Major Wyclyff's Campaign (A Lady's Lessons, Book 2) (4 page)

He waited, expecting the woman to drop the furniture and immediately flee. Most sane people did when he used that tone of voice. But she merely lifted her head and frowned at him.

"I am burying corsets," she said calmly. "And you are in the way."

"I beg your pardon?" he said stiffly. Then he squinted, trying to shield his eyes from the glare of the torch while still seeing her clearly. He only partly succeeded. He saw a white, breathless smile and long, dirty legs exposed by a rip in a shapeless smock.

"My corsets. I never liked them, you know. Awful contraptions." Then she straightened. "And you are ruining it. Go away."

Anthony frowned. Something about her voice teased at him, reminding him of... But he shook his head. The woman could not be Sophia. His future wife would never be out of doors at such an hour, acting like a Bedlamite. Right now, she was no doubt drinking tea, her maiden aunt probably nearby, reading aloud books of poetry. In the meantime, this thief seemed intent on making off with her furnishings.

"Put everything back!" he ordered, brandishing his sword.

"I will not!" she snapped.

Furious, Anthony jumped from his saddle, intent on forcing the woman to comply. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his already strained leg, but he ignored it as he took a threatening step forward.

Except the ground was uneven, the earth soft and muddy from the recent rains. It eroded beneath his feet. "Wha—!" was all he managed as he stumbled and slipped into a deep pit. His sword went flying, as well as his grip on anything solid. He was rolling end over end, but then he abruptly stopped, landing on his shoulder at the very bottom.

"Oh, bother!" he heard her exclaim from above him. "Really, you must get out so I can throw in the escritoire."

He ignored her words, having already concluded that the woman was mad. Still, even madwomen could be dangerous, and he was bound to protect Sophia, even from the likes of this deranged creature. He pulled himself painfully to his feet, frowning as he felt strange items beneath him. He felt fabric and ribbons, but then his hand ran across an item sticking straight out. It was long and hard and had the unmistakable feel of bone.

Bone? The very thought was chilling.

"What is in here?"

It was at that moment that he chanced to look up. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing?" It was a stupid question. He could see quite clearly what she was doing. She was still dragging what he now saw was a large and rather heavy desk—right toward the lip of the pit.

"Stop that!" he roared.

"But if I get this on the very edge, you can climb up. Do not worry about scratching it. I intend to bury it in any event. It is a silly thing with all sorts of nonsense cubbies perfect for the inane correspondence that I wrote day after miserable day. Truly, what can be more symbolic than getting rid of it?"

Then she grunted, clearly straining as she pushed the heavy wooden piece to the edge of the hole. Anthony watched in horror as the item teetered. Good lord, if it tumbled down on him, it would kill him immediately. And she likely couldn't see where he was.

"Have a care not to come too close until I have it settled!" she called needlessly, but Anthony wasn't listening. He was well beyond the point of being careful. He was already scrambling out of the muddy pit as fast as his injury would allow.

"No! Wait—" she cried as she saw him.

But it was too late. In her efforts to help him, she lost control of the desk. With a ponderous groan, it shifted and began slipping, heading directly toward him.

Fortunately, he was prepared. Jumping rapidly out of the way, he narrowly missed being clubbed in the head by one of the desk's legs as it crashed past. Unfortunately, the madwoman was also reaching for him, effectively blocking his best escape route up to solid ground. He scrambled, and she reached. He grasped her helping hand and pulled hard, using all his strength to escape the now tumbling desk.

It was too much. She was stronger than she looked. With her pull and his push, he practically shot out of the pit. Then, before either could adjust, they were flying together, tumbling through the mud, rolling one on top of each other as they fell away from the hole.

It was a few seconds before he could stop their movements, and by that time, they were both covered in filth and gasping for air. He'd landed on top, her long, pliant body warm beneath him, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Well, this certainly was not part of the ritual," she said with a low chuckle. The sound was rich, and despite the circumstances, he could not stop his reaction. His body heated as her movements played against it.

He meant to speak, but all he could manage was a strangled groan as he slowly tried to shift off of her. The strain of their acrobatics had set his leg to burning with the intensity of a brand, and despite the enticements of his current resting place, his awkward position only intensified the pain. He had to get off of her, but the slightest movement sent bolts of agony through him.

Nevertheless, he persevered, gritting his teeth as he struggled to respectfully disentangle himself from her. It was agony on many different levels, and he was soon sweating with the strain.

She remained silent throughout the entire wriggling and shifting experience, no doubt as aware as he was of her every curve and hollow. But before he could disengage from her completely, he felt the soft tremors invade her body, the slight gasps and jerks as she began to cry.

"Damn," he said softly, feeling extremely awkward as he finally rolled onto the soft grass nearby. "Where did I hurt you?"

His question produced a fresh surge of muffled sounds, and there passed some few moments before he realized she was laughing, not crying. By that time, her hilarity was quite audible as she guffawed like a soldier in his first drunk.

"Madame," he began.

"My, but I have done it correctly now!" she said between laughs. "I have actually cavorted upon the ground with a man!" She curled on her sides, holding them tight as the laughter poured out of her.

