The Perfect Kiss (5 page)

He flung himself off the mare, seized the girl by the shoulders, and shouted, “For God’s sake, leave the baggage until the storm has passed! A little water won’t hurt it and nobody will come to steal it in this weather.” Under his hands, her body seemed small, soaked, and cold. How dare she be told to risk herself in this weather for someone else’s belongings!

He tried to shield her under his cloak and pull her back to the shelter of Wolfestone, but to his amazement she resisted and bent to tug again at the heavy leather bag.

“It’s Sir John’s medicine,” she shouted over the noise of the storm. “It’s in one of these big cases, only I don’t know which, and they’re too heavy for me to lift.”

He thrust the reins into her hands. “You hold the horse, then. I’ll carry these up to the house and be back in a few minutes.”

“Were you going to fetch the doctor? Is it far?”

He shrugged. “No idea. I’ll get directions in the village.”

She looked half drowned. He removed his cloak and wrapped it around her, tugging the hood up over her drenched locks. Her face was pinched with cold and worry. He squeezed her shoulders. “The delay can’t be helped. This medicine might be exactly what he needs.”

Dominic grabbed a valise in each hand. “You can take the smaller things up when I come back. And as soon as you’re inside, make sure you change out of those wet clothes, d’you hear me? I don’t want you taking a chill.”

He hauled the bags swiftly up the drive, dumped them in the entry hall, and ran back. But when he got back to the coach there was no sign of Greystoke or the mare. Where the devil had she gone?

Surely she couldn’t have ridden for the doctor herself?

No. She was some kind of servant. Servants didn’t ride. She’d probably dropped the reins and the mare had run off. No doubt the poor little soul was out in the storm trying to catch the blasted mare! He swore. Did she think he’d have her transported for losing the horse?

It wasn’t even his horse!

Cursing, he seized the remainder of the baggage and stumped back up the hill. He saddled Hex with one of the old, dusty saddles, put on his big, black Polish greatcoat, and grimly rode back out into the storm.

First he’d find the doctor, next he’d look for the girl.

His run of bad luck was holding.

 
 
IT TOOK DOMINIC OVER AN HOUR TO FIND THE DOCTOR’S HOUSE and when he did, he was in a fine temper. The village was full of idiots! Every single villager he’d asked had sent him in a different direction. And when he did find the doctor’s house, it was by accident; he’d stopped at a large, neat house to make inquiries, trusting that the inmates would be a cut above the inbreds he’d talked to.

“Where does the doctor live? Here, of course!” the woman at the door had declared, peering at him as if he were the village idiot.

Dominic swore under his breath. The house was on the outskirts of the village, an easy ride from Wolfestone. Why the devil hadn’t one of the villagers known that?

“No, I don’t know where he went,” the doctor’s wife told him brusquely. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know when he’ll be back. It could be a birth or anything. He didn’t say. He never tells me anything.” She gave him a disdainful look and added, “And he doesn’t treat dirty gypsies.” And she shut the door in his face.

Dominic swore.

He rapped on the knocker again. The doctor’s wife opened it with a bad-tempered diatribe on her lips featuring importunate beggars and dirty gypsies.

Dominic planted his boot in the door and informed her in a cold voice that Lord D’Acre of Wolfestone required her husband’s services as soon as possible for an urgent case. Sir John Pettifer had suffered an accident.

The titles made the woman’s eyes bulge. “Lord D’Acre?” she gushed in a totally different voice. “Oh, I had no idea he was come to Wolfestone already. And Sir John Pettifer is ill, you say. How dreadful for the poor man! I shall send the boy out to find my husband and send him up to the castle at once. Tell Lord D’Acre that Mrs. Ferguson shall see to it. And please inform his lordship that if there’s anything I can do—”

“I am Lord D’Acre,” said Dominic silkily, removing his boot from the door. “Of the dirty-gypsy branch of the family.” And before the woman could pick up her gaping jaw, he’d shut the door in her face.

 
 
“FOLKS ARE SAYING THE DEVIL BE A-RIDIN’ THE STORM TONIGHT!” Grandad Tasker eased his bones onto the bench nearest the fire. The village inn was rapidly filling up, despite the rain.

“Aye, I seen ’im, but only through t’window. My missus spoke to ’im.”

“She never!”

“She did. Eyes like windows into hell, she told me! Sent him up east, along of the moor, she did.”

