seated. Dom rose from his chair and paced to the mullioned windows.
Glancing out, he could see, below to his left, the three-foot wall that set off the courtyard spanning the space between the two Tudor wings projecting from the main block of Bildenstone Hall. Sitting there, wrapped in a cloak, was a female, her figure so foreshortened by height and distance that he couldn’t accurately estimate her shape or stature.
The day, already gloomy when he’d made his way to the library, had darkened further. As he gazed at her, a gust of wind rattled the window.
‘It’s going to rain shortly,’ he said, after a soldier’s inspection of the clouds. ‘That should send her on her way. I’ll have that tray now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Wilton said, looking brighter. Apparently feeling that, having discharged his duty to the fairer sex by informing his master of the girl’s presence, he could now absolve himself of responsibility for her welfare, he trotted off for the tray.
A responsibility he obviously felt he’d transferred to Dom. Though his will tried to tell his conscience he wouldn’t accept the charge, within a few minutes of seating himself again, he felt compelled to return to the window.
The rain he’d predicted was pelting down from clouds that didn’t look likely to dissipate for some time. The girl was still there, though she’d tucked the book away and huddled in upon herself, as if to provide the smallest possible target to the besieging rain.
Her choice, he told himself, returning to his chair.
But after a few more minutes of reading the same paragraph over and over without comprehending a syllable, he tossed down the book and returned to the window.
She sat as before, huddled on the wall.
Uttering a string of oaths, Dom stomped to the bell pull and yanked hard.
A few moments later, Wilton reappeared, panting. ‘I came as fast as I could, sir!’
Dom walked back to window and stared down at the female, still sitting immobile as a gargoyle rainspout on a cathedral roof.
Probably didn’t shed moisture as efficiently, though.
‘Damn and blast!’ he muttered before turning to Wilton. ‘I suppose we’ll have to admit her before she contracts a consumption of the lungs.’
‘At once, sir!’ Wilton said, sounding relieved. ‘I’ll show her to the small receiving room.’
‘Better put some towelling down to protect the carpet. She must be drenched.’
Wondering when he was going to find the solitude he sought, angry—but more intrigued than he wanted to admit by the mysterious female—Dom exited the library and headed for the receiving room.
After entering, he took up a commanding position before the cold hearth—the lady might have won the first skirmish, but Dom had no intention of looking defeated—and awaited his uninvited visitor. Underscoring the caller’s lack of pedigree, she was being conducted to a small back parlour, rather than the formal front room into which the Squire and his ladies had been shown yesterday.
Dom wondered if she’d recognise the subtle set-down.
He heard the murmur of approaching voices and his body tensed. To his surprise, he found himself looking forward to the encounter.
But then, this female had already shown herself a skilled campaigner. Using neither force nor threat nor any of the tears and tantrums upon which ladies, in his experience, normally relied to soften male resolve—relying instead on his own sense of honour and courtesy—she’d induced him to yield.
The female entered. He had only a quick impression of a tall girl in an attractive, if outdated, green gown before she bent her head and sank into a curtsy.
‘Thank you for receiving me,’ she said, her throaty voice holding no hint of the reproach he would have anticipated from someone subjected to so long and discourteous a wait.
His unwilling admiration deepened. Yet another good tactic—unsettle an opponent by not responding in the expected manner.
Noting she was not, in fact, dripping on the carpet, as she rose to face him, he said, ‘I suppose I should apologise, but you seem no worse for a drenching, Miss...’
‘No need to apologise. My sturdy cloak has protected me through many a...’
Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened as Dom’s brain added together luminous brown eyes, pale skin, and slender form.
‘You!’ she cried at the same moment Dom realised he recognised his persistent visitor.
The girl from the lane.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.
Recovering first, the girl sighed. ‘Oh, dear, this is...unfortunate! I suppose I should start by apologising for being so judgemental and inconsiderate yesterday. I do beg your pardon, Mr Ransleigh.’
If she could be magnanimous, he supposed he should be, too. ‘Only if you’ll accept my apology in return. There was no excuse for my rudeness...even if I’d just had my limitations rather forcibly demonstrated.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The stallion!’ she said. ‘You were riding that black beast that nearly trampled me.’
No point in denying what, with impressive quickness, she’d already figured out. ‘Until he dumped me off,’ he admitted.
‘I don’t wonder he unseated you. I expect you’d need the hands of a prize fighter to keep that one under control.’
‘True. But, oh, can he fly like the wind! And jump anything in his path,’ Dom said wistfully, remembering.
‘Waterloo?’ she asked, pointing to his arm.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He nodded an acknowledgement before the memory surfaced. ‘I seem to recall you saying your father fell there? My condolences on your loss.’
Anguish showed briefly on her face before she masked it. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.
Watching, Dom felt her pain echo within him. It had been difficult, losing comrades with whom he’d ridden and fought, but he’d never lost anyone who was truly family. How much more agonising would it have been had some battle claimed one of his cousins—Will or Max or Alastair?
Recovering her composure, the girl said, ‘Had I known you were recuperating, I should have asked first for your lady mother. That is, I imagine she is here, caring for you during your recovery?’
‘I’m afraid I lost my mother years ago.’
‘Ah. So who is here, assisting you? Surely your family didn’t leave you to cope alone.’
She