"Madame!" he said stiffly. "I rescued you from tumbling into the pit. I certainly did not cavort—"

"Yes," she interrupted. "Yes, you did! And I heartily thank you for the experience. It was the perfect ending for my ritual." She pushed halfway up from the ground, her weight resting on her elbow, as she continued to giggle. "Aunt Agatha will be so proud of me! Do say you will come for tea."

Anthony blinked as he stared at the long column of her neck. Clearly, she had lost her mind. He sat up slowly, keeping his injured leg straight before him. Then he patted her hand, trying to make the touch reassuring. "Give me a moment to rest, then I shall help you bury... whatever it is you lost."

She lifted her head as she focused on him. "Lost? Whatever do you mean? Did you lose something?" Then she looked about her, scanning the woods as if to find some item hidden beyond the trees.

"Of course, I have not lost anything!" he said, exasperation making his voice short. "You have!"

She turned and stared at him.

"The bones," he clarified. "In the pit."

"Bones?" she asked, clearly confused. Then, suddenly, her expression brightened. "Oh, those. What about them?"

He was perilously close to shouting. "Whose bones are you trying to bury?"

She merely blinked at him. "I have no idea whose bones those are. Some poor whale, I believe, sacrificed for the sole purpose of torturing me."

Her words made no sense, but he sifted through the nonsense to light upon one word. "Whale?"

"Yes. Those are whalebones. From my corsets."

"Your corsets?"

"Exactly!" She clapped her hands, as if he were some slow student only now catching on to his sums.

It was too much for him. He exploded, leaning forward despite new bolts of pain in his leg. "Do you mean to tell me you nearly killed me so that you could bury your corsets?"

"And my boots. And my escritoire," she responded calmly. "We must not forget the escritoire. It was extremely heavy."

Then, in the single most irritating moment of an entirely unbelievable conversation, the most terrible thing happened.

He recognized her.

Chapter 2

Anthony frowned at Sophia.

She had changed drastically. Her stunningly beautiful blond locks had been haphazardly cut away. Her long, regal body lay sprawled across the muddy ground. Her elegant clothing was now a smudged and torn smock. And her cool, sweet face looked at him as if he were the one who had lost his mind. But he recognized her, nonetheless.

"Good God, Lady Sophia, what has happened to you?"

She blinked, slowly sitting up straight as she focused on his face. The torches shed enough light for her to peer closely at him. He no doubt looked different than the ravaged face and wasted body she remembered. He was no longer in a hospital, his body thin and wracked with fever.

"Major? You are alive!" Her whisper confirmed his darkest thoughts. This tormented soul before him was indeed his angel of mercy, his Sophia, his intended bride. He saw her gaze travel the length of his body, skipping to his injured kg.

"It hurts," he said before she could ask, "but it is whole. I hope to regain full use in time. Indeed, I can ride again." He glanced back to where Demon waited patiently at the edge of the clearing.

"Thank God," she said. "Oh, thank God," she repeated, her voice shaking with the force of her emotion. Then she reached out a slender hand only to leave it hovering over his injury without touching him.

He smiled as he reached out and pressed her hand down to land softly upon his leg. How many nights had he dreamed of just this? Of her touch, warm and soothing on his pain. "It is quite whole," he said. "Though I am supposed to rest it, not scramble out of pits."

She did not seem to catch his mild admonishment. Indeed, she was still staring at him, her eyes wide with stunned amazement. "They told me you died. They were most specific."

"They were wrong. I am well."

She shook her head. "They were very clear."

"They were wrong," he repeated. Then he smiled. "I recovered. Thanks to your promise."

It took a few more moments of her staring at him, looking at his face, then his leg, then his entire body, but eventually she seemed to accept that he was real. That he was alive. She burst into tears.

Tender feelings flooded his soul. Reaching out, he gently pulled her into his arms, gathering her close as he stroked her trembling shoulders. "Shhh, my lady," he whispered. "The nightmare is over. I am whole."

She wrapped her arms around him, tightening their embrace, as if still reassuring herself of his strength. He held her quietly, caressing her arm in long strokes, allowing himself to relish every second of their reunion.

"I could not have done it alone," he murmured against her hair. "Your promise kept me alive. You gave me hope when nothing else mattered." Her sobs were subsiding now, her body stilling as she began to compose herself. "Oh, Sophia," he whispered as he dropped a gentle kiss on her brow. "I have waited for you forever."

She raised her head, tilting her face toward him. He helped her move, shifting her to a better position, one that allowed their mouths to touch. To kiss. But before he could claim her lips, she spoke.

"Promise? What promise?"

He felt his breath freeze in his body. There it was: the hard reality that Sophia did not remember their engagement. It cut at him more than the sword that had crippled his leg. More than the fever that had ravaged his body. And more than the knowledge that his entire future was now in question.

But how could he be surprised? Looking at the dirty creature in his arms, he knew she was unbalanced. Her mind was unhinged, perhaps by the very event that had separated her from him in the first place.

Naturally, he could understand. Upon hearing the false news that her fiance had perished, Sophia's delicate constitution became overbalanced. She was distraught. So much so that she quit the fashionable whirl for a lifetime of mourning in Staffordshire. Now the shock of his recovery was too much for her delicate sensibilities.

All he needed to do was gently remind her of what had occurred. Of her promise to wed him. Then, her mind would naturally return to the calm demeanor which was its natural state.