the scent of a wolf?”

“Just keep him in check, for I've no wish to go chasing him through—” Before Harriet could finish the sentence, Max lunged forward, barking madly as he raced down the road. The sheep began to bleat loudly, urging him on.

“Max!” Harriet called, standing up and watching with a sinking heart as Max swerved off the road and disappeared into the woods. “Oh,
piffle
! We have to catch that silly dog before someone shoots him. From a distance he looks just like a large deer.”

Blast it all, it had seemed a fairly simple project
that morning, to take three sheep to the market. Harriet tied off the reins and prepared once again to climb down from the cart, her irritation growing. “Come, Ophelia, you and I will gather Max. Sophia, you stay here until we return.”

They were
never
going to make it to market. Never going to sell their sheep. And when the time to gather wool came, there would be no money to hire an extra hand, so they wouldn't be able to pay the bank, and Garrett Park would be lost forever.

“Not while I'm alive,” Harriet said through gritted teeth. She marched toward the woods, her booted feet slapping forcefully on the packed-dirt road, Ophelia trailing behind.

 

It was a furious way to die, the cause of madness and broken dreams. And Chase St. John had suffered enough of both to welcome the impending blackness.

One moment, he was riding down a narrow dirt lane, a supposed shortcut to the main road to Dover where he was to take a ship to the continent. He knew this area only a little; his brother Devon owned a manor house somewhere nearby, and Chase had once come to hunt. All he could remember of the experience was that it had rained the entire time.

It was rather ironic that today of all days, the weather was unusually perfect—all blue sky and green, green hills. His new black gelding frolicked in the warm sun, a cool breeze lifted his hair, a bottle of good brandy at his lips. All told, it was a pleasant way to dull the homesickness that was already beginning to plague him at the thought of leaving his life in London. Of leaving his brothers and sister.

Trying to focus instead on the peaceful vista about him, he rode on, drinking more as the day progressed, his pain dulling. He'd just rounded a bend in the road when, quick as a wink, his brandy-soaked peace was shattered. Mayhem ruled as bullets flew. Coarse shouts assailed his muddled head, his horse bolted into the woods, then reared. A searing pain traced a fevered path across one temple.

He fell into alluring darkness. Sometime later, he slowly awoke to the sound of rough voices raised in disagreement. His assailants arguing over the rich contents of his purse and bags.

By tiny degrees, he became aware of the fact that he lay on the cool, damp dirt of the forest floor, left for dead if the blood that ran across his forehead and clouded his vision was any indication.

The earth chilled his cheek, the cloying smell of rotting leaves clung in his nostrils. He clenched his eyes even more tightly together and tried to move, gasping at the pain that flashed through his head, the heavy scent of brandy rising to meet him.

God, what he wouldn't give for more brandy. A keg of the stuff. Enough to dull the pain and halt the fear that was beginning to course through him.

The voices grew louder. Chase blinked through the haze of red, squinting against the bright sunlight that shivered through the leaves overhead. Brazen brigands, they were, to attack in broad daylight.

To one side, almost out of sight, he could just see them, two men hunched beside each other as they quarreled over his belongings. Chase tried to remember what he'd been carrying—several large notes, some guineas, a gold watch, a few cravat pins…nothing of real value. Not to him, anyway. He'd been on his way to hell, so he'd been traveling light. The
last thing he'd wanted to do was load himself down with mementos that would only cause him more pain, more sadness.

One of the men stood, huge and hulking, lank brown hair that flopped in a greasy point over one eye. “There. Thet's thet.”

The other man stood. He was smaller and dressed in a faded red coat, the bottom edges stained and ragged. “'Ere, now! Ye got more 'n I did!”

“'Tis me right t' get more. I planned this whole cull, did I not? Ever since we saw the gent come rackin' into the inn and demanding a bottle of the keeper's best. I knew he'd be bosky afore noon.” The giant held something up to the sun, and a flash of sunlight rippled through the clearing.

Chase squinted through the sun-dappled leaves and for one instant, his vision cleared, the flash drawing his gaze.
Mother's ring. God, no.
He'd forgotten that he had the bloody thing, thanks to his brother Brandon, who had tricked him into accepting it. It was one of the few things of Mother's that they had left. And she'd prized it highly.

