Kathleen Woodiwiss: Come Love a Stranger

A reddish aura rose from the growing core of heat and flame and spread into the night sky, while a heavy, rolling mass of choking gray billowed above it. The constant roar deadened the ears to any other sound, and the hoofbeats came unnoticed as the long-legged gelding returned to that same hill where he had earlier trod. He was reined to a halt by the darkly cloaked figure on his back. Within the deep folds of the cowl, translucent eyes shone with the reflected light of the fire as they searched the clustered groups inside the yard. For a moment the gaze was steadfast and intense; then the rider turned, as if startled, to scan the crest of the hill behind. Slim hands jerked the reins, pulling the mount’s head aside, and a thump of a heel urged him on again, this time into the dark, mottled shadow of the woods. The steed’s flaring nostrils gave evidence of their rapid flight, but the one on his back allowed him no pause. It was a reckless, zigzagging dash through the wooded coppice, but one that seemed capably directed by the rider. The gelding soared over a fallen tree that lay across their path and came to earth again, flinging damp clods of leaf and mud helter-skelter while it scattered a chilling breath of fear before its flashing hooves.

The rushing wind snatched the woolen hood away, freeing long, curling tresses from its confines and whipping them out like a waving gonfalon. Spiteful twigs plucked at the silken strands and clawed at the flapping cloak as the girl rode past. Oblivious to these minor attacks, she raced on, throwing a hurried glance over her shoulder. Her eyes swept back along the trail as if she expected to find some fearsome beast following in slavering pursuit. The sudden movement of a deer darting through the trees brought a startled gasp from her, and she urged the gelding on, not caring how swiftly they flew along the untried path.

An open field, well lighted by the moon and raggedly cloaked with drifting shreds of fog, beckoned through the thinning trees. A shallow sense of relief surged within her throbbing breast. The rolling mead held a promise of an easier path where the horse could be pressed to its fastest gait. Almost eagerly she struck her bare heel against the steed’s side, and the gelding responded with a surging bound, lifting his hooves and springing forward to clear the low spot where the mists had gathered.

Suddenly a bellowed, wordless warning, joined by the squeal of brake shoes dragging against turning wheels, broke into the rider’s consciousness. The gelding’s forefeet had not yet come to earth when she realized that she had plunged her mount directly into the path of an oncoming team and carriage. Cold, congealing horror seized her as the charging steeds bore down upon her, and for the barest instant she thought she could feel their snorting breath and see their blazing eyes. The black driver fought frantically to turn the racing team aside or stop the skidding carriage, but it was too late. A scream sprang from her throat, but it was quickly silenced by a jarring impact that struck the breath from her.

The wild gyrations of the closed landau had torn Ashton Wingate from his dozing and nearly turned him out of his seat, giving him cause to doubt his driver’s sanity, but when the conveyance careened sideways through the slippery mire, he had a clear view of the collision and its result. A flailing form catapulted away from the tumbling mount and soared through the air like an injured bird, then fell, striking the road embankment, and rolled down into the ditch. Before the carriage slid to a halt, Ashton had flung off his cloak and was out the door, swinging down. As he raced along the slippery road, his anxious gaze reached beyond the wildly thrashing horse to where the motionless figure lay partially submerged in the water at the bottom of the gully. The mists swirled about him as he slid down the slick bank. He splashed through the frigid water, heedless of the mud that sucked at his boots, and braced a knee against the embankment as he pulled the unconscious girl from the murky riverlet and propped her against the sodden, overgrown bank. Her face was half covered by a snarled mass of wet hair, and leaning close, he could not detect any stirring of breath from her lips. He freed her arm and experienced a sudden trepidation as it hung limp in his grasp. He failed to find a pulse in the finely tapered wrist, and almost in dread he pressed his fingers against the slim column of her throat. There, beneath the chilled skin, he found what he sought…the assurance that she was alive, at least for the moment.

Ashton glanced up to find his driver standing on the shoulder of the roadway above him. It was the coachman’s wont in the colder months, what with being exposed on the open seat, to secure his prized beaver hat atop his head by wrapping a long woolen scarf over its crown and knotting it snugly beneath his chin. Now in fretful worry, he was twisting the loose ends of the scarf in his huge gentle hands, unwittingly pulling his headgear down upon his ears.

“Calm yourself, Hiram. She’s still breathing,” Ashton assured the frightened man. The horse screamed again in pure anguish, nearly drowning his words, and lunged about as it tried to rise. Ashton indicated the maimed steed with a jerk of his hand. “Hiram! Fetch that old horse pistol you have in the boot and put that animal out of its misery!”

“Yassuh! Ah do it right now!” Though the task was hardly a pleasant one, Hiram was relieved to have something to occupy him.

Ashton bent over the girl again. She showed no sign of regaining consciousness, but lay inert against the bank where he had placed her. The chilly water was already making his legs ache, and her thoroughly soaked cloak was tangled about her like a frigid cocoon. He searched out the silken frogs that held the garment in place and plucked them free. His brows rose sharply in surprise when he peeled the sodden cloth away. Even in the unsteady light of the carriage lanterns he could see she was no fledgling lass as he had first supposed. The clinging wetness of the thin nightgown readily displayed the fact that she was a woman, still quite young but certainly mature enough to cause him to adjust his thinking.

A gunshot cracked sharply through the stillness, bringing Ashton’s head up with a jerk. The thrashing died away with a gurgling moan, and the horse slowly collapsed, to slide into the water at the bottom of the ditch. Against the glow of the moonlit mists, Hiram was darkly etched with sagging shoulders. Ashton knew the servant had a sympathy for animals beyond other men, but the events of the moment left no time for such mourning when a more precious life was at stake.

“Hiram! Come on! We’ve got to get this girl home!”

“Yassuh!”

Spurred to action, the black came running back as Ashton extracted the injured woman from the bonds of her soggy cloak and lifted her in his arms. He raised her high, letting her head loll over his shoulder, then began the scrambling struggle up the slippery embankment to the roadway. Hiram was there to lend a hand the last step or two and sprinted on ahead to open the carriage door. As Ashton climbed inside, the servant mumbled a fervent prayer that all would be well. Death had been a cruel visitor to the Wingate man in the last ten years, first plucking the lives of his parents during a storm which swept away their home in the Carolinas; then three years ago it had come in the guise of a gang of river pirates who had disabled his stern-wheeler and caused the drowning of his new bride. Hiram was sure that if there was a choice, neither of them would elect to see the dreaded dark avenger for some time to come.

“Give me a moment to get settled,” Ashton tossed over his shoulder as he placed the woman on his cloak and gathered it about her.

“Is she…is she gonna be all right, massa?” Hiram asked anxiously, craning his neck to see past the other’s back.