A Scandalous Situation. Patricia Rowell Frances

of a scrape, haven’t you, old fellow? We’d best get you out before you’re much older, or I’m likely to find myself in the same case.”

      Rob studied the hillside above him with narrowed eyes. Not very high, but very steep and almost devoid of vegetation, the escarpment was crowned by a long, sheer rock precipice. The surprisingly mild day had softened the snow, causing the slide, but soon it would freeze solid once more. He could feel the temperature dropping. The rising wind blew sparkling flurries from the crest against a mounting backdrop of blue-gray clouds. Another storm. Matters were going from bad to worse.

      At any moment the wind might trigger another small avalanche. Rob pulled the knife out of the top of his boot. At a sharp hiss of indrawn breath behind him, he looked over his shoulder.

      “What are you doing?” The lady’s already pale face had gone deathly white. The previously steady hands that held the pistol now trembled. Not a good sign.

      Rob straightened and frowned. “Ma’am, please. Lower your weapon. I have no wish to end this misadventure with a bullet lodged in me. I must cut the straps loose from the shafts, and I have no time to waste dealing with frozen buckles.”

      “I…” She took a deep breath and stilled her shaking. The pistol wavered, finally pointed at the ground. “Yes, of course. Please proceed.”

      Rolling his eyes skyward, Rob went back to his task. What ailed the woman? Fear was writ in every tense line of her slender body, her clenched hands, her taut face. Surely he had done nothing to inspire it? Except… Yes, he had drawn his knife. Until that moment she had been merely wary, but now she looked terrified. Why?

      Tabling that question for a more opportune moment, Rob turned back to the task of calming the small horse and delivering it from its entanglement. This he accomplished with a few efficient strokes of his blade. Pausing only long enough to sheath the knife and pick up the handle of a rectangular leather case that had spilled out of the gig, he led the badly limping cob toward its mistress.

      “I’m afraid your horse has strained a tendon. He will not be able…”

      A deep rumble and a faint vibration of the earth were all the warning he had. Rob dropped the reins of the cob and launched himself at the woman. Neither thinking nor pausing, he scooped her up across his shoulder and ran, his powerful legs slicing through the soft snow. The pistol went flying and discharged with a loud crack. Both horses galloped ahead of him, whinnying in fright. A wall of rocks, earth and half-frozen snow roared down the slope, picking up speed as it came. Rob doubled his effort, desperately traversing the hillside, trying to get them out of the main path of the slide.

      Suddenly, he tripped, and both of them went sprawling.

      He flung himself over the woman, trying to hold the leather case over his own head. A rock struck it and bounced away. Another. A clod of dirt and ice hit his shoulder and icy slush filled his boot and trickled inside his collar. Great God! Were they buried?

      Time seemed to stretch interminably as the roaring mass came ever closer. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the roar came to an abrupt halt. Near panic, Rob thrust himself upward. To his untold relief his head and upper body emerged into a startling silence. Carefully he sat up and looked around him.

      And shuddered.

      He lay just beyond the edge of a huge pile of debris that now filled a section of the shallow valley. The overturned gig could no longer be seen at all. The road disappeared under the heap of snow and dirt. Rob pulled his leg free of the mass and turned to the still-recumbent lady. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”

      She lay as if frozen, her eyes tightly shut, her skin completely devoid of color. For the first time Rob had the opportunity for a close look. She was younger than he had thought. The silvery hair peeping from under the hood of her ermine coat had misled him. She had the unlined face of a very young woman, no older, surely, than her mid-twenties. She didn’t move.

      “Miss? Miss!” Alarmed now by her pallor, he shook her shoulder gently. Had he knocked the breath out of her? “Miss, can you speak?”

      Her eyelids fluttered and Rob found himself staring into eyes as deep a violet as the mountain sky. Their clarity took his breath away. And his voice. “Uh… Uh, miss…” He cleared his throat. “Are you injured?”

      She took a long breath and swallowed. “No… No, I do not believe I am.”

      She struggled to sit and Rob quickly got to one knee and offered his hand. She regarded it gravely for a moment, then put her fingers in his and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet as he stood. She glanced about, looking bewildered. “What happened to my carriage?”

      “I’m afraid it is now completely buried.”

      “And my pistol?”

      Rob shrugged. Just as well to see the last of the pistol. “I have no idea.” He stamped the snow from his boots and brushed it off his clothes, gazing around for the horses. “But I believe it is best that we make haste away from here.”

      “But where…?” The lady turned in a circle, searching the buried road. The strengthening wind molded her damp coat to her slight frame, and she shivered. A few flakes of fresh snow danced around her.

      “My home is there, atop the cliff.” Rob indicated, a little distance away, the outline of an old fortress against the growing clouds.

      The lady’s eyes widened. “The Eyrie? I thought it unoccupied.”

      “It has been for some years. I have just recently returned from India. I’m Robert Armstrong.”

      “Baron Duncan?”

      “The same.”

      “I see. I…” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am Iantha Kethley.” She did not offer her hand.

      Nor did she smile.

      Ah, well. Not exactly the reward the gallant rescuer of a beautiful maiden in distress might wish for. At least, she might be a beautiful maiden had she deigned to smile.

      Whistling for his bay, he retrieved the cob from where it stood forlornly a few yards away and ran his hand expertly down its leg. “We will both have to use my horse. Your poor pony is considerably the worse for two narrow escapes. Let me mount first, and I will lift you up before me.”

      “Uh…” The fear flickered once more in those remarkable eyes. “No. That is… I prefer to ride behind you. I will mount first.”

      “But the road is very steep. You will likely slide off. It would be far safer—”

      “I will ride behind.” Her lifted chin took on a stubborn tilt.

      Rob sighed. “As you wish. We have no time for argument.” He glanced at the lowering sky and got a face full of snow for his trouble. “Whatever we do, we’d best do it soon. That storm will be upon us in earnest very shortly.”

      As he was about to lift her, she stopped him again, backing away from him. “My paints.” She pointed to the leather case. “I will carry them.”

      “Your paints?” Rob smothered a snort of exasperation. “Very well. As soon as you are seated.” He caught her before she could make yet another objection, his broad hands all but encompassing her fragile waist. She seemed almost to float upward as he set her sideways behind the saddle. Handing up the case when she had settled herself, he gathered up the cob’s reins and mounted his own horse awkwardly, swinging his foot over the animal’s head. The bay sidled, signaling his annoyance at this unorthodox procedure.

      Rob settled into the saddle, only to be jabbed between the shoulder blades by something sharp. Now what? Turning, he realized that his damsel in distress had placed the paint case between herself and his sturdy back and was trying to hold on to him around it. That was the outside of enough!

      “Give me that!” He unceremoniously yanked the case out of her grasp and balanced it across the saddle in front of him with one hand. “Now hold on to me. We have no time for this nonsense.”