Secretly Bound to the Marquess
Author
Diane Gaston
Reads
18,9K
Chapters
25
Chapter One
The muddy soup of the country road grabbed at Eliza Varden’s half-boots like fingers from the nether world. Impeding her progress. Mocking her.
She wanted to run.
Get away. Leave Henry, the Viscount Varden, her new husband, her closest confidant, her best friend.
After what she’d done.
And what he’d told her.
Oh, what he’d told her! It bore no thinking about. A betrayal. An unexpected, acutely painful betrayal. She dared not think about it. How could she? She must simply get away and never go back.
She wanted to wail, to rend her clothing, tear out her hair, but what good would that do? There was still what Henry had hidden from her. The truth. The truth he’d hidden from her even when he was in school.
Her cloak was soaked through with rain falling like a biblical deluge, whipping around her like an incarnation of her inner turmoil. The wind chilled her to her bones, its cold coming almost as a relief, quelling the flames of disappointment and rage inside her, giving her the strength to trudge on.
One foot in front of the other. That was all she must do. Her boots slipped again for the hundredth time. She managed to regain her balance when the pounding of horse’s hooves some distance behind her broke into the din of the incessant rain.
A man’s voice called, ‘Madam!’
Was she discovered? How was she to explain why Lady Varden was slogging along a muddy road in the pouring rain?
Hiding her face with her hood as best she could, she turned to see who it was.
A man on horseback emerged from the grey curtain of rain. She kept walking.
He pulled up alongside of her. ‘Madam. Miss. Where are you bound? May I help you?’
‘No!’ she cried.
Nothing could help, except perhaps that he leave her alone.
‘Here now,’ he persisted. ‘You cannot keep walking. My horse will carry us both. Let me take you to wherever you are bound.’
‘No!’ she cried again.
She tried to hurry away from him, but, like a gleeful trickster, the mud slipped under her boots and made her fall to her knees. The man jumped off his horse and rushed over to her.
He grasped her arm and helped her to her feet. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Please let me continue on my way.’
‘I merely wish to help you.’ He still held her arm. ‘I will take you—’
She pulled away.
He stepped back. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. You are soaked and cold, I expect. And it must be fatiguing to walk in this mud. My horse can carry two. We will take you wherever you are bound.’
She stole only the slightest glance at him, enough to see he was tall and muscular. And no one she knew, thank the heavens. None the less she kept her head down. She’d lied that she was unhurt. Her fall had shaken her and her legs suddenly felt as if they could no longer keep her upright.
She nodded her assent.
Before she could attempt to move, he picked her up in strong arms and carried her to his waiting horse.
He placed her on his horse’s back and mounted behind her.
‘Where are you bound?’ he asked.
She certainly could not tell him she was running away from her new husband, back to her parents’ estate.
‘Witley,’ she said finally. Another lie.
‘Witley?’ the man repeated. ‘Where is Witley? Can you direct me?’
‘Past Milford,’ she replied.
‘That must be at least ten miles.’ His voice was stunned. ‘You were intending to walk that distance?’
‘As you saw.’
Had she gone mad? She’d no wish to go to Witley when her parents’ house was no more than three miles away. She merely did not want him to know where she was bound.
‘Not far out of my way, then,’ he murmured, apparently accepting her statement as true.
They continued down the road that would eventually lead to Witley—after it passed the road to the house in which she’d lived her whole life.
Until marrying Henry, that was.
At least her companion was not chatty. The poor horse, though, seemed to struggle under the addition of her weight. Her mind whirled with how to convince this man to leave her on the road again. He could certainly reach an inn if unimpeded by her weight and she’d no doubt she could finish her trek even in the rain and mud, now she’d rested against his strong chest.
‘I am rested,’ she said to him. ‘I could walk now.’
He scoffed. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m not leaving you in the pouring rain.’
They rode past farm fields, but the landscape was so obscured she was unsure precisely how far they’d come. Had they left Henry’s land and entered her family’s property? If not now then soon, she supposed. The mud of the road worsened with each step. The poor horse. The mud was as treacherous on the horse’s hooves as it had been on her boots. How could she bear causing such a lovely horse to break a leg on top of everything else?
Abruptly the horse turned off the road.
Eliza peeked out from her sodden hood, trying to see where they were. ‘Why are you leaving the road?’ she asked.
‘I see shelter,’ he told her. ‘At this pace we cannot count on reaching a village soon. I need to rest my horse. We can wait out the rain in a dry place.’
When they reached the structures, Eliza recognised them immediately. This was one of the huts on her father’s estate. The estate manager kept it supplied for just such an instance, when inclement weather might force the farm workers to wait out a storm. It was also a place she and Henry had often played as children.
