The Runaway Heiress (20 page)

'She
said she was going to try the mare's paces. They looked right good together, my
lord. A pleasure to see. She had her on an easy rein and they cantered off all
right and tight. I don't reckon you need to worry any.'

And
although Aldeborough agreed, the kernel of doubt still churned in his gut. He
and Matthew skirted the formal lawns and rode out of the dip to canter up to
the top of the rise from where they would be able to see the gleaming expanse
of the West Lake with the Chinese Bridge at its eastern end.

They
heard the approach of hoofbeats even before they reached the crest.

'That
will be Frances now.' Aldeborough acknowledged the relief in Matthew's voice,
pulling his horse to a walk, but then hesitated, listening intently.

'If
it is, she is out of control. Listen! That is a flat-out gallop.' Apprehension
tightened its grip in his chest. They reined in and waited.

His
worst fears were realised. The mare came over the rise, riderless, at full
gallop. She had been heading for the Priory, for the warmth of her stable, but
veered towards the presence of the two riders and familiar horses and allowed
Matthew to catch her bridle without too much difficulty. They did a rapid
inventory. She was wet from head to foot, her saddle covered with mud, and
there was a deep graze, oozing blood, on her off fore. Otherwise she was
unharmed, merely frightened, with laid-back ears and panic in her eyes.

Aldeborough issued rapid,
clipped orders to Matthew, his habitual drawl replaced by a rasp of steel. Take
the mare back to the stables. Bring the curricle back with you along the track
to the spinney in case we need it. Spring the horses if you have to. I hope she
just took a toss in the dead ground and will be none the worse for it. But
hurry, man.' Matthew needed no urging.

Aldeborough pushed his
horse into a gallop towards the crest of the rise, emotions held firmly in
check. He refused to think, to imagine the possibilities of what he might find
by the Chinese Bridge. Could he have done anything to prevent it? That fact
that he could not made no difference. He would not allow the panic that gripped
his chest and hampered his breathing to claim mastery over him.

On reaching the crest he
pulled up his labouring horse to scan the distant prospect of lake, stream and
bridge. The lake had overflowed its banks, inundating the flat pasture, turning
the well-mannered stream of Tippet's Brook into a miniature torrent. The bridge
was still standing and indeed appeared to be secure, but the trapped boughs
were clearly visible against and under the supports. There was no sign of
Frances. Aldeborough gathered up his reins and galloped on down the hill, but
with some caution given the muddy descent. He continued to scan the water
meadows with anxious eyes. As the angle of the bridge changed at his approach,
he became aware that one side of the balustrade, made of interlocking spars in
a rustic oriental pattern, had collapsed into the lake. Then his eyes locked on
to a splash of vibrant green, which could not be mistaken for reeds or sedge,
at the side of the bridge. Without compunction he applied spurs to his horse.

She was lying in the water
beside the bridge. Her body was partially out of the lake as if she had
attempted to drag herself on to the bank, but she must have been weighed down
by the heavy velvet of her habit, now completely waterlogged. The torrent was
again threatening to submerge her and she did not move at his approach.
Aldeborough threw himself from his mount and waded into the water, oblivious of
the fast currents and the dangerous debris that threatened to drag his feet
from under him. First he had to disentangle her skirts from the branches, but
it proved to be an impossible and far too lengthy task with the water swirling
ominously around them. Abandoning finesse and resorting to brute force, he tore
the heavy material to release her body. Then he grasped her shoulders, fighting
to drag her inch by inch from the mud and rushing current on to the safety of
the bank. It took all his strength but he dare not relax, dare not stop to
regain his breath. The only thought that filled his mind and blotted out all
else was that she had been in the water some time, that her body was inert,
that she might be dead.

The events seemed to run
in slow motion, to stretch for ever, but within minutes, Aldeborough had
dragged them both to the sodden grass and reeds of the bank. He dropped to his
knees, gasping, drawing breath painfully into his lungs, but could not rest
until he had turned her unresponsive body so that he could see her face. She
was soaked from head to foot and covered with mud from the stream bed. There
were streaks of it on her ashen face and in her hair, which had tumbled down
around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed.

'Frances. Frances.'

