A Baron in Her Bed (3 page)

Her scattered thoughts served to keep her composed as she trudged along beside the horse. So far, the man had managed to stay in the saddle, but his chin rested on his chest and he looked as if he might fall at any moment. Relieved, she sighted a roof through the trees. “Nearly there. That’s the hut ahead. I’m sorry; this must be hard. You can rest soon.”

She hoped the hut was in good condition still. Lord Fortescue had been absent for many years, since he’d shot and killed some lady’s husband in a duel and escaped to France. Her godfather had maintained the property ever since.

They pushed their way through dense underbrush, slowed down by fallen trees, which blocked the trail. Again and again, Horatia pulled her coat free of brambles as she walked beside him. He slipped sideways and shoved himself upright, a hand on her shoulder. Steadying himself, he shook his head and uttered a string of what she assumed to be curse words as he repeated them quite a lot. Heat scalded her cheeks. She’d never heard a man curse, beyond her father’s mutterings under his breath, and so fulsomely. Somehow it sounded even worse in French. Well, served her right!

His heavy hand reminded her that she was alone in a forest with a strange man. This was not the light touch of a dance partner at a ball. It was the hard hand of a man whose countrymen had fought and slain many English. Perhaps he too had been a soldier in Napoleon’s army. She wanted to ask him what had brought him here. But that would have to wait.

Guy gritted his teeth. He had never felt so fragile. He would be dead back on that road but for this kind
jeune homme
, so determined to help him, the bones of his shoulder slight under his hand.

He had waited to come to these shores through the intolerable years of the Terror, when his family had been driven from France, and the war with England that followed, to claim what was rightfully his.

Now, in the depths of the English countryside, more ruffians had seen fit to assault him. Could he be that unlucky or were they connected in some way? If so, whoever lay behind these attacks was determined to assassinate him, but why?

Chapter Two

In the failing light, Horatia spied the old hut wedged in between two enormous oaks. At first, it looked to be a terrible old ruin, but on closer inspection, the roof seemed to be intact. The lean-to for storing wood would serve to keep The General safe from the storm.

She brought the horse to a halt, and the man slid off and sank to his knees. “
Merde
!” He rubbed his eyes with an impatient hand. “Give me your arm. I think I can make it inside.” She braced herself and helped him stand. He leaned against her and staggered to the doorway. “
Merci beaucoup. 
I am most obliged to you.”

He wavered, one hand against the wooden planks of the hut as she wrestled with the door. The wood was damp and swollen, and the door stuck fast. Frustrated and aware of the large man who struggled to remain on his feet beside her, she put all her weight behind a kick. It flew open with a bang.

He took two unassisted steps into the room then collapsed onto a pile of horse blankets. She rushed to check on him, but he gave a lop-sided grin and a weak wave of apology.

Inside the hut was bare, apart from a small table and a narrow cot set up in one corner. A few logs lay beside the fireplace, and there was a box of tapers and a flint on the shelf above. Her spirits rose. It they weren’t damp, she could find kindling and get a fire started.

The man lay still with his eyes closed. When she lightly touched his arm, he raised his head and looked at her. Once again, she was caught by the contrast between his tan skin and blue eyes, a foreign and exotic blue like the Mediterranean sky she’d seen in paintings. “I’ll need two of those blankets for my horse. May I?” He rolled to one side with a groan.

“Sorry,” Horatia muttered. She eased them out from under him and sneezed. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and there was the lingering odor of game birds. A few odd feathers fluttered about in the draught. The storm gathered pace, and the shutters began to bang against the window frames. She had to move quickly but was caught by the sight of him lying there and was unable to drag her gaze away. She gave herself a mental shake. “We need wood, and I must tend to my horse. Would you like me to help you onto the bed?”

“
No, merci
. See to your horse.”

Horatia hurried outside. The General tore at a patch of grass while the trees whipped around him. Under the slope of the roof, she removed the saddle and threw the blankets over his back then secured them around his neck. A trough nearby was almost full of rainwater but iced over. She picked up a branch and broke the top of it, aware it would form again and she would have to check it later.

She patted the horse’s neck. “I hope you’ll be all right here, boy. If anything happened to you, it would be more than my life is worth.”

Anxiety filled her throat, and swallowing failed to remove it. Already, the spreading boughs of the oaks were dusted white like sugar on a confection, and the ground had disappeared under a blanket of snow. She tried not to dwell on how long she would have to stay here and continue her pretense. Alone with the stranger, she had no choice. Her disguise was her only protection.

Horatia shivered as she left the shelter of the hut, and a fierce icy wind numbed her face. She took the opportunity to answer the call of nature and darted behind one of the broad oaks. The wind slapped at her naked derrière like an unwelcome hand. She did up her breeches and gathered up an armful of timber and kindling, thankful most of it was still reasonably dry. Hurrying back inside the hut, she levered the door shut against the force of the wind with her foot.

The man had managed to reach the cot and had pulled off his gloves. He perched on the edge with his head in his hands. He looked up as she entered. “Wood.
Bravo
.”

At least she could light a fire. After living in the hot Indian climate, Horatia’s father believed the cold to be healthy; it thickened the blood. He instructed servants not to light fires unless it was mid-winter. Horatia didn’t enjoy a frigid chamber and had learned to light the fire herself. She’d become quite adept at it. The taper alight, she knelt at the fireplace. The kindling caught with a small hopeful flame. It spread, a comfortable sight that would soon take the chill off the small, low-ceilinged room.

Horatia sat back on her heels and turned to him. His long fingers raked through his dark hair. It fell back into a neat wave. She suffered a surprising desire to muss it. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am a little. My head aches, though.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He shuffled as if about to rise and then had thought better of it. “I forget myself.” He bowed his head then winced. “My name is Guy Trusedale.”

