A Difficult Disguise (13 page)

“Oh,” Billy said quietly. “So it was a large battle?”

Fletcher repositioned the cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other with a deft movement of his tongue. “We won—or at least we lost fewer men than the French. We were tending to our wounded, and William went back out onto the field to search for survivors. We heard a shot, turned, and saw him fall.” His gray eyes dulled. “One of the frogs wasn’t quite dead, you see, and decided to take one more Englishman with him into hell. I obliged him somewhat by personally speeding him on his way.”

“You killed the frog—the French soldier?”

The gray eyes snapped furiously. “What would you have had me do—congratulate him for his splendid aim? Grow up, Billy. Of course I killed him, and I don’t regret it. William wasn’t dead when I got to him, but he died a few hours later, back in camp, without ever speaking. It was the most extraordinary thing.”

“Extraordinary?” Billy could feel herself dying inside, but she had to hear it all.

The tip of the cheroot glowed bright red as Fletcher drew on the other end. “When I carried William into camp there was no room to lay him among the injured. A soldier, one of Wellington’s ‘scum of the earth,’ and dying himself of too many wounds to count, saw William as I laid him on the stones outside the tent. The soldier, who had a filthy straw palliasse to lie on, shoved himself over to make room for his superior officer. He said... he said he couldn’t die in peace while the lieutenant colonel lay on stones. William Darley inspired that kind of loyalty.”

Billy swallowed hard, stifling a sob. She brushed quickly at the tears that blinded her, and made a great business of lying down, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “Good night,” she mumbled, unable to say more. The evening had lost all its charm, and she turned her back, praying for sleep.

Fletcher only grunted, moving the cheroot back to his mouth, knowing he wouldn’t find any more sleep this night.

“What in thunder are you about now?” Fletcher called out as he thought he espied Billy’s slight form cowering behind a tree. Dawn had just broken and he was lying on his side, cold, and still thoroughly out of sorts. He had slept, obviously, but it couldn’t have been for long and it hadn’t improved his mood.

“What do you think I’m about? I’m getting dressed,” Billy shot back belligerently, hopping about on one foot as she struggled into her left boot. Drat the man! How could he be so sound asleep one moment and so annoyingly awake the next?

“Can it really be necessary for you to hide, Billy?”

“
Eeek!
” Billy whirled about, for Fletcher’s voice had come from directly behind her, and since she had been off-balance, she promptly fell on her rump. “How dare you sneak up on me like that?” she demanded, glaring up at him while simultaneously groping for her jacket. Thank heaven she had saved her boots for last and was decently covered.

“Sneak up on you?” Fletcher bellowed, losing control. Enough was enough! “You’re the one who’s always sneaking about. What’s the matter with you, Billy? Why do you think you have to hide from me? Is there something wrong with you, or do you think I’m the one with the problem?”

Billy scurried backward on her hindquarters until she collided with a tree trunk that effectively halted her retreat. She swallowed down hard on her fear, for she could admit to being genuinely frightened by the strange, almost haunted look in Fletcher’s eyes. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, hating the way her voice seemed to crack on the last word. “Wh-what could be wrong with us?”

Fletcher stared down on his trembling groom for a long, heart-stopping moment, then shook his head. “Nothing, halfling,” he said, his voice suddenly weary. “Nothing at all. I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He turned away, heading back toward the now-cold fire. “I’ll leave you alone to finish dressing. But please hurry, for I am determined to reach Lakeview as soon as possible.”

“Then we’re definitely heading back this morning?” Billy asked, hurriedly pulling on her second boot so that she could follow Fletcher. “I had rather hoped...”

Fletcher stopped, turning slowly to look down at his groom. “Yes? You had rather hoped for what, halfling?”

