Recklessly Yours (34 page)

Halfway across, the bridge sagged beneath her weight. The stream lapped at her feet, shocking her toes with frigid water and making her afraid to move in either direction. Logic demanded she continue forward, but her next step produced a resounding crack.

The slat splintered in half and one foot fell out from under her, plunging calf deep into the racing water. She gripped the rail with both hands and for several seconds clung to hope. Then the bridge shuddered and broke apart. Holly felt herself falling, splashing into the frothing, frigid water, engulfed in her own terror and the relentless current.

D
eep into the valley a mile and a half from Briarview, Colin shortened Cordelier's reins to slow the stallion's pace. The Exmoors coursed around him and pounded past, their ranks narrowing as they surged between the rocky granite tors that ringed the valley's eastern rim. Cordelier came to a restive halt, snorting and pawing the ground while the last of the herd disappeared at a gallop.

As the trembling of the ground stilled and the air quieted, the euphoric thudding of his heart eased and the rush of blood through his veins calmed. They were his responsibility, those ponies, and his duty to protect them brought him joy he never spoke of, not to another living soul. However much his father believed he owned the herd that roamed his land, Colin knew the ponies belonged to no man. They belonged to the earth, to tradition and legend. They were free, and only by the dictates of their collective will did they tolerate an outside presence among them.

As they tolerated Colin and Cordelier. As a boy he'd discovered that all he needed to do was ride out across the moors, and the ponies would gallop with him, accepting him as one of the herd. He didn't understand it, but the realization had dawned that he belonged to them far more than they could ever belong to him. True, they needed his protection from those who would separate or abuse them—men like his father—or those who would destroy their native habitat, but he needed them just as much, for it was only with them that he felt truly alive.

He laughed out loud at the notion, a bitter sound bitten off by a rainy gust. Ironic that it took a herd of wild ponies to remind him that he was a free man with passions and dreams of his own, and not merely Thaddeus Ashworth's heir. Here, on the upper reaches of the Devonshire moors, with the ground coursing beneath him and the sky stretching above, the pounding of hooves drowned out the cynicism and self-doubt his father had planted inside him at an early age.

At least, all that had been true as recently as two days ago. Now, however . . .

The conviction had filled him that with Holly at his side, he had the power to break free of whatever curses, real or imagined, held him and his family. With her in his life, he might finally know happiness.

Sucking a draft of soggy air deep into his lungs, he swung Cordelier about and headed for home. Bringing Holly into his world would more likely change her life for the worse. It was not a chance he'd willingly take.

He neared Briarview's forested acreage, preparing to jump Cordelier over the stream that looped around it. He leaned low over the stallion's dark mane just as a tangle of rotten, broken boards rushed by on the water. Screams pierced the wind. Colin lurched upright in the saddle, prompting Cordelier to bounce to a stop. Colin pricked his ears, and another desperate cry sent Cordelier rearing up on hind legs, his front hooves thrashing.

Colin's blood ran cold.
The old footbridge.
With a tap of his heels he and Cordelier set off at a gallop.

In less than a minute he came upon a half-submerged flurry of dark skirts and white petticoats; a pair of hands groped frantically at the air. Holly's desperate face appeared briefly in the foaming waters. The current closed over her, flipped her around, and thrust her back up. All Colin could see of her now were glistening, streaming ribbons of red hair. His heart rocketed into his throat.
Oh, God . . . oh, God.

“Holly!” he shouted, “I'm coming!”

He turned Cordelier again and urged him to a full-out gallop along the bank of the stream. As he went, Colin slid free of the stirrups and slung a leg over the stallion's neck so that both his feet dangled toward the water. Holding his breath, he waited until he rode up even with Holly, and then passed her by several long paces. In a few more yards the watercourse would narrow slightly—enough, he prayed, for what he intended.

A tightening of the reins slowed Cordelier to a canter. Colin mentally counted to three, then propelled himself from the saddle, hitting the bank with a force that clacked his teeth together. Using the momentum, he slid down into the water. Submerged chest deep, he fought past the chill and battled the current to reach the middle of the stream.

