Almost a Countess by Jenna Jaxon
Chapter 2
With a gasp, Dora hauled back on the reins so hard Gretchen reared, her hooves dancing in the air before the man’s face.
“Whoa. Easy.” He put his hand up to ward off the horse, but otherwise looked unafraid. He rose to his knees then tried to stand. As he did so, he staggered to the right, gave a strangled cry, and toppled back down the embankment.
When he did not reappear, Dora urged the skittish horse forward. She leaned over Gretchen’s shoulder, peering at the stream.
The stranger lay prone, his face in the gently flowing water, not moving.
“Dear God.” Without a second thought, Dora unhooked her knee from the sidesaddle’s pommel and slid to the ground. Keeping hold of the reins, she ran to the edge of the embankment, but the man still had not moved. Lord, had he drowned that quickly? Reluctantly, she dropped the reins—hopefully Gretchen wouldn’t stray far—then looked for a place to climb down that wasn’t too steep. It would do neither of them any good if she broke her leg in the tangled weeds while coming to his rescue.
She glanced toward him again. “Sir? Are you all right?”
No answer.
“Bloody hell.” It had been her brother’s favorite oath, or at least the one she’d heard most often from him, and she now relished saying it whenever she could. But only when she was alone.
Picking a likely place, she slithered down the overgrown bank and ran to the man, slipping precariously on the stones that lined the streambed. Splashing toward him, she prayed she wasn’t too late. His face was right in the water, but turned to the side, so at least his nose allowed him to breathe. She slid to a stop next to him, grasped his shoulder, and heaved.
The man was as heavy as the big rocks that lay around him, and her first grip slid free. Frantic, she put both hands under his shoulder and grunted as she tried again. This time her force was so great that he flipped neatly over, his head hitting the mud at the bottom of the stream. Her balance now off, Dora tilted backward, lost her footing completely, and sat down hard in the swiftly flowing water.
Exasperated, she regarded the still figure, clad in a dirty linen shirt, bright red kilt, and black boots. The kilt declared him Scottish without a doubt, and common sense said he was also the escaped prisoner. She was in a peck of trouble, no matter what she did, but she jolly well couldn’t let the man drown in her stream. Not when she could easily pull him out. Even if he’d already been nothing but a nuisance.
Cold water had seeped through all the layers of her riding habit, making her shiver. With some effort, she got to her feet, mentally cursing the unconscious man, oblivious to her wet misery. Not only was her backside frigid and damp, but her favorite riding habit was undoubtedly ruined as well.
She hauled herself over to the stranger, peering at him to make sure he was still breathing, before grabbing his shoulders again and dragging him out of the water. A surprisingly handsome man, although she supposed a thief or whatever he’d been arrested for could be as handsome as a gentleman in a ballroom.
His dripping wet hair was likely a dark auburn when dry, a bit long and shaggy. The heavily stubbled jaw told her he’d been on the run for some days. A clever criminal, it seemed. And a fit one. Indeed, as she was clasping his shoulders she could attest to their sinewy strength. His legs, on display beneath his kilt, were also well-muscled, from running or riding she couldn’t tell.
The most perplexing thing, however, was his apparent youth. Despite the dirt and grime, he looked no more than twenty, little older than herself. What could he have done to cause his arrest?
Stopping at the top of the bank, Dora laid him down so his head was pillowed on a thick patch of weeds and inspected him more thoroughly. He’d been through some travail, that was certain. His left eye sported a rainbow of shades, and there were several deep scratches on his cheeks, a sure sign he’d been in some kind of altercation. A serious looking gash on his forehead might account for his fainting. At least he was still breathing, so he hadn’t inhaled any of the water. She’d best try to wake him. The afternoon shadows were lengthening alarmingly.
She gently poked his hip with the toe of her boot.
Nothing.
A sigh escaped her. If she could find a way to get back on her horse and leave while the man was insensible, she should surely do so. But it simply wasn’t within her power to abandon anyone who needed her help.
She darted glances around the field, suddenly afraid the soldiers would appear and find both her and their fugitive. But the landscape was silent save for birdsong and the rustle of the breeze in the trees. Giving herself a shake, Dora peeled off her clammy leather riding gloves, grasped her soaking handkerchief, and pressed it to the man’s face. It seemed to have no effect on him, but she could feel the prickly stubble of his beard through the scrap of linen.
