Nightingale (4 page)

“I am strong, Your Grace. If you can walk a little, I can be both crutch and guide to the road.”

“Damn this black, evil night,” he said.

She had little trouble seeing, her eyes having adjusted to nature’s night-lights. His obviously hadn’t … or couldn’t.

Ponderously, they advanced, taking wide berths around gnarled, vine-wrapped trees and bushes. The duke slid his feet over the rough ground, each step accompanied by groans or the pop of his jaw as he clenched his teeth. From time to time, he leaned more heavily on her. If not for those muted sounds and occasional weight, she would not have known he was in pain.

In the half-light of a small clearing, she glanced up as his jaw muscles flexed and he squeezed his unbandaged eye closed. He no longer made any effort to see. Perhaps he had finally accepted what had been apparent to her from the beginning.

He looked determined, in spite of his obvious discomfort, and she regretted having to take him the long way around to avoid the brambles through which she had tunneled to reach him.

His breathing became labored. He was tiring. Just as she decided they must stop and rest, Sweetness nickered soft encouragement. The man gave a low, rumbling response and his arm around her shoulder tightened, rekindling her own resolve.

They circled a thorned hedge and broke onto the open road, mere steps from the horse.

Maintaining a firm hold on Jessica, the duke reached out to Sweetness who nickered. The duke fanned the air with one hand until his fingers found the horse’s velvet nose. Sweetness responded with a series of throaty whickers that leached tension from the man’s body.

Eager to get beyond reunions and on with this rescue while both man and horse were cooperative, Jessica waited. Tall for a woman, slender, but strong, Jessica knew she would be no match for the pair if they rebelled.

After allowing a moment of privacy between horse and man, she guided them to a stump where she placed the duke’s hand on an adjacent tree trunk. “Hold here, Your Grace.”

Instead of complying, he grappled to maintain contact with her shoulder. “I forbid you to leave me.”

She marveled at the gall of a sightless man giving orders to someone who could see, but she gulped back a terse response and answered him gently.

“I want to position Sweetness beside a stump you may use as a step onto his back.”

Again she had forgotten to refer to the horse by his proper name. She hesitated, awaiting the admonishment she knew was coming. She had not known the man long, but she already had gained grudging insights into his disposition.

Instead of the anticipated reminder, however, he released her, squared his shoulders, and spoke confidently. “Sensible. Tell me when Vindicator is in position.”

While his voice rang with authority, his hand on the tree trembled. She glanced at the wound on the back of his head, reassured to find it oozing rather than gushing. Her mother considered moderate blood flow from an injury a sign of cleansing.

The man obviously was accustomed to making decisions, giving orders and having them carried out, a practice that should make them compatible, since Jessica was accustomed to taking orders and doing as she was told.

They were an odd pair: he, a pillar of society; she, custodian of society’s leavings; he, handsome and expensively maintained; she, plain in oversized, cast-off clothing. His shoes had been handcrafted to fit his foot. Her worn men’s boots were a gift from John Lout who had probably taken them off a dead man. He had done so before.

Grabbing the tree trunk with both hands, the gentleman wavered. Jessica took a step to assist as he righted himself. She watched until he seemed steady before she returned to positioning the horse.

She led Sweetness close to the stump. There the horse stood like a stone, as if he sensed this was no time to challenge human skill.

Jessica turned, ready to help the man, but delayed a moment to appraise him. Once he was on the horse, they would return to their respective lives.

Again she marveled at the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. Ruffles lined the front of his shirt, exposed by his unbuttoned coat and torn vest. She did not see one measure of fat on his frame. He carried himself proudly, his posture almost regal, in spite of the humbling circumstances. She admired his posturing. She prayed pride would see him home and sustain him if the loss of his sight should prove permanent.

In the dappled light, his face looked chiseled of stone, yet there was a comeliness in his high forehead, which now would bear a scar at his hairline. His nose, which might be oversized on an average face, gave his character. His mouth spanned a firm, determined chin, and he bore creases at the corners of his mouth and his eyes. Did they come from frowning, or from laughter? In truth, Jessica thought him the most handsome man she had ever seen.