He gathered her into his
arms, pushing the wet strands of hair back from her face, searching for any
sign of injury broken bones. She was deathly pale. For one heartstopping moment
her face was replaced by that of Richard, her body as lifeless as Richard's in
a terrible repetition of the curricle race. He found he could not breathe.
Could not think. He turned his face into her hair, murmuring her name, holding
her tightly as a nightmare of memory swept through him to carry him back into
the past.

'Don't
leave me. Don't die, Frances.' He was unaware of his words, the promises he
made, rocked by a torrent of despair. He cradled her against his heart.

Gradually, through the mists,
reality broke through, sense returned. There was no blood. No obvious wound. No
terrible repetition of the nightmare. He forced himself to focus on the faint
but steady pulse in her neck where he had pressed his lips. She gasped, began
to cough and struggle against his confining arms. He lifted her a little,
allowed her to sit up, but kept a supporting arm about her shoulders, taking a
few deep breaths to steady himself as the immediate panic receded.

'Frances?'

Her eyes opened slowly and
focused on him, confused and blurred, but cleared as memory returned. 'What
happened?' she gasped, pushing against his arm.

'Be still a moment.' There
was no hint of the ravages of emotion that had threatened to unman him in his
reply. 'You took a fall.'

'Yes, I fell. I remember
now. The lake.' She grasped his arm, fear leaping into her eyes. 'Beeswing? Is
Beeswing unharmed?'

'Like all sensible mares,
she's back in her comfortable stable by now.' He worked hard to keep his tone
light, an undercurrent of humour, and to still the trembling of his hands in
the aftermath. 'Can you tell me what happened?'

'I was coming home. It was
very windy. The water was fast, but the bridge seemed secure.' She wiped a hand
across her face to push back her hair. 'We stepped on to the bridge. And I
remember—there was a noise. A sharp crack. It must have been one of the
supports. Beeswing shied and before I could do anything she seemed to lose her
footing and fell through the balustrade into the lake. I remember the water
rushing over me—the cold—and I couldn't get out—and then nothing. I think I
must have hit my head.' Her eyes were blank with shock and her pupils dilated
at the memory of her helplessness. She tightened her hold on Aldeborough's arm
where she still grasped it. 'Are you sure she's not harmed? It was a terrible
fall.'

Aldeborough got to his
feet and reached down to help her to stand. She was beginning to shiver
violently from cold and reaction. He must get her home, out of the cold whip of
the wind.

'She's fine,' he reassured
her, keeping an arm around her.

'At least she didn't fall
on you. And look, here comes Matthew to the rescue.'

'But how did you know
where to find me? I don't understand.'

'It's not important now.'
He was very aware of her confusion as reaction began to set in. 'Let me get
you home.'

'But what of my beautiful
riding habit?' She was suddenly conscious of the sodden cloth of her
underclothes clinging uncomfortably to her body and its liberal smearing of mud
and slime. 'The velvet will be ruined. It was so beautiful.'

'I will buy you a new
one.' He was even able to smile at her disordered priorities. 'I will buy you a
dozen!'

He stripped off his coat to wrap it around her
trembling shoulders, hoping to transfer some of the vestigial warmth from his
body to hers. Then he swept her into his arms, in spite of her instant
assertion that she was perfectly capable of walking, and carried her towards
the curricle and Matthew.

At the Priory Aldeborough
carried her into the house and
up the stairs, fending off explanations
and expressions of concern, issuing orders for hot water, towels, and her
ladyship's maid. Only when he had shouldered his way into her room did he lower
her to the ground. He turned her to the light to scan her face intently. There
were faint shadows under her eyes, a pale shade round her mouth, and a bruise
was beginning to develop on her hair line. Her hair hanging limply on to her
shoulders was an impossible damp tangle of curls. The sodden cloth clung to every
curve and swell of her body. Beneath his concern Aldeborough was shocked by the
sudden tightening in his loins and an unexpected wave of desire that all but
swamped his senses. He forced it under control and with trembling fingers, he
began to deal with the buttons stripping off her close-fitting jacket and then
her skirt. She simply stood unresisting, arms at her side, following his
orders, too stunned to respond, tremors still racking her body. By the time she
was standing in her petticoats, her maid arrived with footmen carrying a bath into
her dressing room, followed by more with buckets of steaming hot water.

