Walking at a very brisk pace, she soon reached the woods, though she was uncomfortably hot by then. The turn in the road now concealed her from the village itself. And since it was highly unlikely that anyone would pass this way, she was at liberty to indulge herself. Just a little.
She put her basket and parasol on the ground behind a fence-post and leaned on the rail, gazing round at the clearing. This was where it had all begun. This was where Jonathan had found her.
There was nothing in the least unusual about it. It was simply a clearing at the edge of a wood, surrounded by thick evergreens and with a single, venerable oak where the clearing joined the main path. She smiled up at the branches of the tree, now green and youthful where, before, they had been black and bare. On an impulse, she ducked under the rail and started across the grass. In spite of the hot weather, it was still quite spongy underfoot. There was a stream close by, which never dried out. No wonder everywhere had been so muddy that night.
She made her way across to the overhanging shrubs and lifted the long branches to peer underneath. The heaps of leaves were still there, blown in, year after year, and too dry to rot. She was grateful for that. If she had lain down on wet leaves, soaked as she was, she would probably have died long before Jonathan could find her. His arrival was like a miracle.
She picked her way across to the path by the oak and stroked its wrinkled trunk. She had come here so many times, looking around, walking along the path, trying to retrieve some memory of what had gone before. It had never succeeded, and this time was no different.
Beth sighed. She had been here quite long enough. She must hurry back to the rectory. Mrs Aubrey must not have cause for worry.
It was only when Beth came out from under the shade of the oak tree that she realised how dark it was. In the space of only a few minutes, the sky had become almost black. There was going to be a fearsome storm. And she was here, far from shelter, with no protection at all!
She started to run across the clearing, back to where she had left her basket, but she had forgotten the treacherous ground. Her ankle turned, she lost her balance and fell her length. She swallowed the urge to utter a most unladylike curse and tried to brush the grass from her pale muslin gown. She made to get up, wondering all the while whether Mrs Aubrey’s maid had a remedy for grass stains.
‘Ouch!’ The moment she put her right foot to the ground, a pain shot up her leg. She closed her eyes in frustration. Now what was she to do? She was out of sight of the village, she had sprained her ankle, and a storm was coming on. This time she did curse. Vehemently.
First and foremost, she must get away from these trees. She glanced up at the sky again. Huge black anvil clouds promised thunder and lightning, as well as rain. She must get away from the trees.
She hobbled slowly back to the fence and leant on it to catch her breath. Her parasol would act as a makeshift walking-stick, she decided. Her basket could remain where it was.
But not Mrs Aubrey’s ribbon! That must not be soaked by the storm. Beth tucked the little parcel safely into the bodice of her gown. Then, gritting her teeth against the pain, she ducked under the fence and started back along the lane to Fratcombe.
It had felt like no distance at all on the way here, but now the bend seemed miles away. Beyond it was Widow Jenkinson’s house, where Beth would be able to ask for shelter. She hobbled awkwardly along, leaning heavily on her parasol. It was not strong enough to bear her weight. The handle snapped after just a few yards. Fate was definitely against her.
She stood on her good leg gazing down at the pieces of broken parasol. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ She hurled the useless handle to the ground.
‘May I be of assistance, ma’am?’
Beth whirled round so quickly that she forgot about her injury and put her weight on her sprained ankle. She cried out in pain and almost fell.
‘Good God, ma’am! You are hurt.’
That voice had not changed. It was Jonathan.
She had been so intent on cursing the flimsy parasol that she had not heard the sound of his arrival.
‘Go to their heads.’ This time, he was not alone. A groom jumped down and ran to hold the horses. Jonathan sprang to the ground at the same moment and reached Beth just as she managed to regain her balance.
Her pain was forgotten. It was Jonathan. He had returned. He had returned to save her, all over again.
‘Let me help you into my curricle, ma’am.’ He offered his arm. ‘Lean on me. You should not put any weight on that ankle.’
She accepted gladly. Even with only one good leg, she felt as if she were floating, buoyed up by his touch, but when they reached the carriage step, reality intruded. She stopped, uncertain of whether she could mount.
‘Allow me.’ With a single, swift movement he picked her up in his arms. Her mind was instantly full of the scent of him, long familiar from her dreams, but before she could relax into his embrace, he had deposited her on the soft leather seat and stepped back. She felt bereft. ‘Shall I fetch your parasol for you?’ He pointed back to where it lay on the ground.
‘If you would be so good, sir,’ she said demurely, trying to avoid those penetrating eyes. She needed a few moments to collect her thoughts and regain control of her soaring emotions. This was no time for the stuff of dreams. He was bound to have questions. Her stomach lurched alarmingly. He would want to know what she had discovered about her past. How could she ever explain that there was nothing to tell?
He was back in a trice, offering her the broken parasol. When she shook her head, he dropped the pieces on to the floor and sprang up to take his seat beside her. ‘There is a storm coming. My horses can smell it. I need to get them under cover before it breaks.’ Without waiting for orders, the groom ran to swing himself up behind, while Jonathan started his pair into motion. He was giving them all his attention, keeping them under rigid control. There must be a danger that they would try to bolt when the lightning came. She found she was perversely glad of it. No questions yet awhile.
She tried to keep her eyes on the road, but she could not stop herself from stealing greedy sideways glances at Jonathan. This time, she would fix every detail of his image in her memory. His face was extremely brown. Too dark and leathery for a gentleman’s complexion, of course, but only to be expected in a man who had served for so long under the burning sun of the Peninsula. There were flecks of grey in the dark hair around his temples and behind his ears. She could make out fine white lines at the corner of his eyes, too. Laughter lines, perhaps? Or simply the result of screwing up his eyes against the brilliant light? She was not at all sure that he had been laughing much. His expression seemed harsh, and there was a stern set to his jaw. He looked…he looked intimidating.
She guessed-no, she knew, by instinct-that her gallant rescuer had been changed by his years in the army, and that his experiences had not softened him. No doubt he had been involved in bloody battles. He must have suffered. He had probably lost comrades, and friends. Beth had read the lists of casualties in the rector’s newspaper, always with her heart in her mouth lest the Earl of Portbury be among them. She knew his regiment had taken heavy losses, particularly at the siege of Badajoz, only months before.
They had almost reached the bend that led to the village. Jonathan was slowing his horses for the turn, his gloved hands pulling back on the reins. They were lean, strong hands, but sensitive, too, as Beth knew from experience, both then and now. His hands had touched her skin and-
Читать дальше