A Wager for the Widow. Elisabeth Hobbes

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      ‘I might have grown to in time!’ Eleanor retorted. ‘I was fond of him.’ Her eyes fell on the portrait of her late husband. ‘Baldwin was a kind and gentle man. Life with him would have been safe and peaceful.’

      Her brother looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Safe and peaceful? You don’t have the faintest idea what love is.’

      Eleanor glared at him, hands on her hips, her hands itching to slap him. ‘And you do? Tumbling into bed with tavern wenches isn’t love, Edmund,’ she scolded.

      For a moment they could have been children arguing again. Edmund laughed. ‘Fair point, though there’s a lot to be said for a quick tumble to lift the spirits. You need someone to kiss you properly, Sister. You might find you enjoy it.’

      Eleanor blushed, the memory of her dream rising in her mind. She took a deep breath and turned to face her brother. ‘We have a day together, let’s not quarrel. There are bows in the armoury. Do you think you’ve improved enough to beat me yet?’

      Edmund’s archery had improved, but Eleanor had the satisfaction of taking six out of the ten targets and the day passed quickly. Her heart sank when the causeway bells rang out, signalling the dusk tide. They stood together, watching as the water rose higher. In ten minutes more the tide would begin to cover the causeway. Edmund took his sister’s hand and kissed it formally. ‘Baldwin wouldn’t have wanted you to bury yourself away like this, you know.’

      Eleanor’s heart twisted. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted any of this! He wanted to grow old, to have children, to live...’ Her voice cracked as the unfairness of it struck her. She took a deep breath and fixed a smile on her face.

      ‘I do love it here,’ she told him. ‘I have so much to do, managing the estate the way Baldwin would have wanted it run. I don’t get bored, or lonely.’

      Edmund raised an eyebrow. He didn’t deny her words, nor did he confirm them.

      ‘One day you’ll have to marry again,’ Edmund said, ‘or find a very good reason why you won’t.’

      With a nod he mounted his horse and walked it across the granite path. Eleanor watched as the mist swallowed him up before pulling her hood up and striding back to the house, her mind fixing on the tasks that would occupy her for the next few days.

      * * *

      Three days passed in such a whirl of organisation that Eleanor barely had time for sadness. It was only on her final morning as she wandered through the rooms, running her hand over furniture and tapestries, that her eyes began to sting. When she came to the portrait of Sir Baldwin, she stopped and regarded the serious man with the thinning hair and anxious face. She briefly raised a hand and touched the canvas in a gesture of farewell. She looked around her home one final time and began the descent to the waiting carriage.

      * * *

      They travelled fast inland, but it was late afternoon before Eleanor’s carriage reached the crossing of the River Taw. The wide river was unusually high for the time of year and moving faster than Eleanor had seen it before. Hers was the only carriage waiting to cross so the driver manoeuvred it into the front of the ferry. The craft, no more than a large, flat platform with low wooden railings at either side, dipped from side to side alarmingly.

      Eleanor’s stomach heaved as the cramped carriage rocked on the chains suspending it within the wooden frame, adding to her sense of nausea. She peered through the curtain.

      ‘I’m going to get out,’ she told Jennet. ‘I think I’ll feel more nauseous if I stay inside.’ Eleanor fastened her cloak around her shoulders and drew up the hood, squeezing her way past the maid’s knees. A blast of wind hit her as she climbed down, whipping her cloak up around her. She clutched the edges tightly together with one hand while she gripped the low railing of the ferry to steady herself.

      The ferryman braced his back and rammed his pole into the riverbank. The craft creaked alarmingly as it started to move away from the shore, the great chain that spanned the river pulling taut.

      The shrill blast of a hunting horn sounded, ripping apart the peace. A commanding voice shouted, ‘Ferryman, stop!’

      Eleanor peered back at the riverbank. A rider on an imposing chestnut-coloured horse was galloping along the road at the edge of the water. He pulled the horse up short.

      ‘You’re too late, my friend, the current has us now,’ the ferryman called back.

      ‘Wait, I tell you. I must cross today. I have business to attend to.’ The rider’s voice was deep and urgent, his face hidden beneath the hood of a voluminous burgundy cloak. The ferryman shrugged his shoulders and dug his pole into the river, pushing further away. Keeping one eye on the drama playing out, Eleanor walked carefully around behind the carriage and made her way to the other side of the deck to get a better view.

      What happened next had the texture of a dream. The horseman cursed and wheeled his mount around. He galloped away from the water’s edge, then turned back. With a sudden bellow he cracked the reins sharply and sped back towards the river. As the horse reached the edge, the rider spurred it forward. The horse leapt through the air with ease to land on the deck alongside Eleanor. The ferry bucked, the far end almost rising from the water. Hooves clattered on the slippery wood and the animal gave a high-pitched whinny of alarm.

      It was not going to stop!

      As a cumbersome-looking saddlebag swung towards her, Eleanor threw herself out of its way. The railing caught her behind the knees and she stumbled backwards, her ankle turning beneath her with a sickening crunch. Crying out, she flailed her arms helplessly, unable to regain her balance as the river came up to meet her.

      She saw the horseman lunge towards her, felt his fingers close about her wrist. She gave a sharp cry as her shoulder jolted painfully and her feet slid on the deck. Cold spray splashed over her face as her head fell back, her free fingers brushing the surface of the water.

      ‘Take hold of me quickly. I can’t stay like this for ever,’ the rider ordered, tightening his grip on her wrist.

      Eleanor raised her head to find herself staring up into a pair of blue eyes half-hidden in the depths of the voluminous hood. The rider was leaning along the length of his horse’s neck, body twisted towards Eleanor at what seemed an impossible angle. She fumbled her free hand to clutch on to his arm and he hauled her back to her feet. As she stood upright a spear of pain shot through Eleanor’s ankle. She gave an involuntary gasp and her knees buckled.

      With the same speed as his initial rescue, the rider threw his leg across the saddle and dismounted with a thud. His arms found their way round Eleanor’s waist, catching her tight and clasping her to him before she slipped to the ground.

      ‘I’ve got you. Don’t wriggle!’

      The man’s hood fell back and Eleanor saw him clearly for the first time. He was younger than his voice had suggested. A long scar ran from the outside corner of his eye and across his cheek, disappearing beneath a shaggy growth of beard at his jaw. A second ran parallel from below his eye to his top lip. His corn-coloured hair fell in loose tangles to his shoulder. Close up his eyes were startlingly blue.

      Footsteps thundered on the deck as Eleanor’s coachman appeared. It struck Eleanor suddenly that the man was still holding her close, much closer than was necessary, in fact. She became conscious of the rise and fall of his chest, moving rhythmically against her own. Her СКАЧАТЬ