Billy opened her mouth, but found that she couldn’t speak. What had she hoped? She had hoped for an end to this ill-advised excursion. She had hoped to learn more about Fletcher and, after their talk last night, more about William Darley. She had hoped to find a way to tell Fletcher what she knew she wanted to tell him, had to tell him. “You mentioned a small competition with the horses,” she said at last, mentally flaying herself for being the worst sort of coward.

Fletcher eyed her dispassionately before turning away to begin packing up his belongings, and Billy’s heart ached for him. She knew what mayhem had to be taking place in his mind, could sympathize for his inner torment, for she was beginning to experience the same exciting pull between them that he must be feeling—and cursing himself for feeling. Why hadn’t she said what she felt in her heart? Why couldn’t she bring herself to confess her true identity, make a clean breast of things, so that they could make a new beginning?

“It’s too late,” she murmured aloud, knowing that she had waited too long, held her tongue a day more than she should have, and thus lost any chance she might have of ever telling Fletcher Belden the complete truth.

“Too late?” Fletcher had heard her. He looked up at the brightening sky. “It’s not too late, Billy, not if you think you can live without breakfast. Come on, help me saddle the horses, and we can be off.”

“You’ll really race me?” Billy stood stock-still a moment, then exploded into action, grabbing at her blanket and running off toward She-Devil. Fletcher Belden really was the nicest man she had ever met—except for William, naturally. “You’ll have to give me a head start, of course,” she pointed out, hefting the saddle onto the mare’s back. “It wouldn’t be fair, else.”

“Of course,” Fletcher answered from Pagan’s back, watching as Billy searched about for a rock to stand on in order to mount. “We’ll wait until we’re on more level ground, then have at it.”

Billy brought She-Devil into line behind Pagan as they walked the horses back toward the main road, looking over her shoulder to bid a silent farewell to the small waterfall and the brook that babbled along happily, unaware of the part they had played in helping to make the past night both the happiest and yet the most unsettling in Billy’s short lifetime.

There was nothing else for it, Billy decided as they made their way to the floor of the valley. She would have to leave. Disappear. Go away. Never looking back. The truth could only hurt her now. Fletcher would hate her for her deception, for making a fool of him. Either that, or he’d murder her!

“This looks good,” Fletcher said, breaking into Billy’s depressing thoughts. He raised a hand to point to a five-barred gate in the distance. “From here to the fence, halfling, and I’ll count to ten before I start. Fair enough?”

Billy smiled at him, her heart melting. He could be so very nice. After all, as far as Fletcher knew, she was only his groom, and yet he insisted upon treating her as his equal. “More than fair,” she answered, forgetting her plans to best him in the race, by fair means or foul.

“And don’t be sawing at the mare’s mouth,” Fletcher warned just as he raised his hand to give Billy the signal to start.

Her eyes narrowed, all her good feelings for the man evaporating under the heat of her sudden anger. He never could leave well enough alone, could he? He always had to ruin the moment by saying something totally unnecessary. Of course she wouldn’t saw at She-Devil’s mouth. What did he think she was? Some cow-handed bungler? Well, she’d show him!

“To the other side of the gate,” she yelled as Fletcher’s hand came down, and urged She-Devil into an immediate gallop, knowing the mare’s hooves would throw up large clumps of sod directly into Pagan’s face.

Pagan, unused to being left in the dirt, immediately reared, keeping Fletcher occupied in trying to settle his mount a full five seconds past the agreed-upon count of ten. Billy had raced far ahead of him by the time he and Pagan could take up the chase, Fletcher cursing fluently under his breath as he planned what he would do to his groom once he caught him—if the damn fool idiot didn’t break his neck attempting an impossible jump.

Billy didn’t have to look back over her shoulder to know that Fletcher was gaining on her; she could hear the pounding of Pagan’s hooves, even above the hurtful pounding of her own heart. Leaning forward into She-Devil’s neck, she urged the mare to more speed even as she knew the mount wouldn’t be equal to the five-bar jump.

