Passionate (3 page)

“And I will arrange something with Countess Buckley when you visit,” her mother added. “She will be eager to renew her acquaintance with you.”

Chapter 3

Lily had painted every day since her parents had left, as much as the light would allow, trying to forget the future and lose herself in the swirl of color and shade that had always been her solace. Time seemed so precious now, and she had paid so dearly for what little was left. But today was such a fine day for a ride, Lily had let her cousins coax her away from her easel.

“You’re going to grow roots if you stay in the conservatory a minute longer,” Isabelle had said.

“We’ll have to pot you up,” Richard added. “Do come.”

It had been fine day for a ride—until now.

Lily clutched at the saddle, but there was no stopping it. It was slipping. Frightened by the sudden motion, her horse shied, tumbling her with a splash into a shallow ditch. Cold mud softened her fall and her favorite green velvet riding habit soaked up water like the rag it had just become. Blast. She should have just stayed in and painted.

“Lily!” Isabelle turned her horse and raced back. “Are you all right? Is anything broken?”

Lily struggled to her feet. “Do I look all right? No. I rather resemble a mop.” She set her hands on her hips—her very damp hips—and tried to ignore the clammy fabric clinging to her. “Go ahead. Laugh. I don’t find the situation particularly funny.”

“Of course not.” Richard dismounted and offered his handkerchief. “You may want to—mop up.”

Her cousins burst into a fit of laughter. “Sorry, Lily, but you are a sight. We’re glad to find you in one piece, though.” Richard bent and fished her saddle out of the ditch.

He examined it carefully. “You won’t be riding back on this,” he said, pointing. “The girth’s given way.”

Lily gathered her sodden skirts and waded forward. “How do you propose we get home?”

“We could double up.” Richard looked at her muddy dress and took a step back. “But maybe I should just trade horses with you—once I catch yours, that is.”

She climbed out of the ditch and took the reins of Richard’s horse—his very tall, very spirited horse. She glanced up at the beast, then over to Isabelle. “Would you care to ride Hercules home?”

“
Moi
? Oh, no thank you. I’m
quite
comfortable where I am. You’ll have to ride astride, you know.”

Astride! If she were observed riding in such a very unladylike fashion it would be the talk of the shire. Lily turned to protest, but a cold east wind gusted up and her teeth began to chatter. Visions of steam rising out of a hot bath tantalized her. Riding astride might be risky, but she certainly couldn’t remain dripping here in a cold field.

It took some doing, but with her skirts kilted and a boost from Richard—who, like a gentleman, kept his head turned away—she managed to throw a leg over Hercules’s back. She hauled herself into the saddle, wet velvet bunched up around her thighs and showing an indecent amount of skin. How wicked it felt to sit with her legs exposed and splayed across the huge animal’s back.

She laughed nervously. “If Mother could see me now she would either disown me or die of mortification. Probably both! Why, just last month Miss Clara Abernathy caused a minor scandal in London when she lifted her dress to mid-calf while descending the steps of the family carriage.” Lily looked at the water dripping from her bunched skirts and down her naked thigh. It was outrageous. “Let’s take the back way and cut through the fields. We can’t chance being seen.”

“True,” Richard said, still keeping his eyes conspicuously averted. “But Farmer Cottle has his bull out to pasture. It’s the meanest-tempered animal you’ll ever see.”

Isabelle nodded. “Would you rather risk certain goring? Let’s ride around to the front gates—it will be faster and we can stay behind hedgerows most of the way. And don’t worry. There wasn’t anyone on the ride out, after all.”

“Very well,” Lily said at last, all too aware of the muddy trickles snaking down her legs. “I need a bath now!” She wiped her cheek with the damp sleeve of her riding habit and urged Hercules forward.

The wind was blowing colder when they traded the shelter of the hedgerows for Brookdale Manor’s elm-flanked drive.

“Almost home,” Lily said, then halted abruptly. Oh no. Why hadn’t they risked the bull?

A gentleman was sitting his gray horse before the wrought-iron gates. There was something military in his bearing, a controlled energy that left the impression he could move from repose to full charge in an eye-blink. His lean, handsome face was turned to her, and she watched in horror as his gaze lowered to take in her exposed legs. Hot embarrassment washed over her and she was suddenly, unbearably, conscious of her indecent state.

“Who is that?” Isabelle stopped beside her.

