Chance the Winds of Fortune (13 page)

“Oh, the poor babies,” Rhea murmured, impulsively scooping one of the sorry-looking little creatures onto her lap. “How could anyone abandon these puppies like this? 'Tis so cruel the way they have suffered.”

“Well, the blackguard is long gone by now, Rhea, and
we've
found his puppies,” Francis said as he squatted down beside his sister, unable to resist a closer look at the whimpering pups. “Demmed shame, but it happens all of the time. I wonder what breed they are.”

“Mixed, most likely,” Ewan commented. “What are we going to—” But he was interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of an approaching carriage. The jingling of harness and rattling of wheels was steadily growing louder, but they hadn't yet caught sight of the carriage, because the gentle bend in the lane hindered their view.

“Coming a damned sight too fast, I should think,” Ewan remarked, a frown creasing his forehead as he glanced around at the narrow lane, and their position in the center of it. “Better move aside, Rhea,” he warned just as the carriage appeared, the team of horses looking wild as they galloped down the road, straight toward the party of riders.

Ewan grabbed Rhea's arm as she scrambled to her feet, the bag of puppies cradled awkwardly in her arms. Francis whistled for El Cid; the chestnut followed him to the side of the lane as he and George led the other horses out of the way, although even at that it was going to be a dangerously tight squeeze unless the coachman could slow his carriage down. Francis eyed the muddy water in the ditch behind him, not fancying being tumbled into it. Amazingly enough, though, the coachman brought his team under control with a powerful pull on the reins, when he spied the riders ahead. The coach, rocking violently, halted just feet away.

As imprecations were called down on the coachman's head from the passenger in the coach, Francis hurried over to the window, ready to offer any assistance should the lady be injured, for despite the language being used, the voice was very definitely feminine.

“What in blazes is the matter with you! I'll have your—” The voice halted abruptly as the woman inside the coach looked out the window, her eyes catching sight of the young gentleman standing quietly beside her coach, a look of sardonic amusement curving his lips.

But when Francis heard the veiled woman's sudden indrawn breath, his smile faded and he leaned closer, peering into the shadowy darkness of the coach.

“Are you ill, madam?” he inquired in growing concern as he saw her press a shaking hand to her breast.

“No, I'm quite all right,” the woman replied jerkily, her words hardly more than a whisper. “'Twas a twinge, nothing more. Perhaps 'twas something I supped on at luncheon. You know what the food can be like in some of those ghastly inns,” she said, her voice growing stronger with each word.

“If you are quite certain, madam,” Francis said politely. He doubted her words, though, since she was obviously still agitated.

Kate returned the young gentleman's stare from the safe anonymity of her veil and mask, her pale blue eyes feasting on Lucien Dominick's son. For this boy could only be a Dominick, Kate thought, swallowing painfully as she gazed into a face that reminded her not only of Lucien but of Percy as well. The eyes were different, not sherry colored like Percy's and Lucien's, nor as pale a blue as her own, but there was no mistaking the hawkish features that branded him a Dominick.

Kate glanced out of the coach window to where the other riders were standing, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a rather bedraggled young girl holding a strange-looking package. Kate's knuckles whitened inside her gloves, for she could swear that the girl was yet another Dominick. Oddly enough, the girl's incredible loveliness seemed enhanced by her dishevelment, for her unbound hair fell to her hips in glorious golden waves and framed a face that could rival the painted sweetness of a Renaissance angel. Kate sighed, for many years ago she had possessed a beauty as untouched and ethereal as that young girl's. Kate's glance moved on to the other three riders, noting the red hair on two of them and the dark brown curls of the older boy. They were
not
Dominicks; she instinctively sensed this in her own Dominick blood—of course, as far as she knew, no Dominick had
ever
been born with red hair. Kate's pale eyes returned to Francis, the Fletcher cousins dismissed from her mind as insignificant. And for Kate, in that instant, they ceased to exist. The only people that filled her world were named Dominick. And here were two of them.

