Dreaming (4 page)

Now, one would think by looking at them that cows were placid, calm, most biddable animals, content to graze in the fields and chew their cud, their tails whipping up occasionally to swat a few pesky flies.

They are, usually.

Her cousins sauntered over near her as she spoke softly to the cow and slid the noose around its thick neck, not realizing that it was her own neck she’d noosed.

A quick prayer, a deep breath, and she leapt swiftly onto the cow’s bone-hard back. Dear Cousin James slapped its rump with a hand that had a nail hidden in it.

She hadn’t known cows could scream. The animal bawled and pitched and twisted, landing so hard that
Letty’s
teeth rang together. At the sound of her cousins’ cruel laughter she gripped the rope even tighter in her small hands and managed to stay on, her pride being at stake along with her life. The former, however, was most important to her at the time.

One blurred glance at her cousins’ surprised faces and
Letty
knew she would ride that bovine beast as long as physically possible. So with her teeth ringing and her bottom battering the cow’s spine, they trotted down the hill at a fast clip, splattered through a small brook, and cantered up a dirt road that led to a split-rail bridge spanning the river.

It was there, on that hollow wooden bridge, atop a bawling, runaway
Jersey
cow, that
Letty
Hornsby first met Richard Lennox, who, as divine fate would have it, was returning home from the university.

Even fate must sometimes succumb to cliché, for he was astride a white horse. Richard Lennox, a blond god whose looks could put the angel Gabriel to shame. A knight to slay dragons. An unsuspecting young man whose blasphemous profanity echoed upward as he was thrown over the side of the bridge and into the mossy waters of the River
Heddon
.

Meanwhile
Letty
clung tightly to a beam of the bridge and watched the cow trot along after his spooked horse. Two rather vivid curses caught her attention, so she turned back and peered over the side to the river below.

Until the day she died she’d always be able to remember his face as he surfaced to scowl up at her. Oh, it was chiseled classically: high cheekbones, a firm square jaw that carried just a shadow of a dark beard, and a straight, somewhat hawkish nose.

His skin was tanned a deep golden brown and his hair—now wet, slicked back, and peppered with green moss—was the color of her papa’s fine French brandy, only streaked with blond. He had a dark slash of thick male brows over eyes the color of which were impossible to determine from such a height, but they glittered up at her from a face that said he’d love to get his clenching hands on her.

The incident set the pattern for their future encounters. Some were more disastrous than others, but, through the years, through the heartache and the embarrassment, never wavering was
Letty’s
devotion.

With a faith as strong as a disciple, she’d clung to the heartfelt idea that someday Richard would be hers. He was the center of her lonely world.

She’d dreamed her hair would suddenly turn into long red tresses guaranteed to catch his eye—which was, by the way, green. She’d discovered the color during an unfortunate incident with a cricket ball.

Actually he didn’t have one green eye, for if he’d had only one eye he’d have worn a patch—like a dashing pirate. As romantic a thought as that was, Richard Lennox had two green eyes, and they were not the rich green of spring grass nor the bright green of a leprechaun’s suit, but the same dark green of the sprawling Devon moors, of the Channel sea just before the sun sets, of a dangerous forest in which an innocent fairy-tale princess could become hopelessly lost.

A green for a lonely girl to weave fanciful dreams about. And dreaming was one of the few things she did well, because in dreams there were always happy endings. In dreams she could imagine anything, no matter how preposterous, no matter how unlikely, without the world outside knowing. In dreams she had a glimpse of perfection that never existed in the real world.

So she dreamed that someday Richard Lennox would awaken with the sudden realization that he couldn’t live without her. She fancied their first kiss— which she practiced by pressing her lips to her bedchamber door—and she remembered every rare smile, every chance meeting, and the one time he’d actually danced with her.

Oh yes, she remembered that time. Every girl remembered the first ball of her season, and
Letty
remembered hers as much, much more than merely a ball. She had been the damsel in distress and Richard, her knight in shining armor.

Such a moment! If she closed her eyes she could still remember his scent. He’d smelled of sandalwood and raindrops . . . and heroes.

She still had that dance card, hidden in special box along with her mother’s pearls, the nail James had used to slap that cow, and a small sampler with which her mama had taught her to stitch. It said:
 
“Speak from your heart.”

After the debacle of her
London
season and the humiliation of her banishment, she had tried to make her papa understand. He, like everyone else, had known how she felt about Richard. It was no secret. But with that came the fact that her papa was also well aware of her disastrous history with the young man, aware of every plan gone awry, of every foolish thing she had done to win the attention of a young man bent on destroying himself without her help.

Love had been her downfall, she had argued when her papa tried to talk to her. Couldn’t he even begin to understand? She’d been in love with Richard for half of a lifetime.