'I will leave you in
competent hands. Take care of her,' he instructed the maid, his mouth grim.

'Of course, m'lord. Her
ladyship will soon feel more the thing.'

He beat a grateful retreat to his own dressing
room. He was almost as wet as Frances and needed time to regain his composure.

An hour later he
re-entered her dressing room. It was empty apart from the debris of water,
towels and ruined velvet, so he continued on into her bedchamber. Frances was
alone, seated before a fire that had been hastily lit, looking pretty and
fragile in a lace and satin robe as her hair dried into unruly curls. Her
colour had returned. She looked pink and relaxed from the hot water and, to his
relief, immeasurably recovered from her ordeal.

She looked up at the
opening of the door and smiled shyly. 'I am sorry I caused you so much trouble.
Riding was my only talent, if you remember. I can not even lay claim to that
now.' Her smile took on a wry tinge.

He smiled sympathetically,
but shook his head. 'The bridge was damaged. You could not have prevented it.
Kington reported the damage caused by the storm this morning so that is why we
had come to find you, in case you chose to ride in that direction. Your talent
still stands.'

That is a relief. It does
my self-esteem good.'

'You will need it. I am
reluctant to mention it, but by tomorrow you will have a magnificent black eye
to explain away.' He resisted the temptation to run his fingers over the injury,
to soothe the hurt. He thrust his hands into his pockets.

Silence fell between them.

He too had stripped off
his wet clothes and was clad in a magnificent dark-grey dressing-gown with
black frogging and velvet revers. She had never seen him in it before. His face
was stern, his mouth unsmiling, but she thought he looked magnificent. She
could think of nothing to say.

He walked towards her,
placing his hands on her shoulders to pull her from her chair, feeling her
shiver, her breath catch at his touch. Without a word, without thought, he
allowed instinct to dictate and dragged her to him, holding her against his
chest, and crushed her mouth beneath his in urgent need. He was already hard
for her and his emotions were running high.

'My lord, it is broad daylight,'
she stammered when he at last raised his head to scan her face with a fierce
stare.

'So it is.' He released
her for one moment and strode across the room to lock the doors.

'Now, my lady. I want you.
I will try to be gentle, but God help me, I want you now.'

He stripped the cover from
the bed and lifted her there with consummate ease. His hands made short work of
her robe, in spite of her inarticulate protests, leaving her exposed to the
bright rays of the sun that gilded her curves and cast entrancing shadows,
enough to heat a man's blood if he were not already aroused. She had no idea,
he thought, how alluring she looked at that moment. He shrugged out of his
dressing gown and came to kneel beside her.

'Let me look at you. You
are so beautiful.'

His eyes
swept her body, so finely boned, so delicate, curve of her ribs and the swell
of her hips enticing him run his fingers along the length of curves, dips and
hollows from throat to knee. He needed to touch her, to reassure himself that
she was alive and unharmed. And that she was his. The blood pumped through his
veins, hammering in his loins. He fought hard to keep control but was, for
once, not confident.
       

'Do you realise how
beautiful you are?' Her skin tinted palest rose at his intimate appraisal, but
she had recovered from her initial shock and responded, to his delight, without
shyness.

'You are
beautiful too,' she said. His laugh became a groan as she raised her hands to
spread her fingers over his and move them slowly down over his flat stomach to
his hips, not in denial but in blatant invitation. Nor was there mistaking the
anticipation in her eyes.
  

For good or ill, his
restraint was at an end. He took her wrists to pinion them above her head and
launched an assault on her mouth with his own. His kiss was hot and urgent,
seducing her lips apart so that his tongue might invade and possess. She
responded willingly, her blood heated by his words, the passion in his eyes,
the hard-held control in his sinews and muscles as he held himself in check. He
used his tongue and teeth on her nipples, first one and then the other, until
they became erect peaks of desire and she cried out in shocked pleasure,
astounded by the depth of need and delicious sensation that he could ignite in
her, arching her body against him, wanting to give more, wanting him to take
more.