Almost a Countess by Jenna Jaxon
Chapter 3
As her fear of falling off the horse waned, Dora became more and more aware of the very male presence seated before her. No trace of softness, as far as she could tell—his body seemed made of all hard angles. A rather pungent aroma assailed her nose, not completely unpleasant for it mostly spoke of the reedy creek water. There was also an underlying hint of a masculine scent she wasn’t familiar with at all, although she liked it nevertheless.
Dora sighed, her cheek resting on the still-soaked shoulder of the man’s jacket. She might have behaved very foolishly taking him back to the house, but she couldn’t have abandoned him to the soldiers. Not after all she’d heard of them. Not with the scrapes and bruises marring his face. And not after he’d been willing to let her go, despite all that.
Undoubtedly, the soldiers would come looking for him either this evening or in the morning at the latest. What she would tell them she had no idea. Would she simply turn the man over to them or continue to give him sanctuary? It would help to know what he’d actually done. She found it hard to believe they arrested him for wearing a kilt. Surely the British army didn’t care how a man dressed.
Still, they had arrested him for something. From the look of him, scratched, cut, and bruised, he’d put up quite a fight. But what had he really done?
She straightened, loosening her grip on the man’s waist. Not that she could actually get away from him at this juncture. She could, however, learn something about him. “I’m afraid I neglected to ask your name earlier, sir.” He didn’t answer, and his silence irked her to no end. “Can I have your name please, sir?”
Still no answer.
Dora’s patience began to fray. She poked his shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me?”
Suddenly, the man’s head lolled backward, almost butting her in the head. Dear God, had he fainted? Or was he dead? And on a cantering horse.
Energy shot through Dora’s veins. She sat straighter, calculating what she needed to do to bring the animal to a halt before Gretchen discovered no one was minding the reins and took off across the field at a dead run.
Trying to stem the panic that clogged her throat, Dora made herself let go of her grip on the stranger completely, although she compensated by clutching him with her arms to keep him from falling. Afraid to move her head to either side to see the reins, she instead slid her hands down his arms until her fingers touched his, the ribbons still gripped in his fists.
Gently, so as not to startle Gretchen, she drew the leather straps from his fingers, and a measure of calm descended on her to be back in control again with the reins firmly in her hands. Pulling on them steadily, Dora slowed Gretchen to a trot then at last to a walk. Breathing easier, she returned her attention to the unconscious man. Unfortunately, she could do nothing for him until they reached Bromley. Hopefully, he’d only fainted.
Her friend and sister-in-law Judith Harper had sustained a blow to the head that had rendered her insensible for more than four months. Of course, Judith’s wound had resulted in her immediate incapacitation. That was not the case here. However, Dora couldn’t help but wonder if this stranger had lapsed into a stupor from which he wouldn’t recover for days or even months. She could only pray not, keep a steady hand on the reins, and get them home quickly.
The man now leaned full back against her, making it more difficult to manage the horse. She longed to gallop Gretchen all the way home but feared the stranger would fall from the horse if she went at more than a fast walk. That would only exacerbate his wounds and force her to abandon him and ride like the wind for help as she wouldn’t be able to hoist him back up onto the horse. She increased the pressure of her arms to anchor him more firmly, praying he would stay put. Then she urged Gretchen into a swift walk.
After what seemed an age, the road to Bromley came into view. Dora’s spirits rose. She sat straighter and urged the horse almost to a trot. They were less than a mile from her door, and Dora longed for the welcoming sight of her butler and groom. The servants would likely be shocked, but she believed they were loyal to her. They’d give this unexpected guest help in any way they could, no matter if it flouted the proprieties.
Wearily, she turned Gretchen in through the familiar brick pillars that stood at the beginning of the crushed-shell driveway, a stone lion rampant on either pedestal holding a ball representing the world in their outstretched paws. Four months ago, they had struck fear into her heart at the thought of her solitary life to come. Now they were a most welcome sight. Down the driveway…a few more yards… Safe.
“Hanson,” she called, hoping he was within earshot. The stranger hadn’t regained consciousness. He sagged against her still, increasingly heavy, but that uncomfortable position allowed her to feel his chest rise and fall, assuring her he wasn’t dead. She hoped she could keep him that way. “Hanson!”