The rest of his belongings, he could replace. Everything, in fact, but that.

The man lifted the ring to his mouth and bit, then made a disgusted sound. “'Tis not even made o' real silver. Do ye want it?”

The red-coated man shook his head sullenly. “Not me. I've enough worthless trinkets in me pockets as 'tis.”

“And enough rocks in yer head, too.”

The man gave a toothless grin as he tucked a wad of notes into his coat and spat on the ground. “If 'twere a gold piece, I'd be a-fightin' ye fer it.”

“Ye'd lose.” The larger thief curled his nose. “I
don't want this trinket, neither. Couldn't get a shillin' fer it on a Sunday. But 'tis a pretty piece fer all thet. There are carvings on it.”

The red-coated man peered at the ring, but made no move to touch it. After a hushed moment, he asked in an awed voice, “Do ye think 'tis magic?”

“Magic, he asks. Thet's whot's wrong wid ye, Davy. Ye've got yer head in the clouds.”

“I don't have me head in the clouds. I just asked if—” Davy clamped his mouth closed when the larger man burst into a guffaw. “Damn ye! Drop the bloody thing right there. It's nobut a trinket, anyways.”

The other thief chuckled more, then casually tossed the ring to the moss-covered forest floor.

Chase watched, mesmerized as the circlet fell, end over end, sparkling in the lowering sun.

Every sound seemed abnormally loud, every smell overpowering. He watched the ring hit the ground, where it bounced once…twice…each move pinging loudly as if it hit a rock and not the soft, leaf-covered ground.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his mother's voice.
It's a mystical ring, Chase. Whoever has it in their possession will meet their true love.
As silly as it sounded, she'd really believed it.

Chase, of course, had no such faith in magic. Or anything for that matter. Not anymore.

“Thet's thet, then,” the large man said, gathering the items and storing them in his large pockets. “Let's be gone. I've a thirst on me, and there's nothing holdin' us here.”

“What of the gent?”

“Leave him. As much blood as he's lost, he won't make it to nightfall.”

Chase ground his teeth at the thought of dying here in the forest, his face pressed into the blood-soaked mud. By God, he'd live. He'd live if he had to crawl out of the woods on his hands and knees.

The creak of carriage wheels and the soft clop of horses' hooves lifted on the faint breeze, and Chase's heart leapt.

The red-coated thief whirled toward the sound. “What's that?”

Voices carried on the wind, a commingling of feminine tones.

“Bloody 'ell!” The red-coated thief scrambled to collect his loot, but the larger thief grabbed the man by his shoulder and shoved him down below the line of the bushes.

“Hold quiet now,” he whispered hoarsely. “They can't see our horses from the road. Mayhap they'll pass on by and we'll—”

Grrrrrrrr.

An animal's deep-throated growl sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet glen. Chase took a deep breath, squinting through the brush.

The huge thief turned slowly toward the sound. There, standing behind the thieves, crouched a huge dog. Reddish brown with a thick ruff of hair about its blocklike head, its teeth glistened malevolently in the uncertain light.

“Don't move!” the large man said in a strained whisper.

Chase said a silent word of thanks to whatever higher power happened to be looking down on him right then. God knew that he didn't deserve divine intervention. Not anymore.

A voice called from the road. “Max! Max! Where is that blasted dog?”

The large thief's gaze remained locked on the dog. “Davy, we have to make a run fer it.”

The dog took another step forward. A deep growl rumbled in the animal's throat, a froth of white dripping from its jaw.

“Ye mangy mongrel,” the large man hissed as he stood. “On the count of three, we head fer the horses. One. Two. Th—” The man wheeled, crashing through the brush as he tore through the forest.

His partner gave a startled gasp, realizing he'd been left behind. For a startled instant, he and the dog locked gazes.

To Chase's fuzzy mind, it appeared as if the dog's grin widened even as he leapt, huge jaws open wide enough to close over the man's entire head.

With a horrible shriek, Davy took off, legs flailing wildly as he plunged headlong through the brush. The dog followed, teeth snapping furiously.

Chase wanted to watch. To see if the dog got the man, for he sincerely hoped so. But his head ached, and a thick fog was covering his mind. His eyes seemed determined to close on their own though he was curiously awake, his ears locked on every sound.