Chills shot up her hand, the hairs on her arm standing on edge. Who would have thought that brush of whiskers against the pad of her thumb would be as…erotic as any kiss she’d ever experienced? Not that she’d had many, mind you, only one or two from Tristan. And while they had been quite pleasurable, the feeling that this man’s rough skin evoked in her was quite wild in comparison.
She jerked her hand away. There must be something she could do to rouse him. Putting her altruistic instincts aside, she would require the stranger’s help if she wanted to remount Gretchen and save herself a long walk home on a day she needed to travel swiftly. As she thrust the sodden handkerchief into the pocket of her habit, her hand brushed something hard and cold.
Her smelling salts. She grasped the vial, blue glass covered in silver filigree, took a breath, then popped the top and thrust the bottle under the man’s nose.
With a gasp, he sat up and grabbed her wrist, pushing the vial away from his face. “Are ye trying tae kill me with that stink?” He gazed around, shook his head. “Who are ye? Where did ye come from?”.
Startled beyond belief, Dora opened her mouth but was unable to form a single word.
His eyes, as sky blue as her riding habit, narrowed. “Cat got yer tongue, lass?”
“N…no.” She managed to get that out. “You startled me, is all.”
“Aye, well I’m sorry for that. Ye’re a bit o’ a surprise tae me too.”
He released her wrist, and she staggered back to put some space between them.
She replaced the stopper on the vial—it took her three tries she was shaking so badly from his abrupt awakening—and slid it back into her pocket, then stood gawking at him. Trying to make sense of the fact there was an escaped prisoner not three feet from her.
He frowned, his gaze narrowing. “I ken ye understand who I am, dae ye no’?”
Heart in her throat, Dora managed a short nod.
“Ye seem tae be a compassionate person, so I’ll dare tae ask ye tae help me, lass.” The menacing look had disappeared, replaced by anguish. “I canna let them take me again. They mean tae dae me grave harm before they take me tae the authorities. If they take me.”
“What did you do?” Dora backed up another step. Was he dangerous? It made a big difference if the man was a murderer or merely a thief. She glanced toward her horse. How quickly could she reach Gretchen, who stood quietly cropping grass nearby? Though how she planned to get up on the horse, should she reach her first, she had no idea. Perhaps she should simply make a run for it. If his leg was truly injured, she should be able to outdistance him quickly.
“No’ what they accuse me o’. I did a foolish thing, no’ a treasonable one. But the lieutenant disna see it that way and wants tae make me pay for something I dinna dae.”
It sounded reasonable, but wouldn’t all prisoners say such things? This was the thanks she got for trying to do a good deed. Dora sighed. She needed to find out how serious a threat this man was to her. “What did you do?”
“I wore this glaikit kilt is what I did.” His anger seemed pointed at himself, not her. “And in their thirst for my blood, they dinna care that I hold a title, or that my father fought for the bloody British.”
“They arrested you for wearing a piece of clothing?” Surely he was having her on. “I hardly think—”
“Lass, I dinna think it wise tae bandy words here when Lieutenant Scarlet and his men could ride up on us at any moment. If ye’ve no’ met the lieutenant, I suggest ye no’ dae it alone in a field with an escaped prisoner at yer side. I guarantee the man will no’ be pleased with ye, and ye’ll feel his displeasure keenly.” He touched the cut on his forehead. “Ye can trust me in that if nothing else.”
Suddenly more afraid of the soldiers than the prisoner, Dora scanned the fields for any movement. Thank God all was still. Returning her gaze to the man before her, she took in his appearance once more. On closer inspection, his shirt, though torn, was of excellent quality, as was the fabric of his bright kilt. And his boots, though muddy, were expensive. He’d claimed to have a title. Was he indeed a gentleman? Could she trust him? Overwhelmed with the decision she needed to make, Dora simply stared at the man before her, not knowing what to do.
A look of resignation came over his face. “I canna blame ye, lass, if ye dinna wish tae trust me.” He pointed to Gretchen. “If ye’ll call yer wee beastie, I’ll give ye a leg up. I dinna wish yer blood on my hands should Scarlet and his men find us here.”
The earnest concern in his face said he told the truth—he’d allow her to leave him here to the mercies of the soldiers. And she’d have his blood on her hands if she did. How exasperating. “Are you too hurt to sit a horse?”
“I’m no’ hurt sae bad I canna ride,” he said cautiously.