His arms outstretched and his feet braced as solidly as possible against the rocky streambed, he waited as swirling fabric, streaming hair, and Holly's white, terrified face rushed closer. She hit him with an impact that knocked the breath from his lungs. His feet threatened to slip, his legs to swing out from under him. He closed his arms around her and she went limp against him, her own arms hanging slack, her legs tangling with his. The water clawed at her saturated skirts, almost prying her loose from his arms.

Clutching her tighter, he called on all the strength he possessed to hug her to his chest. He sidestepped toward the far bank, where the overhanging branches of a willow tree skimmed the current. Limbs stiff with cold and muscles aching from the exertion, he fought his way closer to the tree and chanced lifting one arm from around her. Reaching out, he gripped a branch and hauled himself and Holly out of the water and onto the muddy bank.

Her eyes closed, her body wilting against the ground, she showed no signs of consciousness. On his knees beside her, he swept the sodden snarls of hair from her cheeks and cupped her face in his hands. “Holly. Oh, God . . . please . . .”

He rubbed her cheeks, hands, and arms in a desperate attempt to force the blood to flow. Hunching over her, he slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her against him, pressing his lips to her forehead, to her mouth. Then he remembered something vital. As her sister had once done for Simon after an experiment had nearly killed him, he opened her mouth and breathed into her, forcing air in and out of her lungs. All the while he prayed and raged and promised God anything . . . anything. . . .

A sputtering cough sent dizzying relief all through him. Her eyelids fluttered, and a racking cough shook her frame. Over and over she coughed, cringing from the force, her shoulders wrenching.

Twisting away from him, she doubled over, her face hanging low over the ground as she gagged and purged the stream water from her lungs. Helpless to provide relief, Colin thrust an arm across the front of her shoulders to support her while with his other hand he gathered her hair and held it back from her face. Each convulsion echoed through him until the tension flowed from her body.

“What . . . happened?” Her head hanging, her voice came as a tremulous flutter. Wiping shaky fingers across her lips, she gazed feebly up at him. Her image blurred before his eyes, obscured by tears he couldn't prevent. He felt her cold palm against his cheek. “You saved me.”

Then her hand fell away and she collapsed against him in a dead faint.

 

Holly's lungs ached. Her head throbbed, and the voices that reached her ears sounded muffled and waterlogged. What were they saying? She wanted to ask, but her tongue adhered thick and heavy to the roof of her mouth. Her throat rasped for a drink . . . yet somehow the very idea sent a bolt of terror through her, as if at the mere parting of her lips, water would gush in and drown her.

Panic nipping at her consciousness, she tried to open her eyes. They felt weighted . . . as heavy as lead. . . . The world tipped, and she slid once more into blackness.

“You've been here for hours,” a woman's voice murmured, but how many minutes or hours later, Holly didn't know. “Stretch your legs. I'll stay with her.”

Through a swarm of images, Holly swam back toward consciousness. The voice, a feminine whisper close to her ear, peeled back the layers of panic that had engulfed her for an unknown length of time. Though not entirely familiar, she had the strongest sense she had heard the voice before, that it signified safety, acceptance. She struggled to remember where . . . when she had heard it. . . .

“I can't leave her until I know she's well, Grandmother.”

That voice she knew.
Colin.
Her heart turned over, setting off a cascade of memories. She was in Devonshire, at his family's estate of Briarview. She went out on the moor, saw him riding. . . .

The din of the ponies' hooves echoed inside her, a near physical beat thrumming through her limbs, her ribs. She had seen Colin racing among the ancient breed, his fierce resolve interwoven with their feral instincts to form a single purpose, an audacious challenge to the power of the moor.

Then the angry faces of the villagers swamped all thoughts of him. They had chased her, forcing her to run . . . run to the swollen banks of the stream. Her only refuge had been the footbridge, old and rickety. The creaking of the boards reverberated in her mind, then the splintering, the snapping . . . and she was falling, falling. . . .

