He walked Sabre along beside the cart, saying nothing until they reached the turnoff. The cart turned to the right.
So be it, Harry thought. Fate had spoken.
He prepared to ride off, but found himself staring at those small, cold-roughened hands clinging to the side of the cart. Without thought he pulled off his leather gloves and tossed them into her lap.
She caught them and, from under the deep brim of his hat, gave him a puzzled look.
“Put ’em on,” he muttered. “Your hands look frozen.”
For a moment she didn’t move, then she slid first one hand into his glove, then the other. They slipped in easily; the gloves were far too big.
And then she tilted the hat back and gave Harry a smile.
Harry stared, gave her a jerky nod, and urged Sabre to the west.
Much later it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually heard her say “thank you.” He remembered seeing her lips shaping the words. He’d nodded stupidly and ridden forward, passing the cumbrous dray without noticing, oblivious of everything except that smile.
“Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,” Ethan said as Harry joined him. “Givin’ away hats now, is it? I thought that was your favorite.” His gaze dropped to Harry’s bare hands. “And, no—tell me not your gloves, your Polish fur-lined gloves. I’ve envied you those gloves for years.”
Harry shrugged. “She was cold. And wet.” He wasn’t quite sure what had got into him, either.
Ethan snorted. “I’m cold and wet, dammit. Colder and wetter because of the snail’s pace you adopted beside that blasted dray. I’ve been practically frozen many a time since I’ve known you
and
I’m supposed to be your friend. If you’d wanted to give away those gloves, you could have given them to me.”
Harry said nothing. He wasn’t going to add to Ethan’s enjoyment of the situation by trying to explain the unexplainable.
Ethan persisted, an irritatingly knowing smile on his battered face, “Harry Morant, we’ve traveled the length and breadth of the peninsular for years, in ice and snow, through battles and burning heat and I’ve never known you to give away a good pair of gloves, or your favorite hat.”
“That was different. I needed them then.”
Ethan gave him an incredulous look. “And you don’t need them now? Man, it’s pissing down if you haven’t noticed.”
Harry had noticed. He pulled his collar higher and rode on. “So,” Ethan said after a moment. “What’s her name?”
Harry shrugged.
“She wouldn’t tell you?”
Harry shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”
“Well, where does she live?”
“She didn’t say.”
“What
did
she say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“God give me strength. And what did you say—no, don’t tell me, nothing, or as good as.”
“Not everybody is as garrulous as yourself, Delaney.”
“No, but, Harry, lad, even stumps have to talk if they’re to find themselves a woman.”
Harry said stiffly, “My aunt is finding me a wife as we speak.” He wasn’t “finding himself a woman.” The girl on the cart looked pathetic, that was all. And he just . . . gave away his hat.
“Your aunt,” Ethan said in deep disgust. “What kind of man gets his aunt to find him a bride?”
“A prudent one.”
Ethan made a rude sound. “And you with that pretty face of yours—why, the women line up for you, man!”
Harry snorted.
“I saw ’em at that ball for your brother’s weddin’, hangin’ around you like Spanish flies hang around meat. Now if it was me, with my ugly mug, I’d understand bringin’ in an aunt, but you . . .” He shook his head.
“They were about as welcome as Spanish flies,” Harry told him.
Ethan exploded with laughter. “Pull the other one, boyo. I heard you creepin’ in around dawn every other morning, smellin’ of some lovely’s perfume—and a different perfume every time.”
“That was the trouble,” Harry muttered.
“Lord grant me such trouble.”
“They didn’t want
me
,” Harry said.
“Could have fooled—”
“They weren’t even interested in talking to me.” They’d made Harry feel like a—what was the word the Italians had for it?—
gigolo
. Called to my lady’s bed at my lady’s whim, but never invited for dinner, never a ride in the park. And of course, never a dance, for with his bad leg he looked a sight on the dance floor.
“Talking?”
Ethan’s jaw dropped. “Oh, aye, you’re famed for your conversation, aren’t you?”
Harry gave him a look. Ethan laughed and patted Harry’s cheek. “As silver-tongued as the black stump you are, me lad, but at least the ladies appreciated your other qualities.”