Her papa had said that if things continued on as they had, half a lifetime was all Richard Lennox would get

And here it was a year or so later that
Letty
was looking down at her love, lying so still, his blond head in her lap, his dark brows flecked with sand, those dark green eyes closed. She hoped her papa’s jest had not been prophetic. He had taken quite a nasty fall from his mount.

“Richard?” she whispered.

Her English bloodhound, Caesar Augustus, drew back his lips in a canine snarl and growled.

“Hush, Gus,” she scolded. He blinked once, whimpered, then sank his large brown head with its floppy black-tipped ears onto his outstretched paws and watched her through bloodshot hazel eyes.

She turned back and searched Richard’s face for signs of consciousness. She saw none. But there was little light—only one guttering candle nearby. As she had a hundred times since his fall, she stared intently at his chest.

It rose and fell slightly. She gave a sigh of relief and moved her face just inches from his. “Please wake up, my lord. Please. You’ve been unconscious so terribly long.”

He stirred, then mumbled something unintelligible.

She watched him ever so closely, looking at the strong angles of his face, his square jaw
stubbled
with a bit of beard growth that was so much darker than the golden streaks in his hair. She slowly drew a tentative finger along his rough jaw, then touched her own jaw.

She sat completely still for a moment, thinking. Deep in her chest, she felt a strange little thrill when confronted with the simple contrasts between a man and a woman.

Unable to stop herself, she slid her hand into his large one, holding it. For the sweetest moment she just stared at their joined hands, looking at the difference in size, the dark hardness of his hand, the pale softness of hers. Then she sighed. “I’m here, my lord . . . my love.”

He slowly peeled open one green eye, then the other. Both appeared slightly glazed, then they cleared and filled recognition. Richard moaned like a man dying.

“Are you in pain, my lord?” She frowned and reached out to gently stroke the bits of sand from his forehead.

“What the hell did you do to me this time?”

“You fell.”

“You’re flicking sand in my eyes.”

She drew her hand back. “I’m sorry.”

He blinked for a moment. “I fell,” he repeated, as if he had to do so to comprehend. “Off my horse?”

She nodded.

“From the cliff path?”

She nodded again.

He tried to lift his head and winced. “What did I land on? The rocks?”

“Your head.”

He raised a hand to his head and appeared to feel around for wounds. “Good God . . . . ” He paused on a spot and gave a small groan. “What a knot!” He lay there for a second, his eyes closed, then asked, “Is anything missing?”

“No.”

He opened his eyes and pinned her with a stare. “Broken?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, my lord, but I can help you see if anything’s broken. You did moan a bit when you first awoke.”

“That wasn’t from pain.” He sat up very slowly and looked straight at her. “Only the anticipation of all the pain to come.” He grimaced, rolling his shoulders as if they were stiff. He shook his head slightly, blinked, then took in the dark room. His express filled with dread. Facing her, he gripped her arm tightly. “Where the devil are we?”

Gus shot up in a stiff protective stance, nose to nose with Richard, who quickly released her arm and said, “Never mind. Now I know where I am.” He scowled directly at Gus. “I’m in hell.”

“I think you’re confused my lord.”

“That usually happens when you and I are together, Miss Hornsby.”

He was calling her “Miss Hornsby” and her heart dropped just a bit, because it always did something wonderful to her when he called her “hellion.” But he hadn’t called her that in so terribly long.

“I’ve been told I have a habit of creating confusion. I don’t try.” She gave a small sigh. “I never thought you were confused, probably because you seem quite clear eyed when you shout.”

He pinned her with a hard stare for a moment, then flinched slightly.

“Does your head still hurt?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. You look queasy.”

With an even sicker look, he studied the dank surroundings of the ship’s hold. “I think I might be ill.”

“Oh,” she said knowingly. “
Mal de mer
.”

“No.
Mal de la femme
,” he said under his breath, then added in a flat tone, “We’re on a ship.”

She nodded, leaning closer as she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “I believe it’s a smugglers’ ship, my lord.”

He closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. The silence ate at her nerves and she clasped her hands in her lap and nervously tapped her fingers together.

Finally he looked at her. “What were you doing on those cliffs?”

She flushed and stared at her hands. “Following you.”

“I haven’t been back to Lockett Manor in over two years. How in God’s name did you know I was back?”

“I heard the servants talking. One of the kitchen maids saw you leave the tavern and she told Cook, and . . . I, uh, overheard.”

“Hiding in the back staircase?”

Surprised, she looked up. “How did you know?”

He gave a sharp laugh that held no humor. “Lucky guess.”

Again there was no sound except the slosh of the waves hitting the side of the ship. She waited for him to say something, anything. But he didn’t. There was nothing but
slap! whoosh
, and an occasional creak. Unable to stand the silence a moment longer, she said, “I think, considering the situation, you and I are rather stuck together, my lord.”