The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
beneath.
Fortunately, before the question could form on her lips, he strode across the room to collect his greatcoat. “My horse is stabled in the lean-to at the back of the cottage. You’ll ride. I’ll lead her, so as to guide her through the worst dangers. If we stick to the higher ridges, we should reach Hawesdale by midday.”
Her fingers closed once more on her pelisse. “Hawesdale? Is that the name of the town from which you hail? Perhaps there’s an inn there where I can wait for the weather to turn. I would not wish to—”
“Hawesdale is the name of the house. Hawesdale Chase.” He shrugged into his greatcoat. “No inn, I’m afraid. Not even much of a village. You’ll have to stay with me.”
She tried to take some comfort in the fact that he sounded no more pleased by the prospect than she felt. “You are very generous, I’m sure. But I couldn’t possibly.” In twenty-three years, she had broken almost every rule of ladylike behavior her mother had laid down. Now, she’d spent the night with a gentleman, unchaperoned. Under duress, it was true. Perhaps that made it a forgivable offense. But she dared not continue in that error, just in case.
She’d never worried over her reputation, and she wasn’t worried about it now. She only knew that crossing certain lines would ensure she was packed home to Dublin and never allowed to leave the house again. And no one had ever become a highly regarded botanist by sitting in a drawing room, drinking tea and embroidering cushions. For more reasons than one.
Then again… One glance took in the humble cottage and its furnishings. No, she didn’t relish the possibility of staying here alone. “Unless, of course, you happen to have, ah, a sister at home?” The presence of another lady would lend sufficient respectability, surely. “Or…or a wife?”
Something about the question made his lips twitch, and she could not decide whether it was with humor. “I do have a sister at home, as it happens,” he said as he gathered his horse’s tack from the corner of the room and picked up a tall beaver hat she had not noticed before. He made no attempt to settle it on his head; its crown would have brushed plaster from the crumbling ceiling. “And a mother—my stepmother, to be precise. But no,” he added as he ducked once more through the door. “I do not have a wife.”
Her body greeted his words with an unexpected tingle of awareness that traveled down her spine and through her limbs, into the very center of her being. Why on earth should she care whether or not he was married? And yet, some parts of her seemed very interested in the information.
Or perhaps she’d taken a chill. The cottage was very damp. Unhealthy, even.
Tugging her wrinkled pelisse over her equally wrinkled dress and swiping a tangle of hair from her eyes, she followed him out the door.
* * * *
To Tristan’s relief, the lean-to stable had weathered the storm. Lady Jane Grey, a steady dapple-gray mare he’d purchased for the journey, pricked her ears forward at the sound of their approach. Last night, he’d emptied the manger of musty straw and scattered it on the stable floor. As he led her out this morning, he could see the bedding was still dry. Lady Jane might well have passed a more comfortable night than he had.
“Do you ride, Miss Burke?” Even without turning, he knew she stood no more than a step away. He had been listening as she squelched through the mud behind him.
“Yes.”
“Very good.” A shudder passed along Lady Jane’s withers as he laid the damp saddle cloth on her back. He ran a hand down her neck to steady her. “Though we haven’t the proper tack for a lady, I’m afraid.”
Miss Burke stepped forward to stroke the soft velvet of the horse’s nose. “I’ll manage if she can.”
Would she sit astride? A certain sparkle in her honey brown eyes convinced him she was no stranger to it. He had a sudden vision of her with her skirts hiked to her knees, showing off well-turned calves to match the shapely figure he’d glimpsed beneath her rain-soaked dress last night.
When he could no longer pretend to busy himself with cinching the girth, he turned back to Erica and held out one hand. With obvious reluctance, she laid ice cold fingers across his palm. His first impulse was to cover them with his other hand, to chafe some warmth into them. Instead he shook his head. “Your book first, please. I’ll stow it in the saddlebag. You’ll want both hands free.”
“Oh.” She snatched her fingers back. “Of course.”
After tucking her book safely among his things, he laced his fingers to form a step and hoisted her into the saddle. One hand gripped his shoulder and was quickly gone. To his relief—certainly not to his disappointment—she hooked her right knee around the pommel rather than throwing that leg over Lady Jane’s back. He saw no more than one muddy ankle boot before her skirts swept into place and fully hid both legs from view once more.
She took up the reins just as he gripped them beneath Lady Jane’s chin, at the base of the bridle. The horse tossed her head to express her displeasure at their tug-of-war.
“It seems she knows who’s really in charge,” Erica said.
Did her voice always carry that mischievous note? Tristan leveled a look over his shoulder, one that had quelled more than a few impudent junior officers.
It had no visible effect on her, however.
“I am in charge, Miss Burke,” he said then. “Make no mistake about that.” After nearly ten years as an officer, command came naturally to him. “Now, the reins, if you please—or frankly, even if you don’t please. Because I don’t fancy waiting about for those clouds.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the steadily darkening western sky.
Whether it was his words or the weather that persuaded her, he could not be certain. But with a toss of her own head, she surrendered the reins and contented herself with two fistfuls of Lady Jane’s mane.
Well, she didn’t lack spirit, he’d give her that. He had always valued spirit and enthusiasm in the men he had commanded. Perhaps Miss Burke’s unconventional streak would prove to be an asset.
One must always have hope.
The ground was slick, spongy in some places and rocky in others. The ridge of higher ground that ran between the cottage and Hawesdale Chase appeared unbroken from a distance. In reality, however, it was made up of many small hillocks and an equal number of little valleys. Both his boots and Lady Jane’s hooves fought for purchase. Every step was a gamble.
On one particularly sharp descent, the horse locked her forelegs and refused to take another step. With a firm grip on the reins, he stepped ahead to show her it was safe. “Forward, Lady Jane.” The mare gave no sign of having heard.
Erica shifted slightly in the saddle, leaned over Lady Jane’s neck, and whispered in her ears, which twitched forward and back as she took in the words. Then, to Tristan’s amazement, the horse took three wary steps down the embankment and followed him through a newly formed stream and up the next hill.
“What did you say to her?” he asked when they were safely on higher ground.
“A lady never tells, Mr. Laurens.”
“I thought you weren’t a lady, Miss Burke,” he teased.
Her spine stiffened. “I was referring to the horse.”
Forcing a laugh, he took one stride forward. Somehow, however, his boot never met the ground. Instead, his other leg slid from beneath him and he found himself on his arse in the mud, skidding down the slope. Miss Burke, damn her, had the foresight to twitch the reins from his grasp so that Lady Jane did not come tumbling down after like some awful parody of a child’s nursery rhyme. And to add insult to injury—for the slope was dotted with sharp rocks—when he splashed to a halt in the ditch at the bottom, his hat fell off and was swept away on the water.
“Mr. Laurens!” There was laughter in her voice, he felt sure of it. “Are you harmed?”