Her second, louder and more urgent, call brought not only her butler to the door, but Alfred, the coachman-groom, at a run from the stable. “Alfred, Hanson, thank God. Grab him before he falls to the ground.”
Both men bounded into action, hurrying toward Gretchen. Dora carefully guided the limp man’s body over the side of the horse and into their waiting arms then swiftly unhooked his leg from around the pommel, and he slid safely off the animal at last.
“Do you need help, Miss Harper?” Alfred shot her a quizzical look, his eyes widening as he took in her posture astride Gretchen. “What happened, miss?”
Hanson’s look was just as scandalized, although he was too well-bred to say anything.
“I shall be fine, Alfred.” At least, she believed she would be. Her legs had begun to tremble, however, from her unaccustomed position. “I found him in the creek at the edge of Hawkins’s field. Take him to Father’s rooms. Undress him and put him in one of Father’s nightshirts. He has wounds I’ll need to tend to.” The men nodded and started into the house, Alfred holding the man’s feet while the butler grasped his shoulders. “Have a care when you take off his boots,” she called. “He’s injured his left ankle.”
“Who is he, Miss Harper?” Hanson spoke for the first time.
Frowning, Dora told him the only thing she could. “I’m not quite sure, but I intend to find out.”
“I’ll send Larkin to you, miss,” Hanson called as they disappeared into the house.
Frowning, Dora scooted into the saddle and thrust her left foot into the stirrup. Immediately, she relaxed, heartened by the familiar feel of the seat beneath her. Slowly, she lifted her right leg over the horse, putting her in the usual position to dismount by sliding down the horse’s flank to the ground.
Her legs, however, refused to work properly. Her knees almost buckled when her boots hit the driveway, causing her to grab the stirrup and hang on. A new soreness in her thighs added to her discomfort.
“Miss Harper, are you all right?” Larkin, her lady’s maid, ran up to her. “Mr. Hanson said you’d need—” The girl stopped, her mouth dropping open as she stared at Dora’s split skirts. “Miss Harper, what happened?”
“It’s a very long story, Larkin.” Swiftly, Dora pulled her skirt out of her waistband, and it fell into its proper place. “One I don’t have time to tell.” Dora took a step and winced. That awkward position had left a bit of soreness.
A nicker from Gretchen brought Dora up short. What should she do about the horse? “Here.” She tied the reins to one of the boxwoods that lined the driveway. “Tell Alfred to come tend to her as soon as he’s done with the gentleman, Larkin, then run fetch me the medicine chest and some bandages and bring them to the viscount’s rooms. As quick as you can, please.”
“But I need to tend to you, miss.” Larkin stared askance at her. “You’re dripping wet.”
“I’ll make do. Now run tell Alfred about Gretchen, and I’ll meet you upstairs.”
Larkin scurried up the front staircase, and Dora paused for a minute as a feeling of calm and normalcy washed over her again. Suddenly, she was confident once more. Commander of her own household. Peeling off her riding gloves, she strode toward the kitchen. First things first.
Mrs. McComber, Bromley’s ancient cook, stirred something in a kettle hung over the fire when Dora walked in. “Good afternoon, Miss Harper.” The cook turned to her and stopped, taking in Dora’s disheveled appearance. After a slight pause, she continued. “Are you ready for your luncheon?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. McComber.” Dora stopped and stared at the tray waiting on the table. Food for one person only. That would have to change. “Yes, ma’am, but I fear I will need a substantial lunch for two hungry people.”
“Oh, you have a visitor, miss?” The cook’s brows shot up. Everyone knew no one paid Dora calls.
“Of a sort.” Dora really didn’t want to explain everything at this moment. “And I will require it to be served upstairs in the viscount’s apartments.”
The elderly woman gave Dora a sharp look but nodded and went back to stirring her pot. “Yes, miss. I’ll send Larkin up with it directly.”
“Send James, please, Mrs. McComber. Larkin will be assisting me with several other tasks. And thank you.” Let the woman think what she would.
Dora stalked out and headed for the stairs. The clamminess of her riding habit had finally become unbearable. She couldn’t wait to be free of it and attired in clean, dry clothing once more. As the habit fastened in the front, she could remove it herself, although the wet garment would likely make the task difficult. Putting on clean clothes would require Larkin’s assistance, however.
With a sigh, Dora grasped the banister and began to haul herself upward. She’d never lamented her lack of servants here at Bromley as many times as she had today.