Her companion dismounted and opened the wooden boards that were cobbled together to make a stable door. Eliza knew he would find the stable dry and supplied with clean hay.
The horse followed him inside. Eliza slid off the horse’s back.
The man immediately gathered a fistful of hay and began wiping the wet off his horse. Eliza went to the trunk set against the far wall and brought him a dry rag to better do the job.
He looked at her in surprise but took the rag and continued to dry the horse.
‘You might as well remove the saddle, too,’ she said.
He glanced at her. ‘I thought to open the cabin for you first, then continue to tend to the horse.’
She shrugged. ‘No. Take care of him.’
‘Pegasus.’ The man’s voice softened. ‘His name is Pegasus.’
While he removed his bags and lifted off the saddle, she took a horse blanket from the trunk and brought it to him. He nodded gratefully and draped it over the horse.
He stroked the horse’s neck. ‘Do not fret, Pegasus. I’ll find you some water to drink as soon as I can.’ He picked up his bags and slung them over his shoulder. ‘Do you wish to wait here where it is dry while I see if we can open the hut?’ he asked her.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said.
Eliza knew where the key to the padlock was hidden, but if she showed him, there would be questions about why she knew. She did not want to reveal anything about herself.
Outside in the rain, he removed his gloves and stuffed them into a pocket. He took out his folding knife and worked on the padlock that secured the door. While he worked at it, she found a bucket and filled it from a water trough.
She lifted it up for him to see. ‘For your horse.’ She turned back to the stall.
By the time she returned, he’d opened the lock. They entered together.
It took several minutes for her eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. She’d not been in the cabin for years, but it could have been yesterday. Nothing was changed. Not the table and chairs where she and Henry had played cards. Not the cot in the corner or the small scullery.
Her companion dropped his saddlebags on the floor and took off his hat—a shako. He shrugged out of his topcoat, beneath which was the red coat and sash of an army officer. She released a breath. A soldier was an uncommon sight in her village. He was not someone who would know her. He must merely be passing through.
It would be safe for her to show her face.
He hung his topcoat over one of the chairs and gestured to the fireplace. ‘I’ll start a fire.’
As she expected, there were stacks of wood, kindling and tinder near the fireplace. There would also be a tinderbox and a candle on the mantel. While he used the tinderbox to light the candle, she went to the counter in the scullery and picked up the oil lamp she knew would be there.
He used the candle flame to check the flue and reached inside the chimney to open it, then he set about laying the wood on the grate. The tinder caught fire immediately. When the kindling caught, he placed some larger logs on the fire.
When he turned around, Eliza handed him the oil lamp.
His brows rose in surprise. ‘Very good.’
He lit the lamp and its flame illuminated the whole room.
For the first time, Eliza fully saw his face. A handsome face framed by dark curly hair that glistened from the rain. His brows were thick, his eyes an assessing brown. A nose that must have been broken at one time. A strong jaw. Expressive lips. Her sisters would have swooned over such a face. He was also tall, at least a half a foot taller than Henry. And herself.
He stared back at her and the moment stretched until a flash of lightning brightened the room, followed almost immediately by a loud clap of thunder.
He turned towards the window. ‘I am afraid we will be here a while.’
She still thought she could make it to her parents’ house. What would two miles be, even in the rain?
Lightning struck again. Leaving would be dangerous.
‘May I help you with your cloak?’ he asked.
She had to decide. Stay or leave. She suspected he would follow her if she left now, putting him and his lovely horse at risk of the lightning as well. She really had no choice, did she?
Stay, then.
She unclasped her cloak. ‘I can manage.’ She slipped it off her shoulders and draped it over the other wooden chair. She took off her gloves and placed them on the table.
Wind rattled the windows and Eliza shivered from the chill. Her dress was nearly as sodden as her cloak. Her feet were freezing.
Without seeming too obvious, she wandered over to the trunk near the cot and opened it. She pretended to rummage through it, but she well knew what was there. ‘There are blankets.’ She lifted them out. ‘And dry clothes.’
She set aside the blankets and reached into the trunk again. ‘A couple of dry shirts and breeches.’ She inclined her head to another part of the room. ‘There is also a pump for water over there. We only need some rainwater for priming it. Then I can make some tea.’
‘There is tea?’ He was surprised.
‘Tea and a kettle and other kitchen wares.’ But she was revealing too much. ‘I found them while you were lighting the fire.’
He nodded approvingly and inclined his head towards the trunk. ‘We should remove our wet clothes and change into dry ones. Hang our clothes near the fire to dry.’
