The Golden Lord. Miranda Jarrett

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      “And I say you will,” ordered Rob, concentrating on controlling the horse. “For your own good. You’d be a hindrance, pet. This idiot believes I have defiled his woman, and I don’t want to give him even the remotest chance to wreak his vengeance on you.”

      Alas, Jenny understood. Most likely Rob could wriggle his way free more readily without her there in the middle. He’d done it before, and those other times, too, she’d been left or sent to wait elsewhere while he did it. She didn’t want to be a hindrance, nor, to be honest, did she wish to be defiled by an idiot grenadier, either.

      “But what if he hurts you?” she protested. “What if you’re left bleeding somewhere? However will I find you again?”

      “Because I always find you first, little sister.” He still smiled fondly. “Now come along, you’re only going to have the one chance. How different can it be from jumping out a window?”

      “You’re a bully, Rob Dell,” she said, cautiously leaning over the side to gauge the drop to the ground.

      “Only if you’re a coward, Jenny Dell,” he answered. “Which I know for a fact you’re not, being my sister.”

      “What you should know, Rob, is that I’ll challenge you to a duel myself when this is done.” They were just cresting the hill, the chaise slowing as Rob had promised. She rose unsteadily in the swaying coach, slung her skirts over one arm, and bent just long enough to kiss Rob on the cheek. “God be with you, you ninny, and mind you keep yourself clear of that man’s pistols.”

      Then, before she could be afraid, she jumped.

      The ground came up harder than she’d expected, the waving grass not nearly as soft as it had looked in the moonlight. She stumbled forward and rolled twice from the force of her landing, then sat upright, gasping, to wave at her brother. Looking over his shoulder, he waved back, reassured, then snapped the reins. The chaise rattled off, over the next hill, and Jenny was alone.

      And better she should stay that way, too, she told herself firmly, and not be found by the side of the road by the idiot grenadier. She scrambled to her feet and began to run back up the hill toward the safety of the copse of trees. Their branches were low and gnarled, making her duck and dodge into the shadows, as perfect a hiding place as Rob could ever have picked. Overhead a tawny owl hooted crossly at being disturbed, and with a grin Jenny looked up, trying to spot him through the leaves as she hurried deeper into the brush and trees.

      But she didn’t see the owl, and she didn’t see the low-slung branch, either, as she crashed her forehead into the rough bark.

      And then saw nothing more.

      This was the time of day that Brant liked the best. The new morning had scarcely begun and the old night was just fading away while the stars and moon stubbornly remained in the sky, the dawn no more than a glow on the horizon. The birds had already begun to chatter and soon the field workers would start trudging across the meadows, but for now Brant felt as if he had the world completely to himself, or at least the large green corner of it that belonged to Claremont Hall. With his dogs for company, he rode along the borders of his lands every morning at this time, regardless of whether the summer sun was going to shine warmly on his back or winter clouds threatened snow and wind sharp beneath the brim of his hat.

      Although riding his property like this would strike most of his fellow peers as unnecessary at best, and at worst, laughably medieval—the ducal lord of the manor!—Brant had worked too hard to rescue Claremont Hall from his father’s creditors to take his own possession of the estate lightly. As often as he might go up to London, he always came back here. He loved this place, and he took great satisfaction in seeing the improvements he’d been able to make in it. Besides, at this hour, all things appeared wonderfully possible to him, especially on a perfect early summer morning like this one.

      “Here, Jetty, Gus, here!” he called as his two black retrievers bounded ahead of him. “How many more rabbits can there be left to chase?”

      But the dogs didn’t return as they usually did, instead racing off into a copse of trees not far from the road. Brant whistled for them, and when they still didn’t appear, he sighed and swung down from his horse, looping the reins around a branch.

      “Must be a righteous big rabbit,” he grumbled. More likely the pair had stumbled upon something deliciously, foully fragrant only to dogs, and were busily rolling in it. He pushed aside the branches, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the faint gray light as he searched for the two dogs. But this time when he whistled, it was with surprise.

      The dogs had discovered something, true enough. Jetty and Gus were sitting on either side of the too-still body of a woman, lying facedown in the old leaves. Hurrying to her side, Brant prayed it wasn’t a girl that he knew, a serving girl from the Hall or the daughter of one of his tenants. He believed in taking responsibility for whatever happened on his land, even tragedies such as this.

      But as soon as he knelt beside her, he could see from the fine muslin of her gown and the soft wool of her cloak that she was a lady, no farmer’s daughter, and that the small, pale hand that lay curled on the dried leaves had never seen hard work. Yet lady or not, there was no question that trouble had found her: the skirts of that white muslin gown were grass-stained and streaked with dirt, her once-neat hair a tangle down her back. Worst of all was the raw, ugly bruise on her temple, swelling just below the neat curve of her brow.

      Gently, Brant smoothed her hair away from the bruise and touched his fingers to the side of her throat, searching for a heartbeat. At least the girl still lived; he hadn’t been sure. He’d little knowledge of practical physicking, and he wasn’t certain what his next step should be to assist her. His experience with pretty young women—and he now could see that, beneath the dirt and bruises, this one was very pretty indeed—was generally of a far more lively sort.

      Jetty whimpered, prodding at the woman’s arm with his nose.

      “Stop that, Jetty,” ordered Brant softly. “She’s suffered enough without you adding to it.”

      But the dog’s wet nose had already roused her, and with a groan she shifted, flopping onto her side. Her eyes fluttered open and she grimaced with pain, pressing her hands to her temple.

      “You’ll be all right, miss,” said Brant. “You have my word on it. Can you tell me what pains you?”

      Gingerly she touched the bruise. “Only my head.”

      “You’re certain?” he asked cautiously. When he’d first seen her lying in the leaves, he’d been sure she’d been abused and abandoned by some man.

      “It’s my head. I should know.” She squinted up at him from beneath her hands. “You’re not the dreaded idiot grenadier, are you?”

      “I don’t believe so, no.” The poor girl had been struck on the head and was entitled to speak nonsense. “Do you think you can try to sit upright? That must be the first step toward moving you to a more comfortable place.”

      She nodded, and he slipped his arm beneath her back to help raise her. She was a little bit of a thing, more fragile than he’d first realized, and once again he thought of how fortunate she was not to have been more badly hurt, whatever misfortune had befallen her. As soon as he could take her back to the Hall, he’d call the surgeon to come make sure she was as well as she claimed. He always wanted to help those too weak or flawed to protect themselves, especially if the СКАЧАТЬ