In spite of her lesser height and slim build, she was probably sturdier than he, her muscles honed from long hours in the scullery and tending her mother and the hens. Still, her frame seemed spindly compared to his.

Dismissing her silly, idle thoughts, Jessica stepped closer.

“Sweetness … that is, Vindicator … understands his role. He will hold steady.” She shot a warning look at the horse as he rolled an eye back. Clutching his bridle with one hand, she patted the duke’s sleeve with the other to let him know her whereabouts and to prod him.

Quite unexpectedly, the man caught her calloused hand and twined his fingers with hers. In other circumstances, she would not have allowed a man to touch her so intimately, but instead of pulling away, she directed his hand to the saddle, as if he needed guidance.

A frown darkened his expression, and he pressed her hand open to finger the calluses.

Embarrassed, she pulled free and was relieved that he neither commented nor questioned her. His lack of response at first pleased her, but the pleasure soured as she realized he probably was indifferent to her, a nobleman unconcerned about a peasant.

She was pleased that her voice did not reflect her pique. “The tree stump is just right of your right foot, Your Grace. It is substantial.” He slid his foot until his shoe bumped the tree. She prompted him again. “If you will step onto it, we can maneuver you into the saddle.”

He waved her back.

Sweat beaded his forehead as he gripped the pommel and cantle with those large, capable-looking hands that trembled only a little.

Jessica fisted her own hands, determined not to assist him until he asked, and certain he would not.

He placed his left foot on the stump and hesitated a moment, seemingly gathering strength before he vaulted. Well seated, he slid his feet into the stirrups, the length of which fit his long, trousered legs perfectly. He wavered only a little before he straightened and took up the rein.

Jessica admired the way he sat the horse, as if there were communion between them.

It had been shortsighted of her not to have planned for herself beyond this point. Her first concern, of course, had been to find the missing rider; her second, to see him restored. She had done her duty, reuniting man and horse. Her responsibility was ended. The horse would deliver them safely home.

Sighing, she noticed the vapor of her breath. The temperature had dropped. She gazed back down the road the way she had come. It was a long walk, the way probably safer now, in the silent hours before dawn. If she put a foot into it, she should be warm enough and home in time to see her mum, feed her hens, and still put in half-a-day’s work at the manor.

“God’s speed,” she said, and slapped the horse’s rump. The effort depleted her reserve of courage.

“Where is your escort?” the man asked, wheeling the horse and turning his head as if looking for Jessica’s companions.

She deemed a lie necessary. “Back the way Sweetness brought me. I need retrace our steps only a little distance to rejoin them.”

The man’s voice dropped to a growl as if he were annoyed. “Vindicator. My horse’s name is Vindicator.”

“Yes, of course. I usually learn things quickly. I meant back the way Vindicator brought me.”

The duke’s expression softened, along with his tone. “This animal will never be Vindicator to you, will he, Nightingale?”

“Perhaps not, Your Grace, but he will always be the finest horse I ever attended.” Why should they part with bitter words? “I know that Vindicator, not Sweetness, is his true name, if not his true disposition.”

The duke pursed his lips. “My apologies, Jessica Blair. The thieves left me with not a farthing to reward you for your heroism. Added to that, I have been insufferably rude. I am Devlin Miracle, the Twelfth Duke of Fornay, master of Gull’s Way, the keep at Shiller’s Green, and other lesser estates, at your service.” He gave a flourish as if doffing an invisible hat.

Jessica responded with a quiet giggle. His sudden, brilliant smile set her heart aflutter.

“Disregarding my title, of course, you must call me Devlin, for the events of this night have made us the closest of friends.”

Jessica ducked her head to hide her embarrassment — forgetting he was unable to see her.

“And I shall call you Jessica, although … ” He shook his head as if casting off an unwanted thought, arched his brows, and added, “Jessica seems too feminine a name for a tomboy like yourself, a bird whose cooing in the forest was more welcome than the song of a Nightingale.”