He was aware of approaching footsteps, of a surprised cry, then a soft feminine voice that issued orders in amazingly calm, stern tones.

If an angel administered heaven, ordering the clouds and sun hither and yon, she would have this same voice, Chase decided. A hint of honey dripped over cool, calm steel. He savored the silken tones, let them wash over him as he struggled to stay awake…to stay alive.

The fates, though, were cruel and capricious. A horrible thick silence dropped over him like a shroud, the delectable voice fading away as his
senses released their tenuous hold on consciousness. Still fighting for his last breath, Chase St. John slid into an inky blackness from which there seemed to be no escape.

“G
ood God,” Harriet said, sinking to her heels beside the prone man, her heart thudding an uneven beat.

He lay on his back, an angry wound on his temple, blood smeared down one side of his face. The ground beneath his head was wet, a blackish halo about his head.

The brush crackled as Ophelia made her way into the clearing. “Did you find—good heavens!”

“He's injured, and there's a lot of blood.” Harriet swallowed when she heard her own voice trembling. She pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket and pressed it to the wound. “Ophelia, go back to the cart and bring the bucket of water we brought for the sheep. Send Sophia to fetch help.”

“How bad is—”

“
Now!
”

Ophelia whirled and ran, her feet flying over the path.

Harriet had never seen so much blood; her kerchief was already soaked and useless.
Blast it, but the man is going to bleed to death if I don't do something.

She threw her useless kerchief on the ground and lifted her skirt to rip strips of linen from her shift. It was an old shift; all of her shifts were old. But it was very clean and made of good, serviceable linen.

Harriet formed a makeshift bandage out of the cloth, then held it firmly against the wound.

The bleeding slowed somewhat, but did not stop, the bandage swiftly turning red. “Hurry, Ophelia,” Harriet muttered.

With her free hand, she dusted off a fringe of dried leaves and dirt from his cheek, absently noting the intricate tie of his cravat. The horse they'd found
must
belong to this man. He was certainly dressed in a manner that matched the animal's exquisite breeding. The man's coat was of extraordinary cloth and cut, his cravat of the finest linen, his boots of the latest style. Everything about him seemed perfection itself. In fact…her gaze drifted over the man's face, an involuntary sigh escaping her lips.

He was the most attractive man she'd ever seen. His jaw and lips were the carved perfection of a Greek statue. His skin a lovely golden color. Thick
black hair, sticky wet with blood on one side, curled back from his forehead.

Harriet pressed the bandage more firmly in place, willing the blood to cease. The man's eyes fluttered, then opened, the thick lashes lifting to reveal eyes the blue of a cerulean sky.

Harriet's chest constricted. Good God, but he had beautiful eyes. Astonishingly so. Despite the awkward hammering of her heart, she forced herself to smile calmly. “You are injured, but help is on the way.”

He seemed to understand, for something flickered in his eyes.

“Can you speak?”

He didn't attempt to answer, just looked at her as if he would never stop, his gaze so direct, so compelling that Harriet found herself leaning forward. She was pulled toward those eyes, toward his handsome, carved mouth. Drawn inexorably onward until—

His lips parted—perfectly formed lips that spoke of a sensuous nature and a firm resolve.

Harriet found herself watching his lips. “What's your name?” she whispered. “Who are you?”

His brow lowered, and he tried to form a word.

Harriet leaned even closer. “Yes?”

“I…don't…know.” Then he was gone, his eyes sliding closed, his head turning to one side as his tenuous hold on consciousness slipped away.

 

“Careful, missus,” Cook said, dusting her hands on her apron, flour drifting into the air in a shimmery cloud. “The water's hot, 'tis. I don't want you spilling it like that porridge you dropped all over the new rug.”

Since the porridge incident had occurred over
twenty years ago when Harriet was all of four years old, Harriet was reasonably certain she was in no danger of spilling the hot water she was getting ready to carry upstairs to their patient.

They'd brought the poor man to Garrett Park. Though they'd looked for some proof of who he was, he didn't have a single paper on him—and no money either, which led Harriet to believe that he was the victim of a brutal robbery.

Harriet glanced up at the ceiling. He was upstairs in their guest chamber, still unconscious. A shiver of something amazingly like excitement traced through her. If he'd been handsome lying in the forest floor, covered in blood, he was breathtakingly beautiful lying in the large bed upstairs.

