Chapter Two
In the failing light, Hetty led the horse to the old hut which was wedged between two aged oak trees. She feared it was a ruin, but on closer inspection, the roof and walls seemed to be intact, although covered in creeper. The lean-to at the side, where wood was stored, would provide shelter for The General.
She brought the horse to a halt, and the man slid off and sank to his knees. “Zut!” 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, sending dust into the air. As she was about to check on him, he groaned and turned to nod at her.
Hetty darted out to tie The General’s reins to a branch and gave him a pat before returning inside.
The interior of the hut was sparsely furnished with a bench along one wall with shelving and a narrow cot against the other. Logs were stacked beside the fireplace, plus a box of tapers and a flint on the shelf above. The wherewithal to light a fire, heartened her. If the tapers weren’t damp, she’d find kindling and get the fire started.
The man lay with an arm over his eyes.
“Sir?” She touched his arm, and 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 soft moan.
“Sorry, your head must pain you.”
“It’s like my head is on a blacksmith’s anvil and the blacksmith is pounding it,” he murmured as Hetty eased the blankets out from under him.
She 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 and cobwebs swayed from the ceiling. Outside, the storm gathered pace, and the shutters began to bang against the two small window frames. Aware she must go outside, she seemed caught by the sight of him lying there and was unable to drag her gaze away. She turned briskly to the door. “We need kindling and I must tend to my horse. Would you like me to help you onto the bed?”
“Non, merci. See to your horse.”
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 found a sturdy branch and hammered at the ice until it broke, aware it would form again. She would have to check on it later.
She patted the horse’s neck. “I hope you’ll be all right here, Gen. If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself and neither would Papa.”
Already, the pines were dusted white like sugar on a confection, and a blanket of snow covered the ground. She tried not to dwell on how long she would have to stay here and continue the pretense. Alone with the Frenchman, she had no choice. Her disguise would protect her, she hoped.
Hetty shivered as she left the shelter of the lean-to, and a fierce icy wind numbed her face. She took the opportunity to answer a call of nature and darted behind one of the broad oaks. The wind slapped at her naked derriere like an unwelcome hand. She did up her breeches and gathered up an armful of small branches and pine cones, still reasonably dry. Hetty returned to the hut which was just as cold inside as out. She levered the door shut against the force of the wind with her foot.
He’d managed to move and sat on the cot with his head in his hands. He looked up as she entered. “Wood. Bravo.”
She’d struggled to get used to the cold after living in the Indian climate for years. Her father believed the cold to be healthy; it thickened the blood. He instructed servants not to light fires unless it was freezing. Hetty didn’t enjoy a cold bedchamber, so she often lit a fire herself. There was a trick to it, she’d discovered, and she was good at it. But there was no coal here. Relieved that the taper lit, she knelt before the fireplace. The kindling caught with a small hopeful flame. It spread, a comfortable sight that would soon remove the chill from the small space.
Hetty sat back on her heels and turned to him. His long fingers prodded his scalp and raked through his coal-black hair. Which fell back into neat waves. “Any better?”
“Oui. My head aches a little.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He moved his feet as if about to rise and then had thought better of it. “I forget myself.” He bowed his head then winced. “I am Guy Truesdale.”
Hetty recognized the name immediately. “You are a relative of the baron?”
“Oui. I am the sixth Baron Fortescue.”
She stared at him, aghast. Should she bow? She wasn’t entirely sure she could carry it off. “Lord Fortescue left England years ago. Your father.”
“Oui, my papa. I was born in France, but now that the war with England is over, I am here to reclaim my ancestral home.”
“You are but a few miles from it, my lord. Your relative, Mr. Fennimore, is in residence.”
“You know him then?”
“I know of him.” Startled, Hetty realized she’d forgotten her ruse. It was becoming tiring. “A groom don’t hobnob with such as him,” she said in a growl.
Fortunately, he appeared too distracted to notice her appalling effort to speak like a servant. And she’d forgotten to earlier. As a Frenchman new to England, he may not wonder at it, so she decided not to try it again.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was riding up from London. Bandits shot at me but missed. I outrode them, but as I congratulated myself at having lost them, I ran into a low 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?”
Hetty 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, his dark lashes dropped.
It seemed he had accepted her. Hetty leaned back. She began to relax in his company. Masquerading as a man had unsuspected advantages as she could study this attractive male at close quarters. She 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 nervous. The room suddenly seemed to close in.
She prodded at the fire, which was burning nicely, with a stick. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Highwaymen ain’t been round here for years.”
“If that’s what they were.”
“Who else could they be?” Hetty asked, swinging around to look at him.
“I don’t know, young Simon.”
It worried him, that was obvious. Could it have been more than a chance attack?
He frowned and pointed to two dusty bottles on the shelf. “Would that be whiskey? It’s usual to keep some for lost travelers such as we.”
When Hetty shook one of the bottles, it was half full. She pulled out the cork and smelled it. “It is whiskey. We can use it to sterilize your wound and then we should cover it somehow 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 favorite Scottish malt. “No, it’s still good.”
“Merci.” He reached for the bottle. “Sit beside me, Simon.”
Hetty’s throat tightened at the thought of joining him on the cot. Desperate, she tried to think of the way Simon walked and his mannerisms. She strode over to the bed with a masculine swagger and handed the bottle to the baron. He took a long swallow and gave it back.
“Drink, Simon.”
On the narrow cot, Hetty tried to keep a space 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 held the bottle up to her nose. While she recognized whiskey, sherry and a glass of wine with dinner were the strongest drinks she’d had.
Hetty 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. It took her breath. She gasped and coughed. As she spluttered, his lordship moved closer and slapped her on the back. The shock of his touch made her rigid.
“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 teeth white against his 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 Hetty 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.
The baron took the bottle back. Hetty’s muscles seemed to have loosened. Aware she’d slumped on the cot, she leapt up. Dust rose from the rug as she settled again by the fire, now warm both inside and out, she leaned back on her hands and straightened her legs in what she considered a mannish pose. Conscious of his every movement, she watched him stretch his long legs over the cot while the room filled with the fire’s crackle and hiss.
Hetty didn’t consider herself sheltered from men’s company. She’d been kissed at a ball held at Rosecroft Hall after she and a young man strolled in the garden. She hadn’t liked him much beyond his looks. He was the spoiled son of a wealthy man, and when he returned to London the following day, she hadn’t missed him. But it was the memory of that kiss which had the power to thrill her rather than the man who delivered it. And he had not affected her equilibrium quite the way the baron managed to do with little effort. Perhaps it was the situation they were in, but he made her wish she wore her prettiest dress and he would gaze at her in quite a different way.