Chapter 13

Rosalyn clung to the reins. She leaned back, doing her best to stay on, as her mare, Rainstorm, bolted at a gallop across the field.

“Easy, girl,” Rosalyn tried to say, loosening her grip on the reins as much as she dared. Her legs were gripping the high pommel of the side-saddle, and she leaned as far back as possible, both to slow the horse and because the horse might rear or vault. A rider lying across the horse’s neck was vulnerable to having their own neck snapped by a sudden rear.

God, help me, she thought silently as the horse continued to gallop. Trees and bushes flashed past, shadows barring them as they raced past fences. The horse had left the road and was careening down a path. If it was her mare, she would have relaxed as much as possible, trying not to send any mixed signals that would frighten her mount still further. But this was an utterly unknown mare, one whose behaviour she could only guess at.

They were approaching a corner and Rosalyn screamed, then a wild plan to slow the horse occurred to her. She grabbed the reins and pulled as harshly as she dared, jerking the horse’s head sideways. As she had hoped, the horse veered sharply into the corner, the movement naturally slowing her down.

Rosalyn eased her grip on the reins, the horse slowing slightly. She tried straightening up, relief weakening her as the horse slowed to a canter.

As her horse slowed still further, she had time to look around. Her relief gave way to a sense of shock again as she realised that she had no idea where she was. It was twilight, the shadows lengthening and the path under her feet barely visible. She could see woodland up ahead and somewhere far away burned distant lights; perhaps a farmhouse. Her heart thudded in her chest.

She had no notion of how to get back to the manor.

“Sebastian?” she called. “Papa?”

The horse heard her and swivelled her ears, pawing the dirt and snorting. Rosalyn patted her neck, aware that her own shaky, fearful voice was frightening to the confused, exhausted creature. She shivered, drawing her mantel tight around her. The horse had stopped, and she could lift her hands from the reins. She looked around. It was getting dark fast and if she did not find the way back soon, she would be lost all night.

What about wolves? And the cold? She asked herself, a frisson of fear running down her spine. It had been warm while the sun was out, but as night fell, the cold gnawed at her even through her thick cloak. She and her horse could both freeze to death on the field. To say nothing about the possibility of predators. Wolves were rare but far from unheard of, especially in thick woodland. And even in the countryside, the chances of running into a dangerous human on the road were greater than she would like. She looked around, fear gripping her.

“Easy, girl,” she told the horse, patting the creature’s neck. Her horse was pawing the ground again and she did not want to risk her bolting a second time.

The farmhouse was not impossibly far away, but it was almost utterly dark and there was no way to know if a road or track led there. She lifted the reins. The only wise option seemed to be to retrace their steps, but since they had not followed any particular path, that was also difficult.

“Easy, girl,” Rosalyn said gently, as she pulled on the reins as gently as she could, trying to guide her horse to turn around.

Her horse turned, and they started to go back. There was the faintest evidence of a path; a brighter greyish ribbon of bare earth in the sea of black that was the nighttime grassland. Rosalyn swallowed hard, her fingers icy and her stomach queasy with fear.

She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. Her horse was exhausted, and so was she. Neither of them seemed to have any notion of where they were. She drew in a breath and listened to her own exhalation and the calm, steady breath of her horse. The soft clop of hoofs on the ground reassured her. She opened her eyes.

And frowned.

The sound of the horse’s hooves seemed off, disjointed. It took her a moment to realise why; the noise was coming not just from beneath her, but also from up ahead.

“Sebastian?” she called, her heart lifting with joy. “Papa?” Someone had ridden after her! Her spirits soared and she leaned forward, signaling her horse to move faster.

“Miss Rothwell?” a voice called out. Rosalyn shivered.

“Your Grace?” It was the Duke of Stallenwood. He had ridden after her. She breathed deeply, trying to still her heartbeat. If she showed any sign of agitation, the horse might become frightened again and bolt. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She tried to call out, clearing her throat, which was suddenly tight with a mix of emotions.

He must think I am a fool. Mayhap he was worried that I injured his horse. He couldn’t be worried for me, could he? The thoughts chased themselves around her mind. He was so hard to read. One moment, he was indifferent to the point of rudeness and the next, tender and considerate in a way that stole her breath.