While his somber face had been comely before, easy smiles lifted it to enchanting. Scarcely able to speak, Jessica managed a whispered, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Devlin.”

“Your Grace Devlin.”

“Just Devlin.”

“I must go.” She turned and took several long strides down the road, back the way they had come, toward Welter. She needed to hurry but smiled to herself, secretly entertaining an outrageous thought. No one — not John Lout nor her cousin Muffet nor her brother or sister, not even Penny Anderson — would ever know Jessica Blair had spent this night with a nobleman, unchaperoned except for the protection of a war horse whose name was a matter of dispute.

Devlin reined the horse and might have gone, except Vindicator refused.

Ignoring his master’s urging, the stallion stood unyielding and rolled his eyes at the dejected moppet as she exaggerated her long-legged stride, an effort to demonstrate a confidence she did not feel.

Even without his sight, Devlin interpreted his mount’s reluctance to leave the waif to walk even a short way alone.

“Here, Jessica,” Devlin called, “the least Vindicator and I can do is see you safely to your escort. That is little enough pay for your Samaritan efforts.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but there is no need. You are not fit to ride any further than you must.”

“Not fit? Why, child, I have reserves as yet untapped. Now, give me your hand.”

“Your horse is tired as well, Your Grace.”

“Even absent sight, child, my hands have taken your measure. Your little weight will be a trifle. He carries far more than you when we are armed.” He leaned forward to stroke his mount’s thick neck. “Like me, Vindicator has a well of strength to draw from, and is particularly pleased to offer it to a fair damsel in distress.”

A quick, unbelieving glance at his face indicated he was teasing. Of course. Fair damsel in distress, indeed. The haughty nobleman had been the one in distress — and still was, although he was bluffing it through convincingly enough.

“No, thank you, Your Grace.”

He flapped a hand at her and his face took on a glacial look. “I command you. Give me your hand.”

She disliked the way his mouth thinned to a grim line, making his beard-trimmed jaws appear again to be chiseled of rock.

Since he couldn’t see, he couldn’t know whether they met an escort or not. When it seemed convenient, she would tell him she could see her party beyond a place where there was no road. There would be no need for him to know the truth.

She yielded. “All right.”

“Can you ride astride?” he asked.

“Yes, but my dress … ”

“Hike it up, child. There’s no one to see you but me and to my weary eyes, this night remains devilishly dark.”

In the open, the moon bathed them in almost full light, but saying, “Yes, sir,” she tapped his knee with her fingers to indicate her position.

He caught her forearm with one hand and lifted, swinging her across his lap as if her weight were of no consequence.

She scrambled to throw one leg over the saddle, then twisted and pulled, adjusting her garments. Holding herself away from him, Jessica arranged herself and smiled, thinking how well Muffet’s oversized dress had served this night. She reminded herself not to complain again about her cousin’s castoffs.

Jessica’s legs were modestly covered as Devlin’s arms came forward, the rein in one hand, the other hand coiling about her waist.

“You are very thin, child. And cold.” He pulled her against him, pressing her bottom between his thighs and spooning her into his long, warm torso. He fisted the handful of fabric gathered at her midriff.

“What is this you’re wearing? A tent?”

“My wardrobe comes from a cousin. It is clothing she has outgrown.”

“And which you, God willing, will never fit into. There is enough material here to wrap you twice, perhaps thrice.”

“More fabric provides more warmth when the nights turn cool, Your Grace.”

He shifted, tugging a handful of dress and Jessica companionably against him. “Yes, more fabric does provide more protection against the weather. And combining our body heat is an advantage as well. Our mingled warmth is a comfort already.”

Strangely, their proximity served Jessica as comfort, stimulation, and disturbance, all at one time. Watching her breath plume, she nestled closely into the man’s body. Devlin touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and Sweetness moved smoothly into a slow, rocking gait. The man fidgeted, twisting and turning.

“May I help?” Jessica asked. As she turned, his cloak unfurled on either side of him.

“Thank you, but our wrap is free now.” He shook the cloak and, using one hand at a time, he pulled the sides around, enclosing himself and Jessica in its silk and woolen cocoon.