Dorchester Love Spell
April 2006
ISBN: 0505526735
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Cornwall, England, Midsummer’s eve, 1815
It happened in
the blink of an eye. One minute the
post chaise was tooling over the moor through the pouring rain at Becca’s insistence, the coachman making a valiant attempt
to escape the eminent pursuit of her father…or worse. The next, she lay dazed, upside down on top
of her unconscious abigail crushed against what
seconds before had been the roof of the upended equipage. The wheels were still spinning crazily,
shooting out water like fountains as the rain sluiced down into them. The groaning sound they made mingled with
the shrieks of the horses struck her with terror. Lightning speared down now in rampant
flashes snaking through the night sky.
It was visible through one of the carriage windows. The other was blocked. By what, Becca couldn’t tell, though it had
an earthy scent about it, detectable through a crack in the glass. She dared not try to right herself. The carriage wasn’t stable. Each time the horses’ shrill cries broke
the awful silence it shuddered and slipped a bit more. Had
it gone into a ditch? Where was the
coachman? Becca groaned. The slanted view of her predicament was
still in motion from the vertigo. Everything around
her seemed to undulate, like the pattern in her watered silk traveling
costume fetched up in tangled disarray about her middle. She tried to free her hands to pull it down
for the sake of modesty, but she had landed on one arm, and couldn’t reach
the hem with the other. “Do not move,” said a deep,
authoritative voice from somewhere above, certainly not the coachman’s
voice. This voice was cultured, with
traces of an accent Becca couldn’t place. She squinted
toward the window, trying to make his image come clear. He
seemed a phantom in that eerie setting. The carriage
lanterns were extinguished in the crash, and storm clouds had swallowed the
moon. Yet there was
an eerie luminosity about him, like a fluid silver aura in the ghostly
lightning flashes that lit his face so close to the rain-spattered glass.
“T-the
coachman…?” she murmured. He shook his
head, spraying water from the brim of his beaver hat. “Dead,”
he replied. “He has broken his neck in the fall.” Becca uttered a
strangled gasp. “You must stay
still,” he cautioned her. “Your carriage has
overturned on the edge of a steep-sided gorge above the River Fowey. If you
thrash about, it will go over, and you will surely perish. My man and I will free you, but you must
remain calm, and do exactly as I say.” “W-who…?” He smiled, and
uttered something in a foreign tongue.
“Count Klaus Lindegren at your service, my
lady,” he said, tipping his beaver. He was gone in a flash, barking orders
to another. Where had they come
from? She hadn’t heard a carriage
approach, and they certainly couldn’t have come on foot in such a storm, and
in such a desolate place. Cold chills
gripped her as she listened to his deep, mellow voice issuing commands. There was something comforting in the sound
of it, like the music cool water makes rushing over
pebbles in a stream. It was
soothing…almost hypnotic. In any other
circumstances it would have been a welcome sound. “Set the right
leader free!” he commanded. “Easy,
Sven! Hold the ribbons! Cut the tack if needs must, else he drive
the chaise over! See how the ground
crumbles? Quickly, man!” “I cannot hold
him, your excellency!” cried the other. “Cut him loose
and let him go, then! We shall deal
with him later.” “What of the
other?” “I shall attend
to the other. Quickly, I say! Can you not see? The coach is slipping!” Becca scarcely
breathed. Her heart was thudding
against her ribs, and she had begun to tremble so she feared the vibration
alone would cause the chaise to fall into the abyss. A shot rang out, and she screamed with a
lurch in spite of herself. The cry had
scarcely left her lips, when the count appeared at the window again, a
smoking pistol in his gloved hand. “All is well, my
lady,” he said, in that captivating accent. It was
like balm breaking over her frayed nerves. “It was
necessary that I put one of the horses out of its misery. Its leg was broken, and its floundering was
undermining the carriage. You are not
alone in there?” “My maid, your excellency.” He raised his
hand. “’My lord’ will suffice,” he
said, nodding past her toward the inert servant. “Is
she…?” “I do not
know. She is not conscious.” “Look into my
eyes, and listen carefully to what I am about to say,” he charged. It was like drowning in a silver sea. At least those piercing eyes looked silver
in the lightning’s glare, but then, so did the rest of him. All at once she
realized she must appear naked to him from the waist down, but for her thin
summer hose, the way her frock was hiked up barely covering her personals. His gaze riveted to hers, he seemed not to
notice. “Are you injured?” “N-no…just shaken about.” “Good!” he said. “I shall open the door. When I reach inside, grab fast to my hand,
and let me pull you clear.” “Only one of my
hands is free,” she cried. “As I raise you off the other, grab fast with both, but do not
move otherwise. Let me do the work. I will not deceive you.