The listeners chuckled. “Is that right? Clever, your missus.”

Another man said, “Big, he was and all dark, and on an ’orse as black as sin. He called a hex on us, ’e did.” His friend confirmed it and the listeners shuddered. “We sent him south, toward the church.”

“I seen him, too,” said a bent old man. “He asked after the doctor. Beelzebub hisself all right, but he didn’t fool me.” He gave a contemptuous snort. “I sent him west, down to the mere.”

All the men had a hearty chuckle at the way the village had fooled the Devil.

Grandad Tasker leaned forward. “You know who else was out a-riding tonight? None other but our own Gray Lady!” He paused for effect as the others exclaimed in mixed amazement and disbelief. “Aye, Granny Wigmore seen the Gray Lady in the middle o’ the storm. Spoke to her an’ all, Granny did.”

“She never!”

“She did. The first sightin’ in nigh on seventy years. And you know who the Lady was a-seeking?”

Everyone craned forward to hear who.

“The doctor!”

The audience was amazed. Grandad Tasker nodded. “Aye. She fetched him away to safety, I reckon. T’was our Gray Lady, all right.”

“I saw her and all,” Mort Fairclough interjected. “Ridin’ like the wind she was, on a horse made o’ mist and cloaked in a veil o’ spiders’ silk.”

“Spiders’ silk?” The murmur ran around the inn.

“Aye, a shinin’ cloak o’ spiders’ silk,” said the landlord with authority. “Now, who’s for another pint?”

Chapter Three

A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a wantonness.

ROBERT HERRICK

 
 
 
 
MINUTES AFTER DOMINIC RODE INTO THE STABLES AT WOLFESTONE, the wind died down and the rain dribbled to a stop, as suddenly as it started. The sudden silence was almost shocking.

“My luck running true,” he muttered as small rivulets dripped from his clothing, forming muddy puddles on the dusty cobbles.

He’d seen a black tilbury parked in the courtyard. The doctor? Already? But how?

He went to unsaddle Hex and found his own saddle hanging up and the gray mare safe and sound, dry, watered, and well rubbed down. She’d found the mare then. Presumably the girl was out of the rain, too.

When he went inside, Miss Pettifer came hurrying toward him. “Thank goodness you’ve returned. Where on earth did you get to?”

He opened his mouth to explain, but she hurried on, “Papa is a little better, but Dr. Ferguson wants him in bed but he can’t walk and none of us can carry him upstairs. Would you mind, please?”

“How did the doctor get here so fast?”

Miss Pettifer gave him a puzzled look. “Grac-Greystoke, my companion, fetched him. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t,” Dominic said brusquely.

“But you gave her your cloak and horse.”

“So I did,” Dominic agreed coolly.
Greystoke fetched him
—as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a paid companion to ride a strange horse—astride—in a storm.

She opened the sitting room door and a tall, grizzled man stood. “Ferguson, my lord. I’m the local physician.” He held out his hand and Dominic shook it.

“How is your patient?”

The doctor gave a swift glance at Miss Pettifer and said lightly, “Not injured at all. Rather shaken up, I suspect. I’ll know better once we’ve got him to bed and stripped down, see just how badly bruised the poor gentleman is.” His eyes met Dominic’s and a silent message passed between them. Sir John’s condition was more serious than his tone suggested.

Dominic nodded. “I’ll carry him up, then, shall I?” And then he remembered. The house was a shambles. “Er, I’m not sure where—”

“Greystoke is upstairs preparing a room for my father at the moment.”

His brows rose. “Is she indeed? Good for Greystoke,” he said tersely. He’d imagined her lost in the storm, wandering frightened and cold. Not only had she fetched the doctor and was home, safe and sound, but she was also wondrously efficient!

And why the devil he should be furious about that was beyond him. He bent to lift Sir John.

“Not yet!” Miss Pettifer shrieked. She blushed and added, “You’re all wet!”

Dominic didn’t say a word. Her blushes intensified and she averted her gaze as he stripped off his coat and shirt and used one of the chair covers to dry his skin.

“Right, I’m dry enough now—or would you prefer me to remove my breeches too?” Both the doctor and Miss Pettifer made horrified noises, so Dominic scooped Sir John up. “Lead the way then, Miss Pettifer,” he said with a sardonic smile.