The wet garment did indeed cling to her arms as she tried to free herself from her bodice. Slowly, she peeled it from her, shivering slightly when the fabric fell away from her damp body and cool air wafted over her chemise. She dropped the sodden mess of velvet on the floor, untied the drawstring at her waist and let petticoat and skirt fall to her feet then stepped away, now attired in only chemise and stockings. They were still clammy, too wet to wear. In moments, she was naked and rummaging in her dressing closet when Larkin’s voice called out, “Miss Harper? Where are you?”
“In here, Larkin.” Unable to decide, Dora finally snatched up a plain red gown. She’d not had time to have clothes made when she was exiled to Yorkshire, so all her dresses were rather old, but what they lacked in style, they made up for in comfort. This red one was a favorite, fitting her body well. “I’ll wear this.” She popped her head out of the dressing room and held the garment up for Larkin to see. “Help me get into it quickly, please.”
“That one, miss?” Larkin’s nose wrinkled as she passed Dora then gathered the clothing into her arms.
“I want to be comfortable if I have to nurse this man. It’s not as if I’m going to a ball or some grand entertainment.” Dora signaled the maid to bring the gown and its underpinnings and strode back into the bedroom. “I need new stays, stockings, and a chemise. These are wet through.”
“Everything was wet through, miss. Did you fall into a creek?” The maid followed, arms full.
“More or less.” Dora raised her arms, and Larkin slipped a clean, dry chemise over her head. “I was trying to keep a man from drowning.”
“Who is he, miss?” As they talked, Larkin had snugged the stays over Dora’s chemise and begun lacing it up.
Dora grunted as the laces tightened. “I’m not quite sure.” That much was true, at least. She didn’t know his name, and anything else she did happen to know would be kept to herself for now. “Once he regains consciousness, I mean to find out.”
“I don’t think it’s wise to be bringing a stranger here, miss. Not when there’s a lady and other defenseless women to be thought of.” The maid had finished her lacing and commenced pulling the stockings over Dora’s legs. “Knocked out as he is, there’s not much danger until he gets his strength back, but you never know with gentlemen, miss. Even the best sort can be a handful of trouble.”
He’d been trouble enough already, but she needn’t share that tidbit with Larkin either. “Did you fetch the medicine chest to my father’s room?”
“Yes, miss. Bandages and warm water too. Now this, please.” The maid coaxed the sleeves of the bodice onto Dora’s outstretched arms.
“Good.” Dora fretted to be gone as the maid finished tying her waist strings, impatient to be off to the sickroom. She wasn’t sure at all why she felt such an urge to attend the man. He likely had not woken yet. Still, something in the back of her mind argued that if he woke up alone, he might bolt before she got the chance to tend him. Foolish to think he could move with his injured ankle, but the urgency to go to him would not be denied. “Are you done yet?”
“Just this moment, miss.” Larkin stepped back, clutching a filmy white fichu. “Shall I put this on you as well?”
Shaking her head, Dora started for the door. She must get going. “No need. I’m fine without it.”
“Your shoes, miss!” Larkin scurried forward to set a pair of black mules in front of Dora.
“Thank you, Larkin.” Sighing, Dora stepped into the shoes then dashed out the door. What else would come along to delay her? Almost trotting down the corridor, Dora kept her hands on her skirts to keep them from being snagged. She couldn’t afford another delay. Perhaps the urgency that niggled at her lay in her fear for the man’s welfare. His wounds were too reminiscent of her Judith’s for comfort. He needed tending if he was to survive. Which he surely wouldn’t receive if she turned him over to the authorities. The harsh set of Mrs. Jameson’s face when she’d said the soldiers were cruel to their prisoners rose before her eyes. She’d not have his death on her conscience, no matter what.
That settled in her mind, Dora hurried down the corridor toward the viscount’s apartments, her heart suddenly in her throat. Her generosity toward the stranger could turn out very badly indeed, for both her and the people under her care, if she’d misjudged the man. Still, she recalled the concern in his eyes when he offered to let her go alone and her resolve stiffened. Deep down, she knew she’d made the right decision.
When she reached the door, she paused to catch her breath, steady her nerves, and marshal her strength. With determination, she grasped the latch, pushed it down, and the door swung open. Head held high, Dora entered.