Bound by Duty. Diane Gaston

in insurrection.

      All for king and country.

      Unrest was not widespread. The French, like the British, were fatigued with war. Mark had made his reports. No more would be asked of him.

      It was time to face more personal matters.

      Time to face again the fact that his brother would never again grin at him from across the dinner table and his best friend would never again come to call. When he was pretending to be Monsieur Renard, citoyen ordinaire of France, he could almost forget that Lucien, his brother, had been gone for four years and Charles, not quite three. Whenever he returned, though, he half-expected to see them walk through the door when he was home.

      Grief shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

      Foolish Lucien. Reckless Charles. They’d died so needlessly.

      Marc willed his emotions to cool, lifting his face to the rain that was already chilling his bones. Best to keep emotions in control. When deep in espionage, it could save his life; back in London, it might save his sanity.

      Good God. Was the near-freezing 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