Bound by Duty. Diane Gaston

rain begetting gloomy thoughts as well as soaking him to the bone? Concentrate on the road and on his poor horse. Slogging through muddy, rut-filled roads was a battle, even for the sturdy fellow.

      The stallion blew out a breath.

      ‘Hard going, eh, Apollo?’ Marc patted the horse’s neck.

      He’d hoped to reach Peterborough by nightfall, but that was not in the cards in this weather. He’d be lucky to make the next village, whatever that was, and hope its inn had a room with a clean bed.

      The rain had forced him off the main route and he and Apollo were inching their way through any roads that remained passable.

      The delay did not bother him overmuch. No one was expecting him. He’d not informed his parents he was coming to town. Let it be a surprise.

      Marc dreaded the family visit, always, but it was time to take his place as heir, now that duty did not call him elsewhere. He’d call upon Doria Caldwell, Charles’s sister, and make official what had been implied between them since Charles was killed. He owed that much to Charles.

      Besides, the Caldwell family, now consisting only of her and her father, was so ordinary and respectable—and rational—he would relish being a part of it.

      Lightning flashed through the sky and thunder boomed. Was he now to be struck by real lightning, instead of being struck figuratively?

      He must be near a village; he’d been riding long enough. Gazing up ahead, he hoped to see rooftops in the distance or a road sign or any indication that shelter might be near, but the rain formed a grey curtain that obscured all but a few feet in front of him. What’s more, the curtain seemed to move with him, keeping him engulfed in the gloom and making his eyelids grow heavy.

      Lightning flashed again and he thought he’d seen someone in the road. He peered harder until through the curtain of rain a figure took form. It was a woman on foot, not yet hearing his horse coming up from behind.

      ‘Halloo, there!’ he called out. ‘Halloo!’

      The woman, shrouded in a dark cloak, turned and waved her hands for him to stop.

      As if any gentleman could pass by.

      He rode up to her and dismounted. ‘Madam, where are you bound? May I offer some assistance?’

      She looked up at him. She was a young woman, pretty enough, though her face was stiff with anxiety and exhaustion. ‘I want to go to Tinmore Hall.’ It seemed an effort for her to speak.

      ‘Point the way,’ he responded. ‘I’ll carry you on my horse.’

      She shook her head. ‘No use. Floods. Floods everywhere. Cannot get there. Cannot get to the village.’ Her voice shook from the cold.

      He extended a hand. ‘Come. I’ll lift you on to my horse.’ Her cloak was as wet as if it had been pulled from a laundry bath. Her hat had lost any shape at all. Worse, her lips were blue. ‘We’ll find a place to get you dry.’

      She nodded, but there was no expression in her pale eyes.

      She handed him a sodden parcel which he stuffed in one of his saddlebags. He lifted her on to Apollo and mounted behind her. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you feel secure?’

      She nodded again and shivered from the cold.

      He encircled her in his arms, but that offered little relief from the cold. He took the reins. Poor Apollo, even more burdened now, started forward again.

      ‘I am not from here.’ He spoke loudly to be heard through the rain’s din. ‘How far to the next village?’

      She turned her head. ‘Lost. Yardney—cannot find it.’

      Yardney must be a nearby village. ‘We’ll find it.’ He’d been telling himself he’d find a village this last hour or more.

      She shivered again. ‘Cold,’ she said. ‘So cold.’

      He’d better find her shelter quickly and get her warm. People died of cold.

      She leaned against him and her muscles relaxed.

      He rode on and found a crossroads with a sign pointing to Kirton.

      ‘See?’ he shouted, pointing to the sign. ‘Kirton.’

      She did not answer him.

      A little further on, the road was filled with water. He turned around and backtracked until he came to the crossroads again, taking the other route. Someone was farming the lands here. There must be houses about.

      If only he could see them through the rain.

      The road led to a narrower, rougher road, until it became little more than a path. He followed it as it wound back and forth. Hoping he was not wasting more precious time, he peered ahead looking for anything with a roof and walls.

      A little cottage appeared in front of them. No candles shone in the windows, though. No smoke rose from the chimney. With luck it would be dry.

      ‘Look!’ he called to his companion, but she did not answer.

      Apollo gained a spurt of energy, cantering to the promise of shelter. As they came closer, a small stable also came into view and he guided Apollo to its door. He dismounted carefully, holding on to her. She slipped off, into his arms. Lifting her over his shoulder, he unlatched the stable door. Apollo walked in immediately.

      Marc lay the woman down on a dry patch of floor. ‘Cold,’ she murmured, curling into a ball.

      At least she was alive.

      He turned back to his horse, patting him on the neck. ‘She comes first, old fellow. I’ll tend to you as soon as I can.’

      He left the stable and hurried up to the door of the cabin. He pounded on it, but there was no answer and the door was locked. He peered in a window, but the inside was dark. Reaching in a pocket inside his greatcoat, he pulled out a set of skeleton keys—what self-respecting spy would be without skeleton keys? He tried several before one clicked and the latch turned.

      The light from outside did little to illuminate the interior of the cabin, but Marc immediately spied a fireplace and a cot with folded blankets atop it. It was enough.

      He hurried back to the stable.

      Apollo whinnied at his return. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, old fellow.’

      He lifted the woman again, her sodden garments making her an even heavier burden. She groaned as he put her over his shoulder and hurried back through the rain to the cabin door.

      His first task was to get her wet clothes off. He placed her on the floor where it would not matter if her clothes left a puddle. After tossing off his greatcoat, he worked as quickly as he could, cutting the laces of her dress and her corset and stripping her down to her bare skin.

      She tried to cover herself, but not out of modesty. ‘Cold,’ she whimpered.

      She was a beauty. Full, high breasts, narrow waist and long, shapely legs. He swallowed at the sight, but allowed himself only a glance before grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her. He carried her to the cot and wrapped the second blanket around her.

      By this time his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room. He saw a stack of wood and kindling and a scuttle of coal. On top of the fireplace were tapers and a flint. He hurried to make a fire. When it burned well enough, he flung his greatcoat around him again and ran back out in the rain to tend to Apollo.

      The stable was well stocked with dry cloths and brushes. He dried off the poor horse as best he could, covering him with a blanket. There was hay, which Apollo ate eagerly, and a pump from which Marc drew fresh water to quench Apollo’s thirst.

      ‘There you are, old fellow.’ He stroked Apollo’s neck. ‘That is all I can do for you. Soon the rain must stop and, with luck, we will be on our way before night falls. For now, eat and rest and I will check on you later.’

      Marc