The little companion was waiting at the top of the stairs. She did not look half drowned anymore, but she was still in her damp clothes. And her eyes were as bright as ever.

“Lord
D’Acre
.” She snipped out his name and bobbed a halfhearted curtsy.

So she was still cross with him about that. Seemingly, the fact that she’d been kissed by a lord annoyed her even more than when she thought him an
impossible gypsy
. Dominic’s mood lifted immediately.

“Miss-
tress
Greystoke.” He inclined his head in an urbane, lordly gesture.

Her eyes narrowed and she said in a tight voice, “In here, please.” She gestured to an open door, where he could see a freshly made bed, the glow of a dozen candles, and a crackling fire. It was by far the most welcoming room in the house.

She ran ahead and tugged the bedclothes back. He laid Sir John gently on the bed and straightened. Her eyes widened as she took in Dominic’s nakedness.

She did not look away, as Miss Pettifer had, with blushes and pursed, disapproving lips.

Greystoke stared. With wide eyes and softly parted lips. As if she’d never seen a man’s chest before.

She probably hadn’t.

The thought pleased him.

He said, “Doctor Ferguson and I will deal with Sir John. You two run along and do something useful.”

His words snapped Grace out of her trance. She jerked her gaze from his chest. “But—”

“We’ll call you if we need you. And, Greystoke—” The strange golden eyes stabbed at Grace. “Change out of those wet clothes.”

And without knowing quite how it happened, Grace and Melly found themselves on the other side of a firmly closed door. And before they could say a word, they heard a key click in the lock.

“Well, really!” said Grace, annoyed at being told to run along, as if she were a child. After all she had done.

“But I’m Papa’s daughter!” Melly wailed. “He needs me!”

They exchanged frustrated looks. “Mannerless devil though he is, he’s right,” Grace decided at last. “Your papa wouldn’t want two young females putting him into his nightshirt. Let us select bedchambers for ourselves and make up our beds.”

They chose a bedchamber for Melly across the corridor from Sir John’s room, so she would be close if he needed her in the night. It was a pretty room, a very feminine bedchamber, with faded brocade bed hangings in rose and cream and green. Grace loved it on sight. It looked out over the side lawn area, to an odd mound of rubble, overgrown with masses of red roses, and beyond that, to the mountains of Wales.

There was a large bed and a small one, so, because the house was so big and strange and empty, they decided by mutual consent to share the room. At least Melly’s reason was that she was frightened to sleep alone in a big, strange house.

Grace’s reason was one she didn’t state aloud: she didn’t trust the master of the house. Not as far as she could throw him. Him and his wicked golden eyes and his naked, golden torso.

Melly must have read her mind, for as they started to make up the beds she said, “You know, I nearly fainted when he just took off his shirt! He wasn’t even wearing an undershirt! I’ve never seen anything so shocking in my life! I didn’t know where to look!”

“Yes, he has no manners at all,” Grace agreed. She had looked. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off that expanse of dark golden skin. So smooth and warm and strong. She’d wanted to run her fingers over it. And he’d known it, too, the devil! He’d caught her watching and smiled at her, a slow, wicked smile of . . . of smug masculinity.

She shook her head. He had no business to be walking about half naked. He was an atrocious man! With atrocious manners.

“This place is in an atrocious state!” Grace shook out sheets with a practiced snap of linen. All the Merridew girls had had the basic household skills drummed into them from an early age.

“How could he possibly invite guests here? He ought at least to have the house
cleaned
!” She gestured around her indignantly.

Melly looked embarrassed. “Actually, Lord D’Acre didn’t invite us. It was Papa’s idea to come.”

“What? Without an invitation?” Grace sat down on the bed she’d been about to make up and stared at her friend in amazement. “Melly Pettifer, your father is one of the most proper men I know. What on earth would make him invite himself—uninvited!—to a run-down, deserted house?”

Melly shook her head. “I don’t know. I think . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You think what?”

Melly’s embarrassment deepened. “I think Papa thought if he forced Lord D’Acre to marry me here, where it’s harder to get away, rather than in London, he might . . .” She flushed and whispered, “Might change his mind.”

“Make it a real marriage, you mean?”

Melly gave a despairing half nod. “You know Papa—he has no idea of the real world. He thinks I am beautiful. He says Lord D’Acre will not be able to resist my . . .” Her plump face crumpled. “My
charms
.”