There seemed no other way around it. He must go with her. Dora sighed, hoping she was doing the right thing. “Come on, then.”
His shoulders slumped in relief that was short-lived as he cast a doubtful look at Gretchen. “Will the wee beastie bear us both?”
“She will if I ask her to.” Dora paused, head up, gazing over the field one more time. “Wait.” If the soldiers appeared now, they’d be in a pinch for sure.
The man had ducked back down, flattened himself along the embankment. Almost melted into the weeds and grasses, scarcely visible save his bright kilt. “Are they coming?”
“No,” Dora tugged on her gloves, “but they’ve been seen in the village and out at one of the tenant cottages. We need to get you to my father’s estate, as quickly as possible.” She peered down at him, and her stomach flipped alarmingly. His piercing eyes seemed to bore right through her. She shook the strange feeling off. All that mattered now was escaping undetected. She offered him her hand. “Do you need my help?”
He ignored it and struggled to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his left leg. “I’ll mount first then pull ye up behind me.”
Not the answer she’d been expecting. Dora narrowed her eyes. If she relinquished the reins to this man, he could take Gretchen and strand her here to walk all the way back home. She couldn’t chance it. “I’m riding sidesaddle, so I need to mount first. I won’t be able to mount without your assistance. Besides,” she looked pointedly at him, “I hardly think you want to wrap your leg around the pommel.”
Looking her up and down, he grinned wickedly, bringing out dimples in each of his cheeks. “A kilt is most accommodating for such things, lass.” He took a step forward and winced.
“Is it your leg that’s hurt?” Dora peered frankly at the man’s legs, quite on display from the knees down. Muddy, but well-shaped. “Or is it your knee?”
“Ankle. I landed wrong when my horse threw me.” He eased onto the leg gingerly. “I can put some weight on it, sae I dinna think it broken. However, if I tread full on it, the pain is excruciating.” He tried to ease up beside Gretchen, but the horse shied away. “Ye’d best claim yer beastie. I canna catch her in my present condition.”
Giving him a long-suffering look, Dora clucked to Gretchen and the well-trained horse trotted up to her.
“Impressive.” The man’s eyes held new respect for her.
“Which ankle is injured?”
“The left.”
She looked at him dubiously. “Are you able to mount?”
“I’ll manage, lassie.” He smiled broadly. “If ye’ll bring yer beastie t’Muhammad, please?”
Not sure if she was amused or annoyed by the stranger’s jovial tone, Dora nevertheless brought Gretchen to him. “Can I help you in some way?”
“Just hold the lass still.” He grasped the pommel and leaped into the saddle, his kilt flying out in a red arc before he landed with a grunt. His eyes widened then he winced.
“Are you all right?” He certainly looked uncomfortable.
“Fine.” The word came out curt as he cleared his throat.
The way he shifted in the saddle, he seemed anything but. “Did you hurt your ankle?”
“Nae.” He grinned and gingerly pulled his right leg around until it rested against the pommel. Breathing heavily for a moment, he finally blew out a breath and reached a hand toward her. “Give me the reins, and I’ll help ye up behind me.”
Staring at the hand, Dora hesitated. The moment she surrendered them to him, he could ride away on Gretchen, leaving her to walk the long two miles home, easy prey for animals, both four- and two-legged.
Her suspicions must have shown in her face, for the man withdrew his hand and looked at her sternly. “Though I dinna look it at the moment, I am a gentleman. I give ye my oath I’d no’ strand ye in the middle of nowhere on a hot afternoon with the soldiers lurking about.”
“How do I know you’re a gentleman?” Although she suspected he spoke the truth, all she really knew was he was Scottish and an escaped prisoner. But she couldn’t risk the walk home. Her fear of this Lieutenant Scarlet had grown with each report she’d received today until the mere thought of being caught alone by him made her shiver. Better the devil you knew, if only slightly.
“How dae ye know I’m no’?” His eyes held more than a touch of impatience. “Fine.” He extended his hand to her once more. “Ye can hold the reins while I pull ye up.”
This could be the mistake of her life, but they needed to be gone before the soldiers appeared. She’d trust to God her attempt at a good deed wouldn’t incur a punishment and worry about the consequences later. Trying not to show him her trepidation, Dora grasped the reins in her left hand and took his with her right.
He clasped her hand in an iron grip. “When I say go, ye need tae jump.” A glance at her skirts brought a frown to his face. “Willna yer habit be in the way?”