“Miss Rothwell?” his voice called out. He was not too far—she could hear the distinct sound of a horse trotting along a dirt path. Her horse whickered a greeting, stepping forward of her own accord.

She must recognise the other horse, Rosalyn thought, patting her mare’s neck.

“Easy, girl,” she said gently. “We’ll be there soon.”

They rode forward and, before long, the sound of hoofs was almost before them. It was completely dark, and she widened her eyes, trying to see ahead. The flash of white of a high shirt collar came into focus, and then the white blaze on the nose of the duke’s thoroughbred. As she watched, he reined in, bringing his horse to a walk. The stallion walked alongside Rainstorm, who whickered again and stamped, giving him a greeting. Rosalyn swallowed, tension tightening her throat.

“Your Grace. I...” she began, trying to apologise for what had happened. His horse could easily have broken a leg the way she bolted. If he was angry, she could not really blame him. She braced herself for his ire, but before she could say anything further, he dismounted and ran to her. He reached up, lifting her out of the saddle.

“Miss Rothwell! Are you quite well? Did you fall? Are you harmed?” His voice was urgent.

He set her on her feet on the ground before him, his hands—which had been around her waist—resting on her shoulders. His eyes stared into her own. It was almost too dark to see him, but when he stood close, she could see his face in inky grey and black shadow.

“I am quite well,” she managed to reply. With his hands on her shoulders, and his presence so close to her, she was shaking, but not entirely with cold. She did not understand the wash of feelings that rushed through her, too intense and strange to fathom.

“You are sure you are not hurt?” The duke demanded. His grip on her shoulders tightened. She nodded.

The duke slumped visibly, the dark shadow of his presence becoming less upright. He let out a sigh.

“I thought you had been thrown. I thought you were badly wounded.”

“No, I am quite safe,” Rosalyn replied softly. “A little shocked and unsteady,” she added, giggling shakily.

“Of course. Of course.”

He stared into her eyes. She stopped giggling and looked into his gaze. She could see him a little better, the light of the first stars and the moon illuminating him well. His eyes were wide and round, his thin-lipped mouth set in a firm line. His hands were still on her shoulders. Wordlessly, he reached up and, with a tenderness that made her breath stop, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

She gazed at him. He was so close, and in the darkness, it felt as though they were utterly alone, the only people for hundreds of miles. He stared into her eyes and leaned a little forward. She held her breath. For a moment, it seemed as if he might kiss her. The thought stirred a longing within her, unfamiliar and powerful. She wanted him to lean closer, to press his lips gently to hers. She longed for it, more deeply than she had ever known.

“Daughter? Daughter? Stallenwood! Are you there?”

Rosalyn let out her breath sharply. It was her father. He was galloping along the road—she could hear the horse’s hoof-beats, though they were still fairly far away. His shout was full of concern, and she flushed, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

The duke straightened up, making a small sound like a cough in his throat.

“You must be cold. Do you need assistance? There is a fence here that you can use to step up into the stirrup.”

His voice was businesslike, his manner brisk. Rosalyn swallowed. She tried to snap back into their usual, practical manner, but it felt wrong. She shook her head.

“No, thank you. I can manage quite well.” Her voice was a little colder than she intended it, spurred by her hurt.

“Fine,” the duke said briskly. She heard his boots crunch on the path and then the sound of him turning his horse and mounting the saddle. She went to her own horse, stroking her neck reassuringly.

“Easy, there.” She soothed the horse, stepping up lightly. She gripped the reins, wincing at the pain in her fingers. She was wearing riding gloves, but the thin leather did very little to warm her hands. She turned at the sound of a noise.

“Daughter? Oh! God be praised!”

It was her father. She heard the horse’s hoofs stirring up the gravel as he drew to a swift halt and then he was leaping from the saddle and running to her horse. Rosalyn reached down as he reached up to embrace her. Her horse, thankfully, was not spooked by his sudden motion and stood still, allowing him to embrace Rosalyn.

“I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead,” her father repeated. He was almost crying. She could hear it in his voice. She let him lift her down from the saddle and hugged him tightly, as much for him to feel assured as for herself. She breathed in the familiar scent of his greatcoat—sawdust and horses. She allowed the reassuring smell to soothe her heart.

