two words to say for herself. Two intelligent words, anyway. The only grace Honoria had yet discovered in her was her carriage, which was unconsciously elegant-on all the rest she'd have to work hard to bring Melissa up to scratch. To a duke's scratch at that.
Taking comfort from her irritation-it distracted her from the thought of what she could not see through the thick canopy overhead-Honoria set aside the vexing question of the duke's identity to reflect on the qualities Lady Claypole had ascribed to the phantom.
He was thoughtful, an excellent landowner, mature but not old, ready, so her ladyship assured her, to settle down and begin filling his nursery. This paragon had no faults to which any might take exception. The picture her ladyship had painted was of a sober, serious, retiring individual, almost a recluse. That last was Honoria's addition; she couldn't imagine any duke other than a reclusive one being willing, as Lady Claypole had declared this one was, to apply for Melissa's hand.
The grey tugged. Honoria kept the ribbons taut. They'd passed the entrance to two bridle paths, both winding away into trees so dense it was impossible to glimpse anything beyond a few yards. Ahead, the lane swung left, around a virtually blind curve. Tossing his head, the grey paced on.
Honoria checked for the curve, noting that their upward climb had ended. As the weight of his load lessened, the grey surged. Honoria's grip slipped-the reins slithered through her fingers. Cursing, she grabbed wildly and caught the ribbons firmly; leaning back, she wrestled with the beast.
The grey shied. Honoria shrieked and yanked hard, for once uncaring of the horse's mouth. Her heart racing, she forced the grey to a halt. Abruptly, the horse stood stock-still, quivering, coat aflicker. Honoria frowned. There'd been no thunderclaps yet. She glanced along the lane. And saw the body slumped beside the verge.
Time stood still-even the wind froze.
Honoria stared. '
At her whisper, the leaves sighed; the metallic taint of fresh blood wafted along the lane. The grey sidled; Honoria steadied him, using the moment to swallow the knot of shock in her throat. She didn't need to look again to see the dark, glistening pool growing beside the body. The man had been shot recently-he might still be alive.
Honoria eased from the gig. The grey stood quietly, head drooping; edging to the verge, Honoria looped the reins about a branch and pulled the knot tight. Stripping off her gloves, she stuffed them in her pocket. Then she turned and, taking a deep breath, walked down the lane.
The man was still alive-she knew that the instant she knelt on the grass beside him; his breathing was rattly and harsh. He was lying on his side, slumped forward; grasping his right shoulder, she rolled him onto his back. His breathing eased-Honoria barely noticed, her gaze transfixed by the jagged hole marring the left side of his coat. With every ragged breath the man drew, blood welled from the wound.
She had to staunch the flow. Honoria looked down; her handkerchief was already in her hand. Another glance at the wound confirmed its inadequacy. Hurrying, she stripped off the topaz-silk scarf she wore over her dun-colored gown and wadded it into a pad. Lifting the sodden coat, she left the man's ruined shirt undisturbed and pressed her improvised dressing over the gaping hole. Only then did she glance at his face.
He was young-surely too young to die? His face was pale; his features were regular, handsome, still holding traces of youthful softness. Thick brown hair lay disheveled across a wide brow; brown brows arched over his closed eyes.
Sticky dampness rose beneath Honoria's fingers, her kerchief and scarf no match for the relentless flow. Her gaze fell on the youth's cravat. Unhooking the pin securing the linen folds, she unwound the cravat, folded it, then positioned the thick wad and carefully pressed down. She was bent over her patient when the thunder struck.
A deep resounding
Then lightning cracked. The flash was hidden by the canopy yet still lit the lane in garish white. Honoria shut her eyes tight, blocking her memories by sheer force of will.
A low moan reached her. Opening her eyes, she looked down, but her charge remained unconscious.
'Wonderful.' She glanced around; the truth was impossible to avoid. She was alone in a wood, under trees, miles from shelter, without means of transport, in a countryside she'd first seen four days ago, with a storm lashing the leaves from the trees-and beside her lay a badly wounded man. How on earth could she help him?
Her mind was a comfortless blank. Into the void came the sound of hoofbeats. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but the sound grew steadily louder, nearer. Giddy with relief, Honoria rose. She stood in the lane, fingertips on the pad, listening as the hoofbeats drew rapidly nearer. At the last minute, she stood upright, turning and stepping boldly to the center of the lane.
The ground shook; thunder engulfed her. Looking up, she beheld Death.
A massive black stallion screamed and reared over her, iron-tipped hooves flailing within inches of her head. On the beast's back sat a man to match the horse, black-clad shoulders blocking out the twilight, dark mane wild, features harsh-satanic.
The stallion's hooves thudded to the ground, missing her by a bare foot. Furious, snorting, eyes showing white, the beast hauled at the reins. It tried to swing its huge head toward her; denied, it attempted to rear again.
Muscles bunched in the rider's arms, in the long thighs pressed to the stallion's flanks. For one eternal minute, man and beast did battle. Then all went still, the stallion acknowledging defeat in a long, shuddering, horsy sigh.
Her heart in her throat, Honoria lifted her gaze to the rider's face-and met his eyes. Even in the dimness, she was sure of their color. Pale, lucent green, they seemed ancient, all-seeing. Large, set deep under strongly arched black brows, they were the dominant feature in an impressively strong face. Their glance was penetrating, mesmerizing-unearthly. In that instant, Honoria was sure that the devil had come to claim one of his own. And her, too. Then the air about her turned blue.
Chapter 2
Ending a string of decidedly inventive curses, that question, delivered with enough force to hold back the storm itself, jerked Honoria's wits into place. She focused on the commanding figure atop the restless stallion, then, with haughty dignity, stepped back, gesturing to the body on the verge. 'I came upon him a few minutes ago-he's been shot, and I can't stop the bleeding.'
The rider's eyes came to rest on the still figure. Satisfied, Honoria turned and headed back to the injured man, then realized the rider hadn't moved. She looked back, and saw the broad chest beneath what she now recognized as a dark hacking jacket expand-and expand-as the rider drew in an impossibly deep breath.
His gaze switched to her. 'Press down on that pad-hard.'
Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he swung down from his horse, the movement so eloquent of harnessed power, Honoria felt giddy again. She hurriedly returned to her patient. 'That's precisely what I
The rider, busy tying the stallion's reins about a tree, glanced her way. 'Lean over him-use all your weight.'
Honoria frowned but shuffled closer and did as he said. There was a note in the deep voice that suggested he expected to be obeyed. Given that she was counting on him to help her deal with the wounded man, now, she decided, was not the time to take umbrage. She heard him approach, footsteps firm on the packed earth. Then the footfalls slowed, became hesitant, then stopped altogether. She was about to glance up when he started forward again.
He came to the other side of the wounded man, avoiding the large pool of blood. Hunkering down, he gazed at the youth.