She stared at him. To do so would necessitate staying longer than she’d hoped. It would protect her identity, though, in case he was somehow connected to someone in the village.
She turned her back to him. ‘You will need to undo my buttons.’
The touch of his fingers on her nearly bare skin aroused sensations inside her, an awareness that she was alone with a man in this one-room cabin, although she and Henry had often been alone in similar spaces.
He stepped back when done. ‘I’ll venture outside for some water for the pump.’
Good. She’d have privacy to dress. And some distance from him to cool the heat of his hands.
He flung his topcoat over his shoulders and, taking a jug with him, ventured outside into the still steady sheet of rain.
Once outside, Robert Nathanial Thorne, Captain in the 30th Regiment of Foot, leaned against the closed door of the hut and let the rain cool his face and extinguish the sudden flames of awareness—awareness that he was alone with a beautiful young woman in very intimate circumstances.
When he’d plucked her out of the mud, she’d been little more than a mystery. A lone woman walking in such a deluge? For ten miles? He’d noticed her gloves, though, fine kid embroidered with flowers. Her cloak was of equally fine cloth, such as worn by a lady, not a village girl or housemaid. Then he’d learned she knew and cared for horses and, when in the cabin, was useful and resourceful. She’d still been a mere mystery then—why was a lady, albeit a useful one, to be found traipsing through the rain and mud?
Then she’d removed her cloak and the fire and lamplight illuminated her face. He’d been momentarily devoid of breath.
She was beautiful.
Her eyes were startlingly light. Grey? Green? He had not been able to tell, but they were framed by dark, delicately arched brows. Her hair was dark, as well, but there was not enough light to reveal its precise colour. Her skin, as pale as cream, was flushed by the cold and her full lips were pink enough to have been tinted.
All that aside, it was the aura of despair that called to him most strongly, making him yearn to take her in his arms and comfort her. Nate knew despair. He knew loneliness and loss and all of it seemed reflected in her eyes.
At least her despair made him forget his own. He’d been perilously close to wallowing in his own self-pity on that rainy, solitary road, particularly after his rare obligatory and bleak visit to his uncle.
He wiped the rain from his face and listened to the rumbling of distant thunder. The weather was not going to clear sufficiently for them to proceed safely in daylight. They must spend the night here. Together. And no matter how he burned inside, he would not add to the lady’s problems by ungentlemanly behaviour.
Inhaling deeply, Nate pushed himself away from the door and stepped over to the stable to check on Pegasus. The horse nickered at the sight of him, but the tension was absent from the animal’s muscles and he blinked lazily at Nate. Nate found the cloth again and wiped the mud from Pegasus’s hooves before replacing the hay that the horse had consumed.
‘You’ll fare well here, my old friend?’ Nate asked aloud.
Pegasus nudged him and blew out some air in reply.
‘I will check on you later.’
He picked up the jug and again ventured out into the downpour to fill it with water, which was in plentiful supply.
Hoping he had allowed her enough time to don the dry clothes, he opened the door to the cabin and carried the jug and his bags inside.
The woman gave him the most fleeting of glances. ‘I put a shirt and breeches on top of the trunk for you. Stockings, too.’
She was a sight to behold, hair tangled, wearing the man’s shirt over her shift and the breeches underneath. She’d put the rough stockings on her feet. Though her underclothes were likely still damp, she’d be warm enough in the strange outfit so unbefitting a lady. She returned his gaze and held it and he felt snared by her allure.
He forced himself to turn away, putting the jug on the counter near the pump and dropping his saddlebags on the floor. He removed his topcoat and draped it over the table as she had done with her cloak.
He must undress in front of her, but he hesitated.
‘I’ll prime the pump and draw some water for tea,’ she said, crossing the room and turning her back to him.
He quickly walked to a corner of the room and peeled off his wet coat, waistcoat and shirt. He put on the dry shirt before removing his boots, stockings and trousers, replacing them with the dry breeches and rough stockings much like the ones she wore. By the time she’d drawn the water for tea, he was dressed.
He gathered his wet clothes in his arms. ‘How fortunate to find dry clothing here.’
‘Someone supplied it well.’ She walked past him to put the kettle on the fire.
He moved the second chair closer to the fire, as she had done, and hung his uniform coat, trousers and stockings over it.
‘I’ll clean the mud from our boots,’ he said. ‘They can dry in front of the fire.’
Afterwards he pulled the cot closer to the warmth of the fire. Soon they sat on it like a bench, each wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea from tin cups.
Finally completely warm.