Horatia recognized the name and frowned. “You are a relative of the baron?”

“
Oui.
I am
the sixth Baron Fortescue
.
”

“I have heard of the fifth Baron. He left England years ago.”

“My papa. I was born in France, but now as the war with England has ended, I am eager to see my ancestral home.”

“You are a few miles from it, my lord. Your relative, Mr. Fennimore, is in residence.”

“You know him?”

“I know
of
him.” Horatia swallowed. How many lies must she tell? “A groom doesn’t hobnob with such as him.”

“
Tout à fait
.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “On my way from London, I ran across
bandits de grand chemin
. They shot at me but missed, fortunately. As I congratulated myself at having lost them in the woods, I rode into a branch.
Zut!
It almost knocked my head off. I must have fallen off my horse.” He gave a rueful grin. “But I digress. What is the name of my savior?”

Horatia bit her lip. A name hadn’t occurred to her. She plucked her groom’s name from the air. “Simon Rawlings, my lord.”

He nodded. “My most heartfelt thanks, Simon.” As if the gesture hurt him, he closed his eyes, dark lashes resting on his smooth cheeks.

Now that she was more relaxed in his company, she admitted that masquerading as a man had unsuspected delights. She could study this very attractive male at close quarters without censure. Horatia changed her mind when he pulled off his cravat and loosened his shirt. The dark hair at the base of his strong brown throat held a certain fascination but made her uneasy. The room suddenly seemed to close in.

She took a deep breath. “As a rule, we don’t see highwaymen around here.”

“Trust me to come across the brutes!” He frowned and pointed to a shelf where a few dusty bottles stood. “Knowing my papa, there will be some whiskey there.”

Glad to move away from the nerve-tingling sensation his nearness created, Horatia jumped to her feet and shook the bottles. One sloshed with liquid, and she pulled out the cork. “Whiskey.” She smiled. “You were right. This bottle is half full. We can sterilize your wound with it and then we should cover it to prevent infection.”

“Does it smell brackish or reedy?” he asked.

She shook her head as spicy oak smells greeted her. It reminded her of her father’s favourite Scottish malt. “No, it’s still good.”

“
Bonne.
” He reached for the bottle. “Sit here beside me, Simon.”

Horatia’s throat tightened at the thought of joining him on the bed. Desperate, she scrabbled for recollections of how Simon walked and his mannerisms. She strode over to the bed with a masculine swagger and gave the bottle to the baron. He took a long swallow and handed it back to her.

Settled on the end of the bed, Horatia was careful to keep some distance between them. She spread her knees and rested a hand on her thigh, as she’d seen Simon do. The position made her feel oddly exposed. Hot and flustered, she crossed her legs at the ankle. She gave the bottle a wary glance. While she recognized the smell of whiskey, the strongest drink she had ever indulged in was a small glass of sherry or wine served with dinner.

Horatia took a manly swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The fiery liquid burned its way down her throat into her stomach. She couldn’t breathe. She coughed and spluttered until his lordship slapped her on the back. The shock of his touch made her gasp and cough even more as warmth spread over her skin from the spot where his hand lay.

“I gather you’re not used to it?”

His smile had an odd effect on her heart, which gave a little leap. It was quite the most attractive smile she’d seen, his nice mouth and white teeth contrasted by olive skin. He took the bottle from her and put it to his lips. After another swallow, he offered it to her again.

“No, thank you, my lord,” she rasped.

“Go on,” he urged. “’Twill warm you.”

When Horatia took the bottle from him, his fingers collided with hers. Acutely aware of his touch on her skin, she took a hasty gulp. The liquid slipped down the back of her throat and spread through her to warm her extremities, right down to her toes.

She handed the bottle back, feeling more at ease as her muscles loosened. Catching herself slumping on the cot, she jumped up. Dust rose from the rug as she settled there by the fire, now warm both inside and out, the knot of anxiety thawed. She leaned back on her hands and straightened her legs in what she considered a mannish pose, listening to the crackle and hiss of the flames. Aware of his every movement, she watched as he stretched his long limbs over the cot.

Horatia didn’t consider herself sheltered from men’s company; she’d been kissed at a ball held at Rosecroft Hall when she and a young man wandered the garden. She had not liked him much beyond his looks. He’d undoubtedly been a spoiled rake, and when he returned to London the next day, she hadn’t wished to see him again. It was the memory of that kiss that had the power to thrill her, rather than the man who delivered it. He had not affected her equilibrium quite the way the baron managed to do with very little effort. The baron made her wish she wore her prettiest dress and that he would gaze at her in quite a different way.

Chapter Three

The groom settled on the floor and gazed into the fire. “What is it about a fire that makes one want to watch it?”

“As long as it’s contained,” Guy answered, with a swift rush of memory.

The groom’s shoulders drooped into a relaxed pose. He was quite graceful for a man, the shape of his hip and thigh rather feminine. He fought an absurd pull of attraction as he studied the slender column of neck and curve of his cheek. His eyes darted away, but the image of soft skin like a woman’s remained, burned into his retina. These feelings were very strange.
A la Greque
had never interested him. A woman’s body offered too many delights for him to ever be interested in a man’s.

To distract himself from this absurd and peculiar feeling, he began to speak of his childhood in France. “My mother was French,” he said. “As aristocrats, we were forced to flee France during The Terror. We went to Brussels for a time. While we were away our properties were seized and our relatives, who remained, were murdered by guillotine. The shock and strain of it made my mother ill. After she died, my father quickly followed. Before he passed away, I made a promise that I would return to England and rightly claim what was ours. And that I would marry and have sons. It was his dearest wish.”