Harry shrugged. “It was just bed sport.” They might have been ladies, but they’d never treated him as an equal, as a gentleman. Just a gentleman’s by-blow.
Ethan gave a deep sigh. “Just bed sport, eh? A terrible thing to endure.”
Harry couldn’t help but smile. “No, but it was harder than you think.”
Ethan glanced at Harry’s crotch and said, “Well, it would have to be, the amount of use it got.”
They both laughed. They rode in silence for a short while, then Harry said, “Every single one of them was married.”
“Well, that’s only reasonable, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want to be ruinin’ a virgin, now, would you? I’m sure those fine London ladies had done their duty by their husbands and produced an heir or two, so what’s the harm in them havin’ a little fun with a good-lookin’ young feller like yourself?”
Harry thought about it. “They’d made vows, Ethan.”
“Aye, but they’d probably no choice in the matter. You know how it is with the aristocracy—they arrange these things. It’s only lucky peasants like meself who get the luxury of marryin’ for love.”
Harry seized the opportunity to turn the conversation away from himself. “If it’s so wonderful, Ethan, why have you never married?”
“Too busy up till now, fightin’ wars for poor, mad Farmer George. But don’t you worry, I’ve got me eye on a little filly. I’ll be married before the year’s out, count on it.”
“You? Who?” Harry was surprised. He couldn’t think of anyone, any girl or woman who Ethan had been seeing lately. “Anyone I know?”
“Ah, well, that would be tellin’, and I won’t be tellin’ until the lass herself agrees.” He gave Harry a rueful grin. “She’s not an easy lass like yon London ladies—takin’ a great deal of difficult wooin’, my girl is.”
“Difficult wooing?” Harry couldn’t believe Ethan was serious. If Ethan was walking out with a woman, surely he’d have noticed.
“Aye, no doubt it’s a foreign concept for you, boyo, with that face of yours, but we lesser mortals are obliged to woo our intended. I’m gettin’ quite practiced at it—want me to give you a few pointers so you can woo a fine aristocratic lady of your own?”
Harry sniffed. “I’ve no time for lengthy wooing, and I have no intention of marrying a fine aristocratic lady who’ll happily make a cuckold of me in a few years. I’ve asked my aunt to find me a bride from the middle classes—they’re more moral than the aristocracy. Respectability is a passion in the middle classes.”
“But you’ll still be after makin’ an arranged marriage?”
“I suppose so.”
Ethan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m just bog Irish, so what I know about the aristocracy or the middle classes you could fit on the head of a pin, but it strikes me that any lass that’s been pushed into a marriage of convenience would be more likely to develop a wanderin’ eye a few years down the track than a lass that married for love.”
“I’m not marrying for love. It’s all rubbish, anyway.”
Ethan gave him a considering look. “Ah yes, I remember hearing something about that. Lady Andrea or Anthea—some name like that, wasn’t it?”
“I was a foolish boy then,” Harry said curtly. “I’m done with all that nonsense. I’m a practical man now.”
“Oh aye, of course you are,” Ethan agreed. “That’s why your hair is sopping wet and your hands are frozen.”
Harry gave him a sharp look, but before he could think of a word to say, Ethan was saying, “And here we are at the turnoff, so I’ll be biddin’ you good-bye. Good luck in Bath with your aunt and your respectable middle-class girls. I’ll be checkin’ on that horse, and I’ll let you know if I come across any likely properties for purchase on the way.” And with a wave, Ethan cantered away.
Nell Freymore tilted the man’s hat back and watched the handsome stranger ride off to join his friend.
What sort of man gave his own hat and gloves to an unknown female riding on the back of a cart? A bedraggled female at that.
He was a horseman, she could tell that from his horse, a magnificent, proud-stepping black Thoroughbred. And from the way he rode with an easy grace that could never be taught, as if he were born on horseback. Papa had ridden like that, before.
She’d noticed him well before he’d got close enough to see his face. She’d been watching his horse. She always noticed horses, couldn’t help it. And both his horse and that of his companion were exceptional animals; the black strong and with a long, graceful gait, and the roan ugly, but very powerful. Both horses looked to be very fast.
