Twilight was drawing in; she was walking through woods, very much alone, with an unknown gentleman. While she was quite convinced of his quality, she was not nearly so sure it was safe to approve of his style, much less his propensities. Nevertheless, trepidation was not what she felt. Unbidden, a smile curved her lips. Not since childhood had such a whimsical, adventurous mood claimed her; the same buoyant exuberance had whirled her through her most outrageous childhood exploits. Why on earth it should surface now, in response, she was sure, to the stranger by her side, she had no idea. But the thrill of exhilaration tripping along her nerves was too marked to ignore. In truth, she had no wish to ignore it—life had been too serious, too mundane, for too long. A little adventure would lighten the dim prospect of her lonely future.
They emerged from the trees. In the narrow lane, a fashionable curricle was outlined against the gathering gloom, a pair of high-stepping bays restlessly shifting between the shafts. Impulsively, Helen gasped, ‘What beauties!’
The lines of both equipage and horses spoke volumes. Clearly, her rescuer was a man of means. Smiling, he released her beside the carriage, going to the horses’ heads to run a soothing hand over their noses.
Helen eyed the curricle, wondering if, in her slim evening gown, it was possible to gain the box seat perched high above the axle with reasonable decorum. She was about to attempt the difficult climb when a pair of strong hands fastened about her waist and she was lifted, effortlessly, upwards.
‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened; she bit back a most unladylike squeal. Deposited gently on the seat, she blushed rosy red. ‘Er…thank you.’ The smile on her rescuer’s face was decidedly wicked. Abruptly, Helen busied herself with settling her skirts, while, under her lashes, she watched him untie the reins.
It wasn’t just the fact that she knew she was no lightweight, nor that no man before had ever lifted her like that, making her feel ridiculously delicate. It wasn’t even the impression of remarkable strength that lingered with the memory of his hands gripping her waist. No. It was her quite shocking response to that perfectly mundane little intimacy that was tying her nerves in knots. Never in her life had she felt so odd, so thoroughly witless. What on earth was the matter with her?
Her rescuer swung up beside her. He moved with the ease of a born athlete, compounding the impression of leashed power created by the combination of understated elegance and sheer size. A deliciously fascinating impression, Helen was only too willing to admit. Then he glanced at her.
‘Comfortable?’
She nodded, the simple question dispelling any lingering fears. In her estimation, no blackguard would ask if his victim was comfortable. Her rescuer might make her nervous; he did not frighten her.
A drop of rain fell on Martin’s hand as he clicked the reins. The sensation drew his mind from contemplation of the woman beside him and focused it on more practical matters. Night was closing in and, with it, the weather.
He levelled a measuring glance at his companion. When he had lifted her to the box seat, getting a good glimpse of a pair of shapely ankles in the process, he had confirmed the fact that her dress was indeed silk, fine and delicate. Furthermore, his experienced assessment told him her fashionable standing extended to wearing no more than a fine silk chemise beneath. In the wood, the warmth of the afternoon had been trapped beneath the trees but now they were in the open and the temperature was dropping. The neckline of her gown was cut remarkably low, a fact which met with his unqualified approval; the tiny puffed sleeves, badly crushed, were set off her shoulders. Even in the poor light, her skin glowed translucently pale. She was not yet shivering, but it could only be a question of time. ‘If you’ll forgive my impertinence, why are you gallivanting about without even a cloak?’
Helen frowned, considering. How much was it safe to reveal? Then, unconsciously lifting her chin, she took the plunge. ‘I was at Chatham House, at a ball given for Lady Chatham’s birthday. A footman brought a note asking me to meet…a friend on the portico.’
In retrospect, she should have been more careful. ‘There were…circumstances that made that seem quite reasonable at the time,’ she explained. ‘But there was no one about—at least, that’s what I thought. I waited for a moment or two, then, just as I was about to go back inside, someone—one of those two ruffians, I think—threw a coat over my head.’
Helen shivered slightly, whether from the cold or the memory of her sudden fright she was not sure. ‘They bundled me into a waiting carriage—it was still early and there were no other coaches in the drive.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘So that’s why no cloak.’
‘I see.’ Martin trapped the reins under his boot and reached behind the seat to drag his greatcoat from where it was neatly stowed. He shook it out and flung it about his companion’s distracting shoulders, then calmly picked up the reins. ‘What makes you think it was this Hedley Swayne behind your abduction?’
Helen frowned. In reality, now that she considered the matter more closely, there was no firm evidence to connect Hedley with the kidnap attempt.
Observing her pensive face, Martin’s brows rose. ‘No real reason—just a feeling?’
At the superior tone rippling beneath the raspy surface of his deep voice, Helen drew herself up. ‘If you knew how Hedley’s been behaving recently, you wouldn’t doubt it.’
Martin grinned at her prickly rejoinder and infused a degree of sympathy into his, ‘How has he been behaving?’
‘He’s forever at me to marry him—heaven only knows why.’
Pressing his lips together to suppress the spontaneous retort that had leapt to his tongue, Martin waited until his voice was steady before asking, ‘Not the obvious?’
Absorbed in cogitations on the vagaries of Hedley Swayne, Helen shook her head. ‘Definitely not the obvious.’ Suddenly recalling to whom she was speaking, she blushed. Praying that the poor light would conceal the fact, she hurried on. ‘Hedley’s not the marrying kind, if you know what I mean.’
Martin’s lips twitched but he made no comment.
Helen considered the iniquitous Mr Swayne, a slight frown puckering her delicate brows. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve no idea why he wants to marry me. No idea at all.’
They proceeded in silence, Martin intent on the bad road, Helen lost in thought. The land about was open pastures, separated by occasional hedgerows, with not even a farmhouse to be seen. A stray thought took hold in Martin’s mind. ‘Did you say you were at a ball when they grabbed you? Have you been missing since last night?’
Helen nodded. ‘But I went in my own carriage—not many of my friends have returned to town yet.’
‘So your coachman would have raised the alarm?’
Slowly, Helen shook her head. ‘Not immediately. I might have gone home in some acquaintance’s carriage and my message to John got lost in the fuss. That’s happened before. My people wouldn’t have been certain I was truly missing until this morning.’ Her brows knit, she considered the possibilities. ‘I wonder what they’ll do?’
For his own reasons, Martin also wondered. The possibility of being mistaken for a kidnapper, and the consequent explanations, was not the sort of imbroglio he wished to be landed in just at present—not when he had barely set foot in England and had yet to establish his bona fides. ‘You’ll certainly cause a stir when you reappear.’
‘Mm.’ Helen’s mind had drifted from the shadowy possibilities