The carriage is unstable. With
the horses removed, it has stopped pitching, but their floundering has
loosened the earth beneath you, and if you rock it…” “What of Maud?” “I beg your
Pardon?” “My abigail! What of
my abigail?” He was silent
apace. “First things first,” he
said. “Let me free you, my lady, and
then I shall see to your maid.” With no more
said, he thrust his pistol and gloves toward a shadowy form at his side that
Becca hadn’t noticed until that moment, and eased the staved-in carriage door
open. It was sprung in the crash, and the dreadful
sound it made ran Becca through like a javelin. His
hand appeared, the arm behind it sheathed in soggy black superfine. She gripped it, and it was as though she
had suffered a lightning strike. His
strength was unexpected, and her breath caught in her throat as he lifted her
through the gaping door with ease, and set her on her feet. Becca’s knees gave way, and she sagged against him. Her frock had fallen back about her ankles
as was proper, thank the stars and gravity, but not before he’d glimpsed what
lay beneath, she was certain. He
smelled clean, of the rain, of sweet cress, wild herbs, and the ghost of
recently drunk wine. The whole was threaded through
with his own distinct male essence, mysterious and evocative. It was a pleasant scent. She drank him in deeply. “Thank you, my
lord,” she murmured against his saturated lapel. The weather was warm, and he wore no
topcoat or mantle over his frock coat.
It was heavy with the weight of the rain slamming them in horizontal
sheets. She gasped. “You are soaked through, sir!” He popped a dry
grunt. “I have no fear of water, my
lady,” he said. Was there a hidden
meaning there…some private irony? His
mildly sarcastic tone suggested such.
It gave her pause for thought, but not for long. Catching a glimpse of the chaise, and the
dead horse unhitched beside it, she gasped again. “I have weathered many storms,” he went on,
leading her away from the edge, “but you shall catch your death in such
a…thin costume. Step inside my
carriage. There is a warm robe in the
boot.” He snapped his fingers. “Sven!” he said. “Fetch the fur robe for the lady.” The coachman scrambled toward the count’s
carriage, but Becca dug in her heels. “What of Maud?” “I shall fetch
your maid,” he said, handing her into a well-appointed brougham. Snatching the carriage robe from Sven’s outstretched
hand, he tucked it around her. “Forgive the
familiarity, my lady,” he said. “Extreme
circumstances call for bold measures if I am to see to your comfort. I shall be back directly.” “What are you
going to do?” Becca called after him. “I am going to
climb inside and fetch your abigail,” he said,
“before the chaise goes over the edge and takes her with it. Forgive me, but we have no time to spare.” “You cannot
climb into that carriage!” Becca shrilled. He was tall and slender, a fine figure of a
man, but far too muscular to attempt such a fete. “You
will both be killed!” “And if I do
not, who then?” he returned, standing arms-akimbo in the teeming rain. He didn’t even seem to notice it. At least he made no sign that he did. “She cannot climb out on her own, and Sven
here is far too portly. I do not see
any other about, do you?” Just then, the
chaise shifted on the spongy ground, and Becca cried out again. “Fear not, my
lady,” he replied to the sound. “All
will be well.” Then with a nod toward
Sven, he sketched a bow in her direction, clicked the heels of his
mud-spattered Hessians, and strode off toward the teetering chaise, with his
man in tow. Becca watched
with breath suspended, as the count thrust his beaver hat toward his driver,
and disappeared inside the gaping mouth of the carriage, poised like a
wounded beast ready to gobble him whole.