“Are you, perhaps, having some difficulties?” Kate asked now, her tone politely curious as she gestured toward the dismounted riders. “The young girl seems to have taken a fall. She isn't injured, is she? Rocco,” Kate said. And before Francis could explain the situation, or put in a word to contradict her, she said something in Italian to her footman.

“Please, there is no need, madam,” Francis said hurriedly when he caught sight of the hulking figure heading toward his sister and cousins. “My sister Rhea did fall,” he began, trying to explain her extraordinary appearance, “but that was a while back. The reason we are blocking the road, and I am afraid I must apologize for the inconvenience, is that Rhea found some half-drowned puppies and came to their rescue.” Francis grinned wryly and reminded Kate so much of Percy that she almost reached out and caressed Francis Dominick's cheek.

“I see. How very noble of her,” Kate replied. “You must live hereabouts to be out riding in such inclement weather,” she remarked casually, making a concerted effort to control the excitement she could feel pulsing through her veins. “Since there is only one estate near here that I have knowledge of, and that is Camareigh, you therefore must be…” Kate allowed her voice to trail away questioningly, leaving the young gentleman no other choice but to properly introduce himself.

“I am Francis Dominick, and that is my sister Rhea Claire, and those fellows are my cousins Ewan, George, and James Fletcher,” Francis said very modestly, never mentioning titles.

“Of course,” Kate murmured, “you are the Marquis of Chardinall, and heir to Camareigh.”

Francis Dominick raised a surprised brow. “You have knowledge, madam, of our family?” he inquired in a cool tone of voice. “You are, perhaps, a friend of my parents?”

“A friend?” When Kate tried the word, it sounded strange on her tongue. “No, I am more of an old acquaintance. Yes,” she repeated, liking the sound of it, “I am an acquaintance from long, long ago.”

“I see,” Francis said. “Will you be visiting Camareigh? Perhaps you've come for the ball?”

Kate gave a negative shake of her head. “No, I'm just passing through the valley, but I have enjoyed meeting Lucien's son,” she replied graciously, her thoughts racing ahead. “Now where is that Rocco? Sometimes he can be most tiresome,” she complained, leaning out of the coach window and seeing her footman grinning like some kind of country bumpkin over a litter of pups.

Rhea Claire Dominick was smiling up encouragingly at the hesitant footman. She had been slightly startled at first, for when she'd heard the approaching footsteps she had glanced up to see a pair of sad, dark eyes staring down at her almost beseechingly. But she hadn't drawn back as had so many people when suddenly confronted with the large, slow-witted footman. Instead she had smiled, and she thought she had seen a flicker of response, or perhaps surprise, in the big man's broad-featured face.

“Surprisingly enough,” Rhea was now saying softly to the footman as he hovered over her, “they are still alive.”

Rocco continued to stare in fascination at Rhea's heart-shaped face and the golden hair tumbling over her shoulders. Something sluggish moved in his mind as he felt the genuine warmth of her smile reaching out to him. His dark, almost childishly innocent-looking eyes followed to where her outstretched hand was pointing, and he saw the furry puppies, whose pink tongues were licking Rhea's hand ecstatically as she cuddled them. Rocco slowly held out his hand, stopping midway to look to Rhea for permission, or denial, which was the usual response. Instead, though, she reached out, her small hand clasping his as she drew it toward the puppies and placed one of the squirming pups in his palm.

“'Tis all right,” Rhea said gently, patting his arm when she saw with surprised wonder the tears in his eyes as he held the puppy with almost breathless reverence. “I'm going to take them to someone who will take care of them,” she tried to explain. “He loves dogs, and has the healing touch.”

But all that penetrated Rocco's mind was that here was this golden-haired creature being kind to him, to Rocco, the slow one, the one who had been spurned and ridiculed by the villagers, and even by his own family. Rocco frowned, for the vague memories of a past dream were stirring in his mind, and he was once again seeing a gentle face such as this surrounded by flowing hair. The sweetly sad smile had beckoned to him, while her open arms had reached out to him as he'd knelt below her in supplication. He could remember shaking in terror and fear of the unknown when his mother had taken him into the big stone house. It had been so cold inside, and the walls had been so high that they had seemed to touch the heavens. He had been bad, he knew that, although he didn't understand how, and now he was to be punished, his mother had said. She had taken him away from his home and the village and left him there all alone in the cold darkness of the cathedral.

