Redeeming Lord Ryder. Maggie Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ treated differently than some of the other Guests had been. Apparently it was forbidden to contact the “Outside World” by mail or telegram or anything else during the course of one’s stay here. But letters flowed freely back and forth to Bath, not that she had very much to report.

      Nothing ever happened in Puddling. There were five intertwining streets, and Nicola knew every house and shop, all five of them, by now. Everyone had been so welcoming. She was often stopped and given biscuits or balls of yarn or books by the friendly villagers and their children. She wished she could say thank you, but had to make do with her most sincere smiles.

      Oh, she was feeling sorry for herself, and that was pointless. She’d go out for a short second walk, not too far. The sun would set over the Cotswold Hills in about an hour, but fresh air would do her good. Bring roses to her cheeks, which the mirror told her were as pale as the moon. Then she’d put her pie in the oven. Eat. Wash her dishes. Get on her knees. Go to bed.

      How boring it all was.

      Which it was meant to be. Evidently the Puddling governors believed that a strict routine was the key to recovery. No excesses of any kind. Which suited Nicola, as she was not an excessive sort of person.

      Although the cottage had a small generator—and all sorts of modern conveniences, for it was the newest and most luxurious of the Guest residences, which wasn’t really saying much—she was a little afraid of it. She preferred the golden glow of lamp oil instead of the harsh, erratic electric light. She extinguished the lamp on the desk and banked the fire. Her fur-lined coat hung on a hook by the front door, and she slid her stockinged feet into her old shoes.

      A brisk gust of wind almost knocked her down in the front garden. The koi she’d seen in the autumn were asleep under a skim of ice on their pond, and the bare branches were stark against the graying sky. Would she be here in the spring to see the garden awake? According to Mrs. Grace, most Guests were enrolled in the program for twenty-eight days. Nicola had been here over twice as long, and was no closer to a cure.

      Would they let her stay indefinitely? She knew more cottages were being built for additional Guests, having passed the new construction on her walks. She didn’t want to take up a valuable spot for someone who truly needed it.

      She might be a lost cause. She wasn’t sure the routine and all the kindness she’d been shown was helping her whatsoever.

      Nicola closed the gate behind her and took the stone steps down to the cobbled lane. Adjusting her hood, she headed away from the heart of the village, toward the bottom of Honeywell Lane. The fitful gurgle of Puddling Stream was audible the closer she got, and frost-covered hills were before her. Sheep foraged for grass through the snow and bleated plaintively—country sights and sounds she didn’t experience in busy Bath. It was all very comforting.

      Until her foot hit a patch of ice and she slipped, tumbling ignominiously to her bottom.

      The pain in her twisted ankle was excruciating, but even though her mouth was open, there was no noise.

      Damn.

      It was difficult to get purchase to raise herself. She must look comical, rolling about the street like an overfed seal, her gloves and knees sodden. Nicola didn’t know whether to smile—since laughter was out of her reach—or cry at her predicament.

      Her decision was halted by the rapid footfalls behind her. She turned to warn the runner to be careful, but of course, no words came out.

      The gentleman was luckier than she had been. He remained upright and over her, a concerned look on his face.

      His rather handsome face. Nicola felt herself go hot. No white moon face anymore, she’d wager. She was always betrayed by her blushes.

      “Are you all right, miss?”

      She nodded violently. A lie. Suddenly shy, she wanted him to go away and leave her alone to wallow in the slush.

      “Let me help you up.”

      She shrugged and he pulled her up by both hands. The weight on her ankle was too much, and she buckled before the man caught her.

      “You’re not all right! Is it your ankle?”

      Nicola nodded again.

      “Cat got your tongue? Go ahead, be unladylike and scream. I won’t mind a bit. And lean on me. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

      Oh, it wasn’t that she was afraid of him. It was always so mortifying to have to explain her condition to strangers. She had a little card in her pocket for just such occasions.

      But if he was a normal resident of Puddling, he should know all about her, shouldn’t he? The entire village was a sort of lovely, lush hospital, and everyone knew everything. There were explicit dossiers on each Guest. Nicola had been permitted to read her own and invited to embellish it with any suggestions she thought might be useful to her improvement.

      “I’ll help you home.” There was no arguing with that statement; she needed the help.

      “Where do you live?”

      Nicola pointed the way back up Honeywell Lane.

      “On this lane? Me too. Which cottage is yours? I’m in Tulip. A ridiculous name, don’t you think?”

      Nicola covered her mouth with one damp glove and shook her head very slowly.

      His dark eyes narrowed. “Ah. You cannot talk. You’re not deaf, are you? Well, I suppose if you are, you won’t be hearing me ask the question.”

      She couldn’t help but smile.

      “Oh, good. I can natter on, and you can’t talk back. A silent woman. Every man’s dream, I imagine. Not mine,” he said hastily. “I respect women no end. I’m thinking of my late father, who used to lock himself in his study when my mother was on the warpath. Which was often. They fought like cats and dogs. I’m making a fool of myself telling you all the family secrets, aren’t I? I’m Jack.” He took her hand and shook it with almost excessive vigor. “You’re a Guest too, aren’t you? Come for the famous cure of whatever ails you?”

      Oh, dear. Nicola nodded with reluctance. What was wrong with this fellow? He appeared prosperous, was very good-looking with his neatly trimmed dark beard and sympathetic brown eyes. Eyes that were somewhat shadowed. Was he a drunkard? A womanizer? An opium addict? He was much too old to have had his bad-tempered mother send him here for youthful misbehavior.

      Nicola knew some troubled souls signed themselves into the Puddling Rehabilitation Program for rest and relaxation. He might be one of them.

      Something about her reserved expression must have given her worries away.

      “Don’t be concerned. I won’t ravish you. That’s not my problem at all,” he said with a touch of grimness. “Here, let’s go back up the hill. Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you?”

      She made walking motions with her fingers, but after a wobbly step or two found herself swept up and firmly ensconced in the man’s arms.

      “No wriggling or writhing, and certainly no punching. When we get to your cottage, I’ll drop you onto something soft and comfortable and fetch the old doctor. What’s his name? Oakley? I only got here yesterday. I’m not even sure why СКАЧАТЬ