She wanted one of those horses. Quite desperately. They ate up the miles with such easy speed. It was agonizing being in the heavy dray, traveling at such a frustrating snail’s pace. All that could be said for it was that it was as fast as she herself could walk, and easier, because she’d been so very tired when the carter had offered her a ride. She was grateful for it, but oh, to be on a fast horse.
She watched the men, half hoping one of them would vanish and the spare horse would be left wandering, for Nell to catch and ride away on. She lived on such fantasies these days, dreaming her life was different. It was foolish she knew, but sometimes fantasy kept hopes alive.
She needed that more than anything.
As the horsemen came closer, she’d found herself dwelling on the taller one. There was something about him. His friend talked and smiled as they traveled, but he rode quietly, as if lost in his own thoughts. Self-contained.
She wasn’t sure what made her realize he was watching her. He was still quite a distance away when she knew. She felt it.
She’d pretended not to notice, had looked away, hadn’t wanted to met his eyes. She wasn’t as comfortable around men these days. She’d gazed up into the canopy, looking for a chink of blue sky.
It was always a hopeful sign, that glimpse of blue, but today the sky was as it had been for weeks. Gray. Cold, pitiless gray.
She’d intended to ignore him—them—as they passed, as if they weren’t there. His friend passed at a smooth, easy pace: a wink to her and cheery greeting to the carter up front and then he was gone.
But
he
had lingered, slowing, moving his horse closer and closer until he was so close she could smell his horse and the damp wool of his greatcoat. She couldn’t pretend any more that he wasn’t there.
Unwillingly, almost without volition, she’d dropped her gaze.
His eyes were as gray and somber as the sky, his gaze as intense as hard frost, burning into her. Scorching.
And then he’d given her his hat.
And then she’d really looked at him. At the hard masculine face sculpted by a master, the straight, arrogant nose, the thin, beautiful, chiseled lips. Masculine beauty incarnate.
It was one of those moments when time just slowed, seemingly endless, and yet afterward was over in a flash.
The whole exchange had lasted perhaps five minutes. He’d uttered a few words, she hadn’t even spoken. For once in her life her nimble, too-ready tongue had failed her; she had no idea why. And at the junction he’d given her one last burning look and cantered away.
She wasn’t sure what had passed between them, other than a hat, gloves, and a scant handful of words. But she’d never forget that face or those curious, cold gray eyes that burned.
Her frozen fingers tingled as slowly the feeling in them returned. The gloves were warm—warm from their fur lining and from the heat of his big, strong hands. They warmed her frozen fingers.
They warmed her bruised spirit even more. The kindness of a stranger. Unexpected. Incalculably touching.
Nell clung to the side of the lurching dray and impatiently watched the countryside slowly slipping by. It became more familiar with every mile. She needed to be home. She needed to be doing. All this slow traveling gave her too much time to think, brood, grieve.
She lifted her gaze to the dark tracery of the almost-denuded trees against the gray sky. Winter was coming. The world was dying around her.
No. No, it wasn’t. Nothing, nobody was dying. Only Papa had died. Only Papa. She had to believe it.
She was going home. She would be all right then. She’d get some money together and return to London. And this time she’d find her, find Torie . . .
Where there was life there was hope, they said.
Leaves, crimson and gold, drifted to the ground and lay buried in mud. And the questions, as always, churned unanswered in her mind.
Why, Papa, why? Why not tell me what you intended? Why pretend to believe me and then act in secret?
Evasions, lies, and secrets, always, all her life. And now when it was so important, when she needed to know more than life itself, it was too late. The knowledge gone with Papa to the grave, and only questions remaining.
Why, Papa, why?
The misty rain turned to a soft drizzle and dripped off the brim of the hat. Her face stayed dry. She was all out of tears anyway.
When she’d left home last, summer was bursting forth and the world was green and bursting with life. Now she was returning home, summer’s flowers had withered away, winter was returning, and the world was dying around her.
Nell ached with emptiness. It would be better when she was home. She could think more clearly there, work out what to do next.