He was supposed to ask for forgiveness, but the silent robed figures swaying in and out of the shadows had frightened him, and he had looked up toward the light. Instead, he had seen only hideous, tortured faces gazing down on him. How could he ask forgiveness from faces that were so unforgiving, that damned him with their sightless eyes? He had cowered away from the stone faces, whimpering like a beaten dog until his eyes had met the eyes of the Madonna and angels. She had smiled down at him, welcomed him into her world and touched his heart with a warmth that was lacking in the cathedral's awe-inspiring chambers. But then it all had been snatched away from him, and he'd been driven out into the cold, the warmth of the Madonna's smile fading into the blackness of night as the doors of the great church were closed against him. He had never seen his Madonna again—at least, not until this day in the English countryside.

“Rocco! Answer me, you fool!” Rocco heard the strident voice shattering the peace that he'd once again found in a smile. “What are you doing? Is he bothering you, my dear?” Kate demanded as she tried in vain to attract her footman's attention.

“No, he isn't bothering me at all,” Rhea reassured the woman. “In fact, he is being very helpful,” she stated firmly, not caring for the tone of voice the woman had used on her footman.

“What are we going to do with them, Rhea?” James asked, wondering how they could possibly manage the puppies while on horseback.

“I thought we could take them to the elder Mr. Taber at Stone House-on-the-Hill,” Rhea suggested, thinking of the old man and the barn full of sick animals that he cared for. “Since his son took over the farm, he hasn't that much to do except care for strays and sick animals people have brought him. Mother says 'tis a gift, his way with animals. She's always sending Butterick for advice when we've a sick animal in the stables.”

“We'd better hurry, then,” Ewan advised, glancing up and feeling raindrops falling on his face.

“Stone House-on-the-Hill is on the way to the inn where I am staying,” Kate said, opening the door of the coach as she spoke. “Why don't you ride with me, my dear? I understand you have already fallen once today, so 'twould be much easier on you, and the puppies, not to get a soaking, which I fear the others shall,” she added solicitously.

“Oh, I really couldn't,” Rhea protested. “I'm not decent to sit with you in your carriage,” she added, wrinkling her nose. “I'm afraid the puppies are a bit worse for wear and are not too fragrant right now.”

“Nonsense, I insist you ride with me.” Quickly, Kate overrode Rhea's objections. “Believe me, I have smelled far worse odors rising out of the canals in Venice to be offended by anything now.”

“Well…” Rhea began hesitantly, her muscles and bruised flesh already beginning to ache from her fall.

“Go on, Rhea,” Francis urged, thinking it'd save them a lot of precious time if she carried the puppies in the carriage. It would, as well, keep her from a soaking and him from a scolding if their father caught sight of her, for although he was a year younger than his sister, he always felt responsible for her well-being.

“Thank you then, madam,” Rhea responded gratefully. “I will accept your kind offer.” She hurried to the coach, with Rocco just a step behind, his dark eyes never leaving her small figure.

“I'll bring Skylark,” Francis called out to her. “We'll be right alongside the carriage.”

“No, you mustn't delay your own progress,” Kate told them, pulling her skirts out of the way as Rocco slammed the carriage door shut on Rhea's figure. “You will get soaked, for it is already beginning to rain. Please, go on ahead, and we'll meet you at Stone House-on-the-Hill. It isn't far, but far enough for you to catch your death of cold if you delay,” she said persuasively.

The rain was falling steadily now, running in rivulets down Francis's face and seeping uncomfortably beneath his coat. “Very well, madam, we shall meet you there,” he agreed. But his words fell as silently as the rain, for the carriage had already started to roll down the road. The footman had hardly climbed aboard and settled himself beside the coachman before the man had cracked his whip.

Francis stared after the disappearing coach with a slight frown of puzzlement on his usually smooth brow.

“Well? Come on, Francis,” George urged his cousin as he mounted his horse and trotted across the road to where Francis was standing in what seemed to be a dazed state. “They'll be there before us at this rate.”