Regency Proposal. Ann Lethbridge

out among a pile of rocks some distance from the keep.

      Once outside, the air was fresh and even felt warm compared to the dank chill below ground. As she hurried down the hill to the village, the stars gave her just enough light to avoid the worst of the ruts and it wasn’t many minutes before she was standing outside Ian’s house.

      A light in both ground-floor windows gave her hope she was in time. She banged on the door.

      From inside she heard the sound of coughing, but no one came to the door.

      She banged again.

      ‘Come in,’ a woman’s voice called out and the coughing started again. Mrs Gilvry. Did that mean Ian had left already?

      What should she say? Accuse this woman’s son of being a criminal? No doubt that would be well received. Perhaps she should just leave.

      ‘Come in,’ the voice called again, stronger this time.

      She could hardly leave the woman wondering who had knocked on her door and fearing for her safety. She pressed the latch and the door swung open.

      ‘In here,’ the voice said through an open door on her right.

      Selina entered the chamber, expecting a drawing room, and instead found a large four-poster bed containing a pallid-faced woman with greying hair tucked beneath a plain cap propped up against a pile of pillows.

      ‘Mrs Gilvry?’

      ‘Aye.’ Pale fingers tightened on the sheets under her chin. A pair of eyes the colour of spring grass regarded her gravely. Andrew and Logan had inherited those eyes. Ian must take after his father. ‘And who is it who comes calling in the dead of night?’ Her voice was wheezy, breathless.

      ‘Selina Albright. I am looking for your son, Ian. Is he home?’

      The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Ian, is it? And what would Albright’s daughter be doing looking for him at this time of night? Hasn’t your family done enough to our people?’

      The sins of the fathers were still being visited upon the children. ‘I need to give him a message.’

      The green eyes sharpened. ‘Is there trouble?’

      Selina nodded. ‘The Revenue men are out tonight.’

      The woman in the bed twisted her thin hands together. ‘I told him not to go.’

      ‘Ian?’

      ‘No, Logan. My youngest. He was supposed to stay with me, but he couldna’ resist. He followed his brothers not more than a half-hour ago. He’ll no listen to me any more. Am I to lose all of my sons?’

      Selina’s heart ached for the torture she heard in the woman’s voice. ‘Do you know where they went? I … I could warn them.’

      The woman looked at her with suspicion in her gaze. ‘Why would you do that?’

      She shrugged. ‘Ian is a friend.’ It was true, if not quite reflecting the nuance of their relationship. An uneasy friendship.

      The woman turned her head upon the pillow, staring at the fire, her mouth a thin straight line. Then she turned back to Selina. ‘It goes against the grain to trust an Albright. If you play me false, I will curse you for all of my days, however few they are.’

      Selina recoiled at the bitterness in the woman’s eyes. ‘Tell me where they are.’

      ‘Balnaen Cove.’

      The name tore at a scar she thought long ago healed, yet was now raw and fresh. Ian had taken her there once, the last time they’d met. They’d shared a kiss, a moment full of magic and dizzying sensations and walked the sand hand in hand, until his brothers had come across them. Then he’d heaped scorn on her head.

      She forced herself not to think of that day, but the task at hand. The cove was at least three miles from the village. She would not reach it by midnight. ‘Do you have a horse?’

      ‘There’s one in the stables. Take it if you must,’ Mrs Gilvry croaked. ‘But ‘tis no a friendly horse and there’s no one to help.’

      Of course it wasn’t. Nothing about the Gilvrys was friendly or helpful.

      ‘I’ll manage.’

      ‘Go through the kitchen and out of the back door.’

      The directions took her straight to the stable where a lantern flickered above the door. She took it inside with her and found three empty stalls and one full of a large black stallion. It shifted uneasily as she entered.

      A small shadow came out of the gloom, wagging its plumed tail. ‘You,’ she said, staring at her nemesis of a dog. ‘I might have guessed you’d be along to cause trouble.’

      She hung the lantern on a beam, found a bridle and bit and took them into the stall. The horse showed her the whites of its eyes. Not a good sign. Nor were the bared teeth.

      ‘Easy,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’ She patted its cheek and ran a hand down its wither. The blasted dog came wandering in. Troublesome creature. The dog sat at her feet and leant up against her leg.

      The stallion eyed it, then lowered its head. Nose to nose, the creatures greeted each other.

      The stallion calmed.

      She patted the dog’s head. ‘Well, now, is this some sort of formal introduction to your friend?’ It seemed so, for while the dog sat grinning, the great black horse allowed her to put on a bridle. But would he accept her on his back? Or was she just wasting time here? She might have walked a good way along the road by now.

      No time for a saddle. Nor could she do it by herself. A blanket she found over a rail would have to do. Riding a horse bareback? She wasn’t even sure she could. But she had to try. She led the stallion out to the mounting block in the yard and lunged onto its back, one hand gripping the reins, the other grasping the long black mane before it could object. It shifted, but didn’t bolt.

      The dog barked encouragement and shot out of the courtyard and into the lane. The horse followed.

      She kept the stallion at a trot. She daren’t go any faster through the village in case she attracted unwanted attention. The dog ran alongside.

      The bouncing made her teeth clack together and jarred her spine. As they passed the last cottage, she urged the horse into a gentle canter. Its long stride smoothed out and she felt a lot less like a sack of potatoes. Perhaps she really could make three miles without falling off.

      At the crossroads she hesitated. The right fork led to the path along the cliffs and a long gentle slope down to the cove. Straight ahead and she’d have to cut across country. The way down to the beach there was difficult and steep. It was quicker.

      Nose to the ground, the dog dashed straight ahead. The horse followed. It seemed as though her decision was made. Shorter and quicker was better.

      She let the stallion have his head and concentrated on retaining her balance and watching out for danger. After ten minutes or so, the dog veered off towards the sea. If there was a path, she couldn’t see it, but she urged the horse to follow and in no time at all, she could hear the steady roar and crash of surf. Salt coated her lips and she licked it away, inhaling the tang of seaweed. ‘Tangle’, the locals called that smell.

      If she remembered correctly, the rest of the way was rocky. Dangerous to a horse. She brought the animal to a halt and slid down. Her bottom was sore, but her injured leg easily held her weight. Riding astride, even bareback, was apparently easier on her leg than a ladies’ saddle.

      ‘Where are they, boy?’ she asked the dog, looking around warily. One thing she did not want to do was run into the Revenue men or, worse yet, Dunstan’s company of militia.

      The dog set off at a trot. She followed, leading the horse. Would she be in time?

      The dog circled her as if to assure her everything was all right. Or was