The Highlander and the Wallflower

mother had grown more and more obsessed with the idea of finding a way into the aristocracy for their family. Her current strategy involved Emma’s successful marriage. Perhaps it was lack of effort on her part, as her mother claimed. Or perhaps she was simply not wanted. Thus far, all those careful plans had been unsuccessful.

‘Study the list.’ Her mother pressed the paper into her hands with a sense of urgency. ‘Knowledge is the key to everything.’

‘I will, Mama,’ she said, tucking it into the back of the novel she had been reading. ‘But for now, I think a walk is in order, if I wish to continue in robust good health.’

‘Then walk in the direction of the Gascoyne house and see if you can find a way to meet our neighbour Sir Robert,’ she said with a firm nod. ‘All you need is one happy accident with the right gentleman and you shall have maids calling you My Ladyship by Christmas.’

Sir Robert Gascoyne liked his solitude.

Rather, he tolerated it, as one would an old and somewhat tiresome friend. He had been alone for so long that he could not think of any other way to be.

Since it did not make him actively unhappy, he told himself that it was for the best that he remained secluded. When one had the luck of the Gascoyne family, it was better to live in isolation as one would when suffering from a disease. Self-quarantine spared the people around him from contagious misfortune.

Though that plan spared others, for Robert there was no escaping the family curse. According to his man of business in London, though every other mine in Cornwall flourished, the tin mine he had invested in had run out of ore. While he had been to visit it, his coachman had been kicked by a horse and broken a leg.

And yet, it could have been worse.

He must be thankful that he was still healthy enough to drive himself home, rather than leaving his best carriage in the hands of inexperienced grooms. With his finances in ruins and his strategies in chaos, it felt good to be in the driver’s seat and not dependent on the actions of another. He needed something he could successfully command to steady his nerves and to allow him to believe, for a few hours at least, that his life and destiny were something he could control, as easily as he could command a team and carriage.

The trip thus far had been uneventful. He was an excellent driver more than capable of handling any equipage. The horses were receptive to every flick of the reins. If the wheels stayed on the brougham, he would be home in less than an hour.

That was why he looked at the woman on the road ahead with trepidation. The way was wide enough for a pedestrian and she was well over to the side. There was no reason to believe that she was at risk from him. But there had been no reason to believe that a productive mine could lose the vein right after he had put money down on it. When Robert Gascoyne was involved, bad things happened.

As he approached her, he pulled as far to the opposite side of the road as he thought safe and slowed to a trot. Since she appeared to be absorbed in the book she was reading, he called to the groom to blow a warning on the carriage horn.

Perhaps he had waited too long to make his presence known. At the sound, she gave a start of alarm and so did the horses. The team shied and, as he struggled to control them, he lost sight of her. One minute she was there, the next she had disappeared from sight.

Robert felt a moment of blind panic as he tugged hard on the reins, cursing his carelessness and infernal bad luck, and hating each movement of hooves that might be further trampling the poor girl. The lack of cries was an ominous silence which made him wonder if she’d been killed outright by the first blow.

But, no. When he was able to hop down, she was not under the horses, but laying in a heap at the bottom of the ditch beside the road, face down and dangerously close to a puddle.

He stumbled down the hill after her, praying that he was not already too late as he rolled her face towards the sky. God bless her, though unconscious, she was still breathing. Her fair looks had survived quite well under a coating of muck and despite the cut on her forehead that was releasing a steady trickle of blood, vibrant red against her coppery hair.

‘Miss?’ he said gently, not wanting to startle her again. But the word did not earn even a moan of response. The pulse where he touched her hand was weak and her gown was torn in several places, a sign of the battering she had taken on the tumble downhill. She needed cold compresses for the bruises and someone more skilled than he to identify further injuries.

He dropped her fallen book into his pocket and scooped her into his arms, then laboured up the hill, surprised at her height which must be near to his own when she was capable of standing. Hopefully, this giantess would have stamina worthy of her size and shake off her injuries as quickly as she’d encountered them.

But for now, what was he to do with her? The village would be the more proper destination. But if there was something seriously wrong with her, his home was several miles closer and nearer to the surgeon’s home as well. He would see to her welfare first. Then, with luck she would come round enough so that he could establish her identity and send someone for her people.

With a sigh of frustration, he carried her to the carriage and laid her down on one of the seats, signalling to a groom to take the