“I am not dead, Papa,” she said gently. “I am sorry I scared you so.”

“Don’t be. I am just so grateful you are alive. My sweet daughter.” He hugged her a moment longer. “You must be freezing. Can you still ride?”

“I can,” Rosalyn assured him, mounting up onto her horse again. She looked around for the duke. He had ridden forward a few paces—she could see his dark outline against the velvet blue of the night sky. Her heart ached. She loved her father for riding so recklessly to find her, but part of her longed to be alone with the duke. She turned her horse and rode up beside him.

“We need to get you home,” the duke said shortly. Rosalyn bridled at his tight, formal tone.

Rosalyn heard her father turn his horse on the path and the duke rode up to lead the way. She rode up behind him and her father fell into step behind her. The duke, it seemed, could follow a stony path in pitch darkness where none of the rest of them could.

They rode in silence. Rosalyn was aware of the duke as he rode up ahead, his silhouette sometimes visible as they rode out from under the trees. She could not help but be sad that he had turned away so swiftly, returning without warning to the former coldness they had shared. They rode without speaking back to the gate that led to the manor.

“The duke bade the others return to the manor,” her father explained from behind her. “Lady Harriet led them. She knows the way.”

Rosalyn let out a relieved sigh. At least Sebastian and the others were safe. The duke dismounted and opened the gate, and she kept Rainstorm halted until they were ready to move again.

The lights of the manor shone out over the garden, seeming impossibly bright and warm after the moonlit, starlit dark. Rosalyn swallowed hard. She dismounted at the stable, allowing one of the stable hands to lead her horse into the stall. She gave the animal an appreciative pat on the brow.

Afterwards, she walked out and found the duke there, instructing the stable hands to rub down the horses and feed them bran mash. He saw her, and for a moment, his gaze held hers before sliding away. “And give them plenty of fresh water. Warm it slightly, if possible,” the duke was instructing.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Rosalyn swallowed hard and looked away.

“Come,” the duke said as she and her father approached him. “We must return to the manor. You must be cold,” he said levelly. He turned away, leading the way down the path. Rosalyn said nothing. She could not think of anything to say. She was cold—that was certainly true. Now that she was dismounted and standing still, the cold seemed to overwhelm her. She drew in a breath, every part of her aching.

“Come, daughter,” her father said gently. “You have to get inside. You’re barely dressed.”

“I have...have a cloak...” Rosalyn stammered. She felt an overwhelming weariness, the effort of walking up to the house almost more than she could bear. She tried to walk, but she was shaking.

“Come, daughter,” her father repeated softly. “You need to get inside. You have to get warm.”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he would have when she was a small child, weary after a long ride, and they walked slowly, her weight supported against him, into the manor.

“Ask Mr Morton for whatever you need,” the duke said to her and Papa in the entranceway, and then he was walking briskly up the stairs.

“You need a hot bath,” Papa said, and when the butler approached, he gave him orders for a bath to be drawn. Rosalyn leaned against the wall. Her heart was sore from the duke’s sudden indifference, but she was freezing cold, barely able to stand, she was shaking so hard. Her hands and fingers ached, and she tried not to cry out from the pain. She was impossibly tired all of a sudden, her head throbbing.

“Easy, there,” her father said gently, as though she was a flighty horse. He wrapped his arm around her again and helped her slowly up the stairs.

“Sister? Sister!” Sebastian was on the stairs, running down towards them. His eyes were wide and round, his hair wild. “Papa! Sister! There you are. Heaven be thanked.”

Sebastian wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. Rosalyn leaned against him, utterly exhausted. She shut her eyes, unable to move a step further. Papa took her one arm and Sebastian took the other and they half-carried her into the hallway. The next thing she knew, she was in her bedroom.

“Rosalyn! Rosalyn!”

Her sisters were there at the door—she could hear their concerned voices. Papa was also there, and she heard him explaining in a quiet voice that they should not disturb.

Rosalyn lay down on her bed and shut her eyes. She drifted, half-awake, and the last thing she thought of before her maidservant came in with the wooden bathtub was the duke’s face, hovering before hers, his eyes wide with care as he gazed at her.