Her eyes flew open and she sprang upright, only to have her momentum checked by a solid wall in front of her. No, not quite solid. A pair of arms closed around her and her cheek met a ripple of muscle covered by the smooth sheen of a silken waistcoat.

Her breath clawed at her dry throat; she coughed and coughed, unable to quell the urge until a pair of aged hands held a cup to her lips. “Little sips,” the woman's voice crooned. “There, there. Not too much at once. That's right. There's a good girl.”

Cool water trickled sweetly into her mouth, vanquishing the torturous urge to cough. Still half-dazed, she relaxed her cheek against Colin's shoulder.

“Easy now, Holly. It's all right.
You're
all right.” Colin's voice sifted gently through her hair. Though a thousand questions prodded, she leaned against him, grateful. . . .

To be alive. Good heavens. She would have been dead—drowned—if not for him.

She lifted her chin, her gaze meeting the reassuring stubble that lined his angular jaw. “Thank you . . .” Her voice sputtered and died in her throat.

“Shhh.” He rubbed her back gently.

“Here, try some of this, dear.” The soft, wrinkled hands reappeared in her vision, this time holding a snifter filled with liquid fire. The strong aroma of brandy stung her nose, but she took a small sip.

The liquor immediately spread its restorative heat through her veins. Little by little she assessed her condition. Someone—the duchess's lady's maid, Holly presumed—had stripped away her sodden clothing and replaced it with a warm flannel chemise. Her hair, though dry now, streamed in tangles down her back.

A hand stroked lightly down those tangles. Holly half turned to discover the dowager duchess perched on the other side of the bed from Colin, the snifter balanced on her thigh. Her clear blue eyes, so like Colin's, twinkled with myriad sentiments: relief, gladness, affection . . . and something . . . a secret to which only the woman was privy, but which Holly suspected amused her no end.

“Well, now,” Maria Ashworth said, “didn't I say the lass would soon be right as rain? She's got pluck. I saw it the first time I laid eyes on her.” The creases across her brow deepened. “Though perhaps rain is not the proper reference in this instance. One would not suppose our Miss Sutherland would wish to think of rain or water for quite some time to come.”

“Grandmother . . .” Colin said in an admonishing tone.

A laugh bubbled to Holly's lips. Hilarity rose up inside her, unstoppable, the laughter pouring out until her belly shook and her eyes teared and her throat ran dry again. The duchess's softer laughter blended with hers. From the corner of her eyes, Holly saw Colin looking on uncertainly until a smile tugged at his lips. His deep bellows rang out, until anyone passing by the doorway would have thought surely three lunatics had escaped their asylum.

When she could laugh no more for the stitch in her side, Holly pressed a hand to her belly and gasped for air. “I haven't the slightest notion how any of this could be funny.” She met the duchess's eye and found herself chuckling again.

The woman reached out a hand to Holly's cheek. “Better to laugh than to cry, yes?”

Holly couldn't argue with that. “How long did I sleep?” she asked.

Colin glanced at the little pendulum clock ticking on the dresser. “About three hours.”

His grandmother leaned to whisper in her ear, “He never left your side. Not once.”

“Grandmama . . .”

“He was terribly worried,” the older woman went on, “but all is well now. You seem little the worse for wear.”

“All is not well, Grandmama. Far from it.”

Colin's return to gravity reminded Holly of the many troubles still facing them. The colt was missing. They'd been shot at. And now an incensed band of villagers wanted retribution for misfortunes they blamed on Colin's family. Her eyes went wide. He still didn't know about that.

“What happened,” she said, “there was a reason . . .”

“I should have warned you about that bridge.” Colin's eyes darkened with an emotion approaching anger, though whether at her or himself she couldn't say.

She shook her head. “Mr. Hockley warned me about the stream. I knew better than to cross onto the moor.”

“Then why on earth would you do such a dangerous thing in weather such as this?” His expression turned so severe she drew back against the pillows. “Why would you cross that broken old bridge?”