Maybe it would be best this way, Billy thought with her usual dramatic flair. She could break her neck in a fall and never have to worry about what she would do with the rest of her life. Fletcher would find her limp, lifeless body on the other side of the gate, gather her into his arms, weeping buckets at her tragic demise, discover that she was really a woman, and... discover that she was really a woman! What could she be thinking about?

She couldn’t let him discover that she was a woman—not that way! The thought was much too embarrassing, even for a corpse. She shot a look to her left, the open countryside that beckoned. No, it wouldn’t be possible. She couldn’t outdistance Pagan. She’d only be caught and punished for a horse thief. They’d put her in the dock, torture her, and find out that she was a woman... There was that awful thought again!

Billy hazarded a peek over her shoulder and saw Fletcher coming up hard behind her, his arm outstretched as if he meant to pluck her from the saddle before she could put She-Devil to the gate. He was going to rescue her. What a lovely thought! How noble Fletcher could be, how heroic. He would swoop down on her, hoist her from the saddle, hold her trembling body close against his chest, and discover that she was a woman.

Billy’s head reeled in disbelief. How did she manage to get herself into predicaments like this? Life wasn’t supposed to be this difficult.

Even the hapless heroines in the novels she read under the covers at night never had such problems. All they had to deal with were headless specters, groaning ghosts, and evil demons. They never had to worry about taking care of personal needs behind a tree, or trying to sleep with a naked man beside them, or choosing between nefarious relatives and a breathtakingly handsome man who hadn’t cared enough about her to come seeking her on his own but would rather roam the countryside with a groom he, in his kindness, was rapidly driving to distraction.

Suddenly, the time for indecision and self-pity had passed. Pagan had drawn nearly abreast of the mare, Fletcher riding so close beside her that Billy could hear him breathing. She had to make a choice. Her options had narrowed to either certain death in the jump, or near certain death by embarrassment in Fletcher’s arms.

Fate, that dubious lady who had been decidedly unkind to Billy in the past few months, took this time to rear her head, in the form of a small hole. Pagan’s right front hoof was rudely introduced to the hole, and both horse and rider went crashing to the ground in an instant; leaving Billy to rein in the mare, dismount, and race to Fletcher’s side as he lay, stunned, on the soft sod.

“Oh, don’t be dead, please don’t be dead,” Billy keened, cradling Fletcher’s head in her lap as she rocked back and forth, knowing the accident had been entirely her fault. “You can’t be dead. Look, there’s Pagan, back on his feet and none the worse for his tumble. If a stupid horse can be all right, so can you. Please, Fletcher, speak to me. Please speak to me.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Fletcher!” Billy nearly gave in to the urge to shower his face with grateful kisses, only saving herself at the last moment, saying, “I knew you’d be all right, Mr. Belden, sir. It wasn’t a bad fall.”

Fletcher, from his oddly comfortable position on the ground, his head still resting in Billy’s lap, blinked once and asked, “Pray tell me what, in your obviously twisted mind, would constitute a bad fall? I haven’t been unhorsed since I was twelve. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience then, and it isn’t any more palatable now. Never mind. I can see by that puzzled look on your face that I have asked a silly question. I hope you don’t object, Billy, but I’m going to ask another one. Would you mind releasing the death grip you’ve got on my skull so that I might try to get up and see to my horse?”

“You’re not angry?” Billy queried, still keeping her hands positioned on either side of his head. “You’re not going to hit me or anything, are you?”

“Hit you? And why would I do that?” Fletcher questioned, his voice a quiet purr.

Billy could think of any number of reasons why Fletcher Belden should like nothing better than to beat her into a jelly, but she wasn’t about to gift him with any of them. “No reason,” she said, shrugging, and released him.

The next thing she knew, Billy lay facedown across Fletcher’s knees and he was delivering a half-dozen stinging slaps to the rear of her breeches. “That’s for talking back to me at every turn,” he said, spanking her for the first time. “And these two are for lying to me about who you really are,” he told her, bringing his hand down twice more.