Lightning speared down all around them and streaked across the
moor. The storm was stalled overhead,
and in the glare of white light flashes, she saw what must have caused the
chaise to go over—a large blackened tree limb evidently sheared off by
lightning was blocking the road. It
must have spooked the horses. She gave
it only passing notice. It didn’t
matter anymore. The only thing that did
was that her strange, hypnotic savior was risking his life for a total
stranger. Her father and the whole
debacle she had left behind were forgotten then, as she sat wrapped in the
sumptuous fur robe, pleading with the darkness inside the chaise teetering on
the brink to give birth to the count’s handsome head emerging. She wasn’t made
to suffer long. Minutes passed that
seemed like hours before movement stirred the blackness that had swallowed
him. But it was not
his strong silhouette, but Maud’s that cleared the door as he eased her into
Sven’s arms. The count had no
sooner gotten clear himself when the chaise, groaning like a living thing,
slipped and pitched and tumbled over the edge into the ravine in the midst of
a mud slide of loose earth raining down. Then came
the thunder of impact, as it bounced off the rocky wall—once, twice—and the
thud and splash of displaced water, as it crashed into the river below. The rumble echoed after it, and Becca
buried her face in the fur robe and shuddered, realizing how close she had
come to death on that lonely stretch of land on Bodmin
Moor. Sven laid the
unconscious maid on the seat, and the count climbed in beside Becca across
the way. He wasn’t even winded for the
exertion, and she marveled at his stamina, getting a good look at him for the
first time without the hat casting shadows that not even the lightning could
chase. He seemed a man in his mid to
late thirties. The wavy hair plastered
wet to his forehead was chestnut in color, except for a broad streak in front
that appeared to have been bleached nearly white by the sun. His eyes, deep-set, and mesmerizing, were
not silver as she’d first thought, but a steely shimmering blue, the color of
clear seawater, tucked beneath sun-bleached brows. All else paled before those dazzling
eyes. They seemed to see into her
soul. “My cottage lies
there—” he gestured “—at the edge of the wood.” How odd.
The chaise had passed right by that stretch before the accident, and
she hadn’t noticed a cottage…but there was one now. She saw it clearly in the lightning’s glare. Cottage, indeed!
It was a rambling, three-story Tudor at the edge of the grove. How could she have missed such a
structure? “I shall conduct you there
safely,” he went on, “and then, while we see to your maid, my man shall
return to deal with your coachman and the poor horse I have shot, and
retrieve the other that we have set free.”
It wasn’t until then, that Becca noticed the bulk of a corpse beneath
a tarpaulin by the side of the road.
She shuddered again, and he wrapped his arm around her. “You are cold…more due to shock than the
climate, yes? Hmmm.” He took up his walking stick from the
floor—something else she hadn’t noticed—and thumped the brougham roof. “Home, Sven!” he called. “Hyaahh!” Sven shouted,
and the restless horses pranced off with a clatter of jingling tack, and
hooves clopping in mud. “My lord, I
cannot allow—” “Nonsense!” he
interrupted. “How can you not? This woman here needs tending, and I have a
fine staff at your disposal, at least until you are both fit to travel. Now, then!
You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. Who, may I ask is it that I have just had
the pleasure of rescuing upon my fortuitous journey…home?” “Becca…Lady
Rebecca Gildersleeve, my lord,” she said
low-voiced, “—and my abigail Maud Ammen.” He gave a
satisfied nod. “Well, Lady Rebecca Gildersleeve, you will be happy to know that my man was
able to retrieve one of your portmanteaux earlier, whilst distributing the
weight on the chaise. The night is
young. We shall deliver your maid into
the capable hands of my housekeeper, Anne-Lise, the
next best thing to a surgeon in these parts, by the way, and I shall have one
of my maids help you change into something dryer. Then
we shall talk, umm?” Becca
nodded. There was no use to
protest. Where else was she to
go? Besides, her father would never
find her tucked away in the wilds of the Cornish moors. She suffered a bittersweet pang thinking of
her father then. But no, she wouldn’t
dwell upon all that now. She’d made
the only decision she could have made if she were to escape his plans for her
future. There was no turning back. She was safe enough…for now, and she
couldn’t very well leave Maud. Leaning back
against the plush squabs, she shut her eyes to the vertigo that hadn’t left
her, and pulled the carriage robe closer.
It held his scent as well—clean and fresh with the fragrance of herbs
and sea grass. She inhaled, and a soft
moan escaped her throat. When she
first set eyes upon her strange host through the chaise window, she’d feared,
in her semi-conscious haze, that he was the specter, Death, come to collect
her. It was good to be alive. |
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© Dawn Thompson
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