He turned to her. ‘I should make myself known to you. I am—’
A panicked look came over her face and she held up her hand. ‘Please do not! I do not want to tell you who I am and I do not want to know who you are.’
He was unprepared for such a vehement reply. What had he stumbled into?
‘You had better explain why,’ he responded in a stern tone. ‘Because I have no wish to be accused of abduction or something equally as sinister when my only thought was to help you.’
She shot him a flaming glance. ‘You gave me little choice!’
‘Choice?’ he retorted. ‘What sort of man would I be if I had simply ridden by you?’
She bowed her head and spoke in a small voice. ‘Forgive me. I am not ungrateful.’
He leaned towards her. ‘Are you in trouble? If there is something I can do—’
‘No trouble,’ she said quickly. Defensively, he thought. ‘I am merely...’ she paused ‘...unhappy.’ She waved her hand as if it was a trifling matter.
He caught her hand and touched the ring on her finger. A wedding ring. Some inner part of him registered disappointment. ‘Should I fear the wrath of some jealous husband bursting in upon us?’
She pulled away. ‘He does not know I am gone. I made certain of it.’ She immediately looked regretful, as if she’d said too much. Just as quickly her expression changed to something like contempt. ‘Jealousy,’ he thought he heard her say under her breath. ‘Not very likely.’
He took a sip of his tea. ‘Why not jealousy?’
She tossed him a scathing look. ‘Never mind.’
Oh, no. He was not about to leave these tantalising clues to the mystery unquestioned. He lifted his brows.
‘I will not tell you,’ she snapped, refusing his challenge, then in a low, despairing voice. ‘I cannot.’
As she retreated into silence, he fancied her descending into a misery that poured upon her like the rain.
He spoke again, taking a lighter tone. ‘May we not exchange given names, then? No harm in that, is there? Then I will not have to say, Hey, you when speaking to you.’ Or my lady, which he suspected she would not wish him to guess.
She did not answer him.
‘May I tell you my given name, then?’ he persisted.
Reluctantly she nodded.
He turned to her and extended his hand. ‘I am called Nate.’
She hesitated before accepting his hand to shake but still did not speak. He was not insensible to the softness of her skin, nor the unexpected steadiness of her hand. He released her and she wrapped her fingers around her cup of tea and brought its rim to her mouth.
He continued to face her, cocking his head in expectation.
‘Eliza,’ she said finally.
He took a sip of tea to cover his amused smile. She’d done what he’d asked of her. ‘Eliza,’ he repeated.
She averted her gaze and involved herself in drinking the tea as if that kept a barrier between them. He continued to watch her, sensing some deep disappointment inside her. When she blinked away tears he was certain of it.
‘I think you had better tell me what troubles you,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I am involved now. Inadvertently, I admit, but I was the one to find you on the road. That involves me. What harm can it do to tell me if I do not know who you are and you do not know who I am?’
‘I cannot speak of it!’ she said. ‘I will not.’
‘And I cannot force you,’ he continued in those modulated tones. ‘But whatever it is, it is causing you great distress. You must face it. Running away will not help.’
Nate learned this at six years old. No amount of running away, or pretending, or denying, made trouble go away. Something would always bring it back and knock you down again. The only thing that worked was facing it. And living through it.
She tossed him a side glance, equally as scathing as those before. ‘How would you know?’
Oh, that was a joke if ever there was one. Of course he knew. ‘I assure you I have had a great many distressing events in my life. I do indeed know.’
She gave a derisive laugh. ‘Not like this.’
‘Very well, perhaps not the precise thing, but I will wager no less devastating.’ What could hers be? A row with her husband? No, something worse. ‘Why not tell me?’ he persisted. ‘After the rain, you will never see me again. I am bound for Portsmouth, for a ship to Portugal.’
Realisation dawned on her face. She understood he was headed for war, he supposed, and he thought he saw sympathy there, but she quickly turned her head away.
He took another sip of tea. The fire crackled pleasingly and warmth filled the room. Why should it suddenly matter to him that she tell him whatever was so crushing she had to flee during a torrent? How often had he sat with others while feeling separate and alone; why did he feel he could not do so with her?
He’d undoubtedly see hard combat as Wellington’s armies sought to push the French from the Iberian Peninsula, but hard combat suited him. After all, he was the perfect soldier.
It mattered to no one if he lived or died. Not even to himself.
So why did it matter that this lady confided in him? Why did he feel connected to her when he prided himself on having no attachments to anyone? Was it all a mere fancy that her misery called to him? Had he not conquered his?
He could help her conquer hers, he knew. He simply did not know why he wanted to.