It really was a pity, but Harriet was certain that once the stranger awoke and opened his mouth, all vestiges of handsomeness would disappear. That's the way it usually happened, anyway.

Harriet caught Cook's admonitory gaze and adjusted her grip on the bowl. “I'll be very careful. I promise.”

The old woman's narrow face softened a bit. “I know you will, Miss Harriet. It's a pity the gentleman didn't have no letters or nothin' on him when you found him. 'Tis a mystery, 'tis.”

“The constable believes the poor man was attacked and left for dead.”

Cook clicked her tongue. A thin, sparse woman with stern gray hair and a practical attitude, she possessed a quick smile and an iron-willed loyalty. “'Tis not safe to walk out of doors anymore. Go on wid ye, now. Tend to the patient. The doctor's just left, and I'm certain yer mother will have some news fer us.”

Harriet paused. “When did the doctor arrive?”

“When you went to the garden to gather some goldenrod fer the tonic. I was goin' to tell you, but I forgot it in the excitement.”

“Thank you, Cook.” Harriet turned and hurried out the door, carrying the bowl down the narrow hallway from the kitchen and into the main hall. Just as she lifted her foot to climb the stairs to the guest room, Mother swept into the landing and made her way downstairs, Harriet's younger brother following absently behind, his head buried in a book.

Harriet wondered how Derrick managed to walk up and down stairs while reading without falling and cracking his head, but he always seemed to succeed.

Harriet moved out of the way, careful not to spill the hot water. “How is our patient?”

Mother's brow folded in concern. “He hasn't yet awakened.”

Derrick leaned against the wall, his eyes still directed on the pages of his book. He never stood upright anymore, lounging about like an overgrown stalk of wheat. “He's probably just sleeping.”

“It's been hours.” Mother sighed. Her hair, once the same soft brown as Harriet's, was now pure white and softly curled about her smooth face. “I do hope the poor man doesn't die.”

Derrick glanced up from his book, disgust in his tone. “He doesn't look as if he's about to die; his color is far too good.”

“What did the doctor say?” Harriet asked.

Derrick shrugged. “Not much. We put the patient in one of Stephen's nightshirts and found nothing more than a few bruises and that gash on his head.”

Mother's soft brown eyes shimmered with con
cern. “The doctor said that there was risk of a brain injury.”

“A
slight
risk,” Derrick said inexorably.

Mother glanced at him reproachfully. “Any risk is too much when speaking of a brain injury. I hope the poor man isn't like Mrs. Billingsworth. She fell from her horse not two years ago and hit her head and died.”

Harriet frowned. “Mrs. Billingsworth died just last month.”

“Yes, but she never regained her memory.” Mother leaned closer, and said in a confidential voice that was quite easy to hear throughout the entire foyer, “When she awoke, she was appalled to discover that she was married to Mr. Billingsworth, which would appall me as well.”

“Lord, yes!” Derrick said, apparently finding this new conversation more to his liking. “The man never bathes and has the most peculiar habit of grinding his teeth between every sentence.”

“My own memory is slipping at the mention,” Harriet said, wrinkling her nose.

Mother nodded, her pretty lace cap flopping over one ear. “Had it been I, I would have pretended
not
to remember the husband, but maintained a
very
clear memory of the children.”

“There you go!” Derrick opened his book. “If you ever decide to lose your memory, you'll know just how to act.”

“Indeed I will,” Mother said, smiling ruefully. She glanced at Harriet. “Derrick and I are going to the barn to see if Stephen has returned with the hay cart.”

“I thought Derrick was going to fetch the hay?”

Derrick didn't look up from his book. “I was, but Stephen apparently wanted it done quicker than I was able to get to it. When I went to the barn, he had already unloaded the ewes and left.”

Mother sighed. “And I daresay he's angry about it, too. Come, Derrick. He should be back. I hope he didn't injure his leg with such a prank.” She crossed the foyer and out the door, Derrick slouching behind.

Harriet turned toward the stairs. She held the steaming bowl in one hand, then gathered her skirts and began the slow, steady climb up the narrow stairs.

That was one thing she'd change if she had the money, the main stairs. They were treacherously steep. The front hall was large enough to hold something more impressive, not to mention safer.

