Chapter Two

H ope's eyes fluttered open, the brightness of the midday sun immediately overwhelming her blurry vision. She blinked several times, trying to see better, trying to understand where she was. The bed she lay in was large and soft, her head resting upon a pile of pillows as she remained tucked beneath crisp white sheets. She shifted her gaze, wincing at the discomfort that this slightest movement of her head caused as she observed the light streaming through lattice windows, illuminating a room dominated by dark furniture, wooden panelling and heavy tapestries. An old and very fine room, to be sure, but where? And how had she ended up here?

She licked her dry lips, conscious suddenly of feeling desperately thirsty as she tried to remember what had happened. She'd been in some woodland, running as fast as she could. She'd slipped and she'd fallen—she'd felt pain everywhere. She'd cried out, and then...

A voice—deep and reassuring. A tide rolling in, lifting her off the bracken-strewn ground and carrying her away, its undulating waves rocking her, conspiring with sleep to distance her from her pain. Except it hadn't been the sea at all, had it? It had been a man, the one the voice had belonged to, taking her into his arms, offering gentle words to calm her as he carried her away from the woods. She'd been found, but by whom? Where on earth was she? And, more to the point, was she safe?

Or had she been found by yet another of her father's many acquaintances? Had he been alerted to her whereabouts? Was he on his way to take her again, right now?

Hope's heart began to race, and in a sudden panic she tried to pull herself upright. Pain shot through her back and her neck, causing her to cry out. Her head throbbed; she touched the back of it gingerly, wincing as her fingers grazed over a swollen lump. What had she done to herself? Just how badly injured was she? The heat of coming tears burned her eyes and she blinked furiously, forbidding them to fall. Crying would do no good; it never had.

Crying hadn't helped on the day that she'd found her mother's lifeless body strewn across her bed, having finally succumbed to laudanum's charms. Nor had it helped her stop herself from being drawn into her father's underworld of illicit stills and free trading, a world in which she'd never been able to decide whose wrath she feared more, that of her kin or that of the law. Her tears and her pleas had not prevented her father from trying to force her into a marriage, either five years ago or yesterday. The man was immune to tears, and so should she be. The only thing which had helped, then and now, was running away.

She had to run. But first she had to get out of this bed.

Pushing the bedsheets away, she forced herself upright, gritting her teeth as a fresh, sharp agony stabbed at her lower back. Glancing down at herself, Hope was surprised to see that the pretty, thin gown she'd been wearing last night had gone, along with her stays, leaving her wearing only her white linen shift. She felt her cheeks redden at the realisation—who on earth had done that? Not the man who'd carried her, surely? No matter, she decided. She would run across the countryside wearing her undergarments and no shoes, if she had to.

Persevering despite the pounding which grew in her head, Hope shuffled to the edge of the bed and let her toes touch the floor. Her right ankle began to throb and she looked down to see that someone had covered it with a bandage. The rug below her feet felt soft and reassuring as she pressed against it. However, her injured ankle protested, a sudden pain shooting through it and causing both her legs to buckle. Before she could stop herself, she was falling down, landing on the floor with a hard and graceless thud.

‘Ow!' she cried out and this time, despite herself, the tears did fall.

Clearly the commotion she'd caused had been heard. Beyond the bedchamber, someone else in the house stirred, and all Hope could do was sit helplessly on the floor, tears flooding down her cheeks as footsteps approached. Quick, frantic footsteps, growing louder by the second. Then, after a moment, the door creaked open and a face peered around it. A man's face, etched with concern, his brow furrowing as he spied her on the floor.

‘What the devil are you doing down there?'

He was impeccably dressed; that was the first thing she noticed. As he strode towards her, she drew her first, hurried conclusions about him, taking in his tidy, sand-coloured hair, his high collar and cravat, his immaculate blue coat. A gentleman, certainly, although that was no surprise to her really, considering the fine surroundings she'd awoken in. She stared up at him, meeting his grey-blue eyes for the first time and finding, to her great relief, kindness there. Whatever he saw in her gaze was presumably less reassuring; she watched in confusion as he hesitated, averting his eyes and half turning back towards the door.

‘Sir?' Hope croaked, her mouth desert dry.

‘Forgive me,' the man said, still looking away. ‘I should not have burst in like that. I shall fetch a maid to attend to you.'

A maid to attend to her. Yes—he was definitely a gentleman. Hope glanced down, her confusion clearing like mist as she caught sight of the linen shift she wore once more. Ah, of course. Now she understood his hesitation.

‘Thank you, sir. Also, if it is not too much trouble, I would be obliged to you for some water,' she added politely, instinctively slipping into the voice she'd used on stage just days ago—soft and refined, clear and articulate. She didn't know why. Perhaps because she feared that even a word spoken in her own voice, laced as it was with the Cumberland accent, would tell him exactly who she was? Or perhaps because sitting here, in this grand room, speaking to the well-dressed gentleman who'd saved her life, she felt that she ought to smooth over her coarse ways?

She watched as the man glanced at the water jug sitting atop the table. He sighed heavily before turning back around and stepping towards her once more.

‘This is ridiculous,' he muttered as he bent down, gently lifting her off the floor and placing her back upon the bed. Despite the discomfort that the movement caused, the brief feeling of his arms around her was warm and strangely reassuring, bringing back those vague, confused memories of the previous night. She did not even need to ask if he'd been her rescuer; instinctively, she knew that he had.

‘What is ridiculous, sir?' she asked him.