Of course it would, but she couldn’t very well take it off. “This obviously isn’t going to work.” Now what was she going to do?
His gaze hardened, and he sighed. “Like it or no’, ye’re going tae have t’ trust me, lass.”
That was the last thing she wanted to do, but she’d committed herself to this path when she’d allowed him to mount the horse. So beggars could scarcely be choosers. “What do you propose?”
“Tie the reins tae the pommel.”
Against her better judgment, Dora did as he asked.
“Noo, lean over and pull the back o’ yer skirts through yer legs and tuck them intae the waistband.”
Horrified at his suggestion, Dora put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “I will do no such thing. You’d have me wearing—” Breeches. She couldn’t even say the word to his face. She’d die of embarrassment if he saw even the shape of her legs.
“Lassie, there’s simply nae other way tae get ye up on this horse. Nae rock nor tree stump I can spy for ye t’ mount from. If ye do as I say, ye’ll fashion a garment that will allow ye tae ride astride.” He scanned the landscape. “We are pressing our luck with each passing minute.”
In that, he spoke truth. The short shadows of early afternoon showed plainly on the ground before the trees. They needed to be on their way. But his suggestion was scandalous. With her skirts bunched up that way, he’d surely see not just their form but her legs themselves.
“If ’twill persuade ye, my lady, I promise tae keep my eyes forward at all times once ye’re up behind me.” He grinned, wickedness in his eyes. “Word o’ a gentleman.”
“We still haven’t determined that you are a gentleman. And I’m not ‘my lady.’ I’m just Miss Harper.”
“Then Just Miss Harper, I vow tae keep yer modesty intact—as long as ye get on the horse.”
Regretting now not riding off and leaving the stranger in the creek, Dora bent over, grasped the back of her petticoat skirt and tugged it through her wide-spread legs. As expected, the fabric rode up her legs, revealing the calf above her half-boots all the way to her knee. However, now she was able to move more freely than she ever had before. Quickly, she tucked the fabric into the skirt’s waistband, although whether it would stay there without pins, she had no idea.
“Good.” The strange man had pointedly averted his eyes. “Noo, put yer foot in the stirrup and hop up behind me.”
“I can’t. It’s too high.” That was the reason she’d not been able to remount by herself.
“I’ll slip my foot out and ye can lower the stirrup.”
Pursing her lips, Dora stared up at him, annoyed beyond belief. “Don’t you think if I knew how to do that, I’d have remounted my horse long ago and been home by now?”
With a growl, he seized her arm and lifted her straight up. The stranger’s strength was astonishing. Despite her surprise, Dora managed to stab her foot into the stirrup, pushed up and threw her leg over Gretchen’s broad back. She landed with a hard thump that rattled her teeth, but she was mounted at last.
He turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Are ye seated securely?”
“I seem to be.” Even though it felt intensely odd to have her legs on either side of Gretchen, she had to admit she was much more evenly balanced than she’d ever been riding in a sidesaddle and much less likely to fall.
“Noo, take yer foot from the stirrup sae I can guide the horse.”
An even odder sensation overcame her as he pushed her foot from the stirrup, and she had no purchase at all. “I’m going to fall!”
“Put yer arms around my waist.”
“I beg your pardon?” Dora shrank from the figure sitting mere inches from her. “I don’t know you well enough to do any such thing.”
He shrugged as he loosed the reins and gathered them into his hands. “Suit yerself, but I fear when the horse begins tae move, ye’re going tae topple off her back if ye’re no’ holding ontae something.” With a cluck of his tongue, he started Gretchen at a walk alongside the river. “And from yer position, I’m the only thing available.”
She could hear the smile in his voice and glared at the back of his head. “I’ll be fine.” At least she hoped so.
“Which way?” He turned his head, scanning the area again.
“Follow the creek for about two miles. It will lead to a road that fronts the manor house.” Used to holding the reins, Dora wanted to put her hands somewhere, anywhere save around the man’s waist, and finally opted for resting them on her thighs. “I don’t think—”
“Hang on.” The man made a small movement with his knee, and Gretchen broke into a canter.
With a gasp, Dora threw her arms around the stranger and met hard muscle and lean flesh. The warmth his touch generated in her was astounding. As though the man contained a smoldering fire within him, first her arms then her torso, and finally a secret place deep within her caught the blaze he generated. She only hoped she wouldn’t be incinerated by the heat by the time they reached home.