Fair Juno. Stephanie Laurens
around to reorientate himself, then reached for his pistols. ‘If he’s likely to come with friends, I suggest we depart forthwith. My curricle’s in a lane beyond the wood. I was passing when I heard your screams.’
‘Thank heaven you did.’ Belatedly, Helen shook out her skirts. ‘I held very little hope we would be near any main road.’
She glanced up at her rescuer, to find he was studying her, the shadows concealing his expression.
Martin smiled, a little wryly. His angel was not out of the woods yet. ‘I hesitate to disabuse you of such a comforting thought, but we’re some way from any main road. I was taking a short cut through the lanes in the hope of reaching the London road before the storm.’
‘You’re going to London?’
‘Eventually,’ Martin conceded. The branches above obscured too much of the sky to let him judge the approach of the rainclouds. ‘But first we’ll have to find shelter for the night.’
With a last glance about, Martin offered her his arm.
Quelling a rush of uncharacteristic nervousness, Helen placed her hand on his sleeve. She had no choice but to trust him, yet her trust in gentlemen was not presently high.
‘Was it from London you were taken?’
‘Yes,’ Helen felt no constraint in revealing that much but the question reminded her to be wary until she knew more of her rescuer, fascinating though he might be.
Absorbed in negotiating the numerous hurdles in the congested path through the trees without further damaging her gown, Helen felt the calm certainty with which she normally faced her world return. Her rescuer’s strong arm assisted her over the blockages. The subtle deference in his attitude effectively dispelled her fears, settling a cloak of protectiveness about her. Relieved to find his behaviour as gentlemanly as his elegance, she relaxed.
Martin waited until they were some distance from the clearing before appeasing his burgeoning curiosity. The question burning his tongue was who she was. But that, doubtless, would be best left for later. He contented himself with, ‘Who is Hedley Swayne?’
‘A fop,’ came the uncompromising reply.
‘You mistook me for a fop?’ Despite the potential seriousness of their plight, Martin’s latent tendencies were too strong to repress. When she turned her head his way, eyes wide, her lips parted in confusion, his eyes wickedly quizzed her.
Helen caught her breath. For an instant, her eyes locked with her rescuer’s. Three heartbeats passed before, with a desperate effort, she wrenched her gaze free and snatched back her wandering wits. ‘I didn’t see you, remember.’
At the sound of her soft and slightly husky disclaimer, Martin chuckled. ‘Ah, yes!’
A fallen tree blocked their path. He released her to step over it, then turned and held out his hands. From beneath her lashes, Helen glanced up at his face. A strong, intriguing face, rather more tanned and harsh-featured than one was wont to see. She wondered what colour his eyes were. With a calm she was not entirely sure she possessed, she put her hands into his. His strong fingers closed over hers; a peculiar constriction tightened about her chest. Helen glanced down, ostensibly to negotiate the fallen tree, in reality to hide her sudden frown at the ridiculous skitterishness that had attacked her. Surely she was too old for such girlish reactions?
Resuming his place by her side, Martin glanced down at her bent head, perfectly sure, now, that the tremor he had felt in her fingers had not been a figment of his over-active imagination. Highly experienced in the subtleties of this particular form of play, he sought for some topic to get her mind off him. ‘I trust you’ve suffered no harm from your ordeal with those ruffians?’
Determined not to let her ridiculous nervousness show, Helen shook her head. ‘No—none at all. But they were under orders to take care of me.’
‘So I heard. Nevertheless, I dare say you’ve had your wits quite addled by fright.’
Despite an unnerving awareness of the presence by her side, Helen laughed. ‘Oh, no! I assure you I’m not such a poor creature as all that.’ She risked a glance upwards and saw her rescuer’s dark brows rise. The look he bent on her was patently disbelieving. Her smile grew. ‘Very well,’ she conceded, ‘I’ll admit to a qualm or two, but when they were plainly being as gentle as they knew how I could hardly quake for fear of my life.’
‘I’ve rescued an Amazon.’
The bland statement floated above her curls. Helen chuckled and shook her head, but refused to be further drawn.
As the trees thinned, she resolutely turned her mind to her present predicament. With the uncertainty of her abduction receding, she was conscious of an oddly light-hearted response to this new set of circumstances. Twilight was drawing in; she was walking through woods, very much alone, with an unknown gentleman. While she was quite convinced of his quality, she was not nearly so sure it was safe to approve of his style, much less his propensities. Nevertheless, trepidation was not what she felt. Unbidden, a smile curved her lips. Not since childhood had such a whimsical, adventurous mood claimed her; the same buoyant exuberance had whirled her through her most outrageous childhood exploits. Why on earth it should surface now, in response, she was sure, to the stranger by her side, she had no idea. But the thrill of exhilaration tripping along her nerves was too marked to ignore. In truth, she had no wish to ignore it—life had been too serious, too mundane, for too long. A little adventure would lighten the dim prospect of her lonely future.
They emerged from the trees. In the narrow lane, a fashionable curricle was outlined against the gathering gloom, a pair of high-stepping bays restlessly shifting between the shafts. Impulsively, Helen gasped, ‘What beauties!’
The lines of both equipage and horses spoke volumes. Clearly, her rescuer was a man of means. Smiling, he released her beside the carriage, going to the horses’ heads to run a soothing hand over their noses.
Helen eyed the curricle, wondering if, in her slim evening gown, it was possible to gain the box seat perched high above the axle with reasonable decorum. She was about to attempt the difficult climb when a pair of strong hands fastened about her waist and she was lifted, effortlessly, upwards.
‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened; she bit back a most unladylike squeal. Deposited gently on the seat, she blushed rosy red. ‘Er…thank you.’ The smile on her rescuer’s face was decidedly wicked. Abruptly, Helen busied herself with settling her skirts, while, under her lashes, she watched him untie the reins.
It wasn’t just the fact that she knew she was no lightweight, nor that no man before had ever lifted her like that, making her feel ridiculously delicate. It wasn’t even the impression of remarkable strength that lingered with the memory of his hands gripping her waist. No. It was her quite shocking response to that perfectly mundane little intimacy that was tying her nerves in knots. Never in her life had she felt so odd, so thoroughly witless. What on earth was the matter with her?
Her rescuer swung up beside her. He moved with the ease of a born athlete, compounding the impression of leashed power created by the combination of understated elegance and sheer size. A deliciously fascinating impression, Helen was only too willing to admit. Then he glanced at her.
‘Comfortable?’
She nodded, the simple question dispelling any lingering fears. In her estimation, no blackguard would ask if his victim was comfortable. Her rescuer might make her nervous; he did not frighten her.
A drop of rain fell on Martin’s hand as he clicked the reins. The sensation drew his mind from contemplation of the woman beside him and focused it on more practical matters. Night was closing in and, with it, the weather.
He levelled a measuring glance at his companion. When he had lifted her to the box seat, getting a good glimpse of a pair of shapely ankles in the process, he had confirmed the fact that her dress was indeed silk, fine and delicate. Furthermore, his experienced assessment told him her fashionable standing extended to wearing no more than a fine silk chemise