The man walked around the bed and poured some water into a cup. ‘Fetching a maid to help you when I can just as easily do it myself,' he replied, handing the cup to her. ‘Anyway,' he continued, ‘you did not answer me. What were you doing on the floor?'

‘I was trying to get up,' Hope replied between thirsty sips. ‘I am grateful to you, sir, but I am sure I have been a burden for long enough. If you could see to it that my dress and shoes are returned to me, I promise I will leave within the hour.'

‘The devil you will,' the man replied, frowning at her once more. ‘I'm afraid you're not fit to go anywhere right now. Your right ankle is badly injured, and you've suffered a nasty blow to the head. I don't know what happened to you in the woods, but my physician says you're purple and blue with bruises.'

‘Your physician?' Hope repeated, her heart pounding once more. She pulled the bedsheets tighter around herself, as though they could protect her. As though anything could protect her.

‘Yes, my physician. He attended to you last night. He assures me that your ankle is not broken, and that all your wounds will heal. But he says you must rest.'

Hope, however, was not listening. ‘Did you say anything to him about me? Did you tell him where you found me?' she asked, her questions rapid as she began to panic. Did her father know any physicians? Was it possible that this physician knew who she was? Might he betray her whereabouts?

‘I told him that I discovered you lying injured in the woods,' the man replied. ‘That was all I could say, since I do not know anything about you.' He paused, holding her gaze with his own for a long moment. ‘I dare say that's something we ought to rectify. Perhaps you'd like to begin by telling me your name and whether there is someone I should inform of your whereabouts.'

Hope's heart raced even faster, the pain in her head reaching a crescendo as she felt the room begin to spin. ‘Someone you should inform?' she repeated.

‘Of course,' the man said. ‘Surely a lady such as yourself has loved ones who are desperately worried about you? They'd be welcome to stay here too, of course, while you convalesce. Indeed, that would be best, for propriety's sake. I will have to ask them to arrange for some of your clothes to be brought to you. That gown you were wearing last night is unfortunately beyond repair.' He gave her an affable smile, but she could not mistake the curiosity lingering in his eyes. ‘I do wonder what you were doing, wandering in the woods by yourself in such a fine evening gown.'

Hope drew a deep breath, trying to calm herself, trying to read between the lines. She thought about the way he behaved towards her—calling her a lady, talking about her fine gown, panicking at the impropriety of being in the same room as her while she wore only a shift. Did he think she was like him? Had he mistaken her for a gentleman's daughter? For the offspring of some grand duke, or of a wealthy merchant?

Hope sipped her water again, buying herself some time as she considered her options. Telling this man the truth about herself was out of the question; the nature of her father's business, such as it was, meant that he was known across Cumberland society. It was well known that Jeremiah Sloane supplied his contraband to many of the fine houses, and many of the magistrates, thus ensuring they happily continued to turn a blind eye to his activities. For all she knew, this was one such house, and one such gentleman. And yet she knew she had to tell this man something. If she had to remain here for the moment, she needed him to understand her requirement for secrecy; she needed him to help her hide. Surely, she reasoned, she could come up with a story which explained why, one which met with the assumptions he seemed to have made about her. Surely she could create a suitably genteel and imperilled character for herself. She was an actress, after all. This would simply be another role for her to play.

She cleared her throat. ‘Please understand, sir, that no one can know I am here. Promise me that you will not whisper my whereabouts to a single soul. It is bad enough that your physician and your servants already know...'

Her plea seemed to grab the man's attention and he drew closer, his sympathy evident in his expression. ‘Of course, I promise I will say nothing. And please, do not worry—my servants' discretion can be trusted, and my physician is a good man. Besides, no one even knows your name—including me.'

Hope gave an obliging nod. It was the sort of nod she'd cultivated on stage when playing high society types—subtle and reserved. ‘My name is Hope...' She paused, searching for a family name. ‘Hope Swynford.' Inwardly she groaned; that name was uncomfortably similar to her stage name, Hope Swyndale. She might be a decent actress, but it was already becoming apparent that she was a hopeless playwright.

‘Ah! Like the third wife of John of Gaunt,' the man said, a grin spreading across his face. It was a handsome face; she noticed that now, her attention drawn to his blue-grey eyes, sparkling with interest, to his straight nose, his fair complexion, his full lips...

‘Oh, John of Gaunt—yes, indeed,' she replied, forcing herself to concentrate on their conversation. She knew that name from a play by Shakespeare, but could not recall which one. Nor could she recall a wife, much less three of them. What on earth had got into her?

The man extended a hand towards her, and she accepted it gingerly. His fingers were gentle and warm, just as his arms had been both times she'd found herself within them. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Swynford,' he said. ‘My name is Samuel Liddell.'

She offered him a polite smile. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, and thank you once again for coming to my aid. I believe you saved my life.'

‘I was glad to be of assistance to you.' He let go of her hand, his expression growing serious once more. ‘Perhaps, Miss Swynford, you might tell me what happened to you last night, and why you do not wish for your whereabouts to be known. I would like to help you, if I can.'

The look in his eyes was so genuine that for a brief moment Hope considered telling him the truth. Perhaps this Samuel Liddell really was a good man, perhaps he knew nothing of her father. Perhaps he would be willing to help Hope Sloane just as much as he wished to help Hope Swynford. Yet, as much as she wanted to be honest, she knew that it was not worth the risk. If life had taught her anything, it was that the only person she could really trust was herself.

Hope drew a deep breath, committing herself finally to her deceit. ‘I am running away from my uncle, sir,' she began, improvising, the story and her lines unfinished even as she uttered them. ‘I am running away from a marriage he wishes to force upon me. From a marriage I do not want.'