But that change, just like the others she dreamed of, would have to wait. Though hopefully not for long. Harriet paused halfway up and moved the bowl to her other hand, her fingers stinging from the heat. The door to the guest chamber was ajar and two soft voices trickled into the hallway.

“Well,
I
think he's handsome,” came Sophia's breathless voice. “I don't know how
you
could think otherwise.”

“I didn't say he wasn't handsome,” Ophelia replied in a sulking tone. “I said he was
striking
, which means he's handsome, only a little more so.”

“Oh. Well. That's all right, then.”

Silence reigned as if the two were considering something. Harriet continued her climb.

“The doctor said he could awaken at any time,” Sophia said finally.

“I hope so,” Ophelia answered.

There was another second of silence, then, “Ophelia, do you think he might awaken quicker…with a kiss?”

Harriet, her foot over the top step, almost stumbled.

Ophelia, however, seemed intrigued. “Like in that play you did last year?”

“Exactly,” Sophia said with obvious excitement. “Let's try it, the both of us! I'll go first. Then, if he does not awaken, you may try.”

“Why should
you
go first?” Ophelia said, outrage in her now-ringing tones.

“I should go first because I'm older than you.”

“By only eleven months! That hardly counts.”

Harriet hurried down the hall to the first doorway.

“Ready?” There was a strained silence, then a smothered cough.

“Oh for goodness sakes, Sophia!” Ophelia burst out. “That's no kiss! Let the poor man breathe!”

Harriet shoved the door open. “
What
is going on in here?”

There, on either side of the stranger's bed, stood her sisters. Sophia hastily straightened, her face pink. She met Harriet's gaze and flushed darker. “Why…nothing is going on. Nothing at all. We were just…talking.”

Ophelia stood on the other side of the bed. A fierce frown marred her round face. “Talking? You call that talking? It's a wonder he didn't expire!”

Sophia's hands curled into fists. “The problem is that you've never seen a real kiss.”

“Neither have you! You nearly smothered the poor man!”

“Enough!” Harriet said. “Both of you!”

Ophelia eyed the bowl of steaming water in Harriet's hands, her eyes suddenly alight. “Are you coming to bathe him?”

Sophia brightened as well. “Oh good! Ophelia and I would be glad to assist you.”

“I daresay you would,” Harriet asked, setting the bowl of water on the side table, the china clinking loudly. “But I don't need your help. I am just going to wash his face and arms.”

Ophelia's shoulders slumped. “Well. That
is
unfortunate.”

Sophia sighed her agreement. “I suppose if you don't need us, we'll go to the barn. We're working on
A Midsummer Night's Dream
.”

“I'm Puck,” Ophelia said proudly.

Harriet eyed her sisters for a moment. “While you're down in the barn, why don't you see if Jem needs help with the milk cows. He was going to move them to the eastern pasture today.”

Ophelia clapped her hands. “I'll be a real shepherdess!”

“You can't be a shepherdess for cows.” Sophia's brow wrinkled. “You're a…Hmmm. What
would
you be?”

Harriet dipped a scrap of linen into the water and wrung it dry. “What you would be—and are—is a pain. Now off with you both. And don't come back until Jem says he's done with you.”

Sophie nodded though she didn't move away from the bed. She trailed her fingers over the edge of the blanket that covered their guest, her blond curls framing the dreamy expression on her face. “Don't you think a kiss would be a perfectly lovely way to
awaken a man? Just one touch of your lips to his and—”

“Sophia!” Ophelia cast a sharp glance at Harriet. “That's enough.”

Sophia gave Ophelia a smug smile. “You're just upset because you didn't get to kiss him.”

Ophelia stiffened, her glasses sliding a notch down on her nose. “I would have if you hadn't thrown yourself over him and practically smothered him until he coughed and—”

“He coughed?” Harriet asked, looking at Sophia. “I thought you coughed?”

Sophia tossed her hair. “He coughed a little. But I did
not
smother him. I mean…I suppose I might have leaned my elbow into his ribs a little. But only a little!”

Harriet closed her eyes. “You are both going to drive me mad. Go to the barn and help Jem.”

Reluctantly, the two left the room, defending themselves as they went. Harriet waited for them to leave, then she closed the door.