“Someone I’m sure I do not want to meet.” Lily yanked the reins sideways and kicked her heels hard.

The great horse reared, its powerful muscles tensing and releasing as it bolted forward. Lily clung to the saddle, concentrating on staying on as Hercules leapt the ditch that ran beside the drive and made for the open fields. Behind her she could hear her cousin’s alarmed shouts, but she hardly cared. Her only concern was to remain mounted and disappear from view as quickly as possible.

“Hold on!” The man’s voice sounded impossibly close.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. Truly, it must be a nightmare. The stranger was pursuing her, leaning low in the saddle—and he was obviously a far better rider than she would ever be. Despite her best efforts he was closing the gap between them. He drew his mount alongside, matching hers stride for stride.

“Kick your feet from the stirrups,” he commanded.

Before she could protest he leaned in and wrapped one arm tightly around her waist. He pulled her to him and Hercules, who wanted nothing of the maneuver, put on a final burst of speed and ran out from beneath her. She was suspended, clamped against the stranger, his arm coiled just below her breasts.

She must have been held in that most humiliating way for a very short time, although it did not seem so. The stranger brought his mount to a halt, then leaned over and lowered her to the ground.

Lily might have admired his riding skill, if she had not been so angry. But his “rescue” had made the situation a hundred—no, a thousand—times worse. She tugged at the disarray of her skirts as he dismounted and came to stand beside her.

“That was a near thing, Miss. Are you—”

She looked up him. His amber-flecked brown eyes were unnervingly close. “I am perfectly fine. Except for being chased down and plucked from my horse.”

He regarded her steadily for a moment, and she had the impression he was trying not to smile. “Then I must beg your pardon. I assumed your mount had run away with you.”

Cheeks flaming, Lily lifted her chin. “It was not at all the case. I was only…” But how could she explain? Wasn’t it obvious that someone who had behaved as indecently as she had would flee the eyes of a stranger?

“Lily!” Isabelle rushed up with Richard close behind. “Oh dear, what a dreadful morning you have had.”

“That was quite a bit of horsemanship, sir,” Richard said, giving the stranger an admiring look.

“Like someone out of the circus!” Isabelle added. “The way you swooped her from the saddle.”

“Indeed,” the man said. “Perhaps I should seek out that profession, since I have been informed I have little prospect as gallant rescuer. My apologies to you all for the manner of my introduction. I’m James Huntington, down from London and looking for Sir Edward Strathmore of Brookdale Manor. Is this his residence?”

“You have found it, sir.” Richard offered his hand. “I’m Richard Strathmore. Sir Edward is my father. This is my sister, Isabelle, and my cousin Lily.”

“Lily’s girth broke,” Isabelle explained. “The saddle slipped and took her with it. That’s why she was—”

“Isabelle, please!” Lily felt her blush deepen.

“I was only going to say that it was lucky your fall was softened—by a nice muddy ditch.”

Lily wanted to cover her face with her hands. Did this man have to hear every humiliating detail?

“I have heard that some people pay dearly to lie in a bath of mud,” Mr. Huntington said. “Good for the complexion.”

The tension burst.

“Mud baths!” Richard laughed—the wretch—and Isabelle too.

The so-witty Mr. Huntington smiled, humor sparking golden lights in his eyes. It was beyond mortifying.

Lily could take no more. She swept them all with a glare, then turned on her heel and marched back across the pasture, dragging her ruined skirts as she went.

James watched the woman’s retreating form. What an odd creature. She had charged off like some kind of bandit-queen, riding astride and leaping ditches. All she lacked was a dagger clenched between her teeth. A dagger she would have used on him when he pursued her, no doubt.

Richard smiled. “You caught Lily at a severe disadvantage, sir. You will find her far more agreeable once she has had her bath.”

James doubted it. He did not intend to find her at all—agreeable or not. He would consult with Sir Edward and be gone before the admittedly shapely Miss Strathmore had finished rinsing out her hair. She had a lovely pair of legs and he would not soon forget their display, but his business had nothing to do with the beauty who had sat so brazenly astride her mount.

“Come, we will bring you to the house. Father will be in the library.”

“You are most kind. Despite the awkwardness of our introduction, my errand demands that I see him.”

After the grooms had taken their horses, Richard escorted James inside and rapped on a mahogany door.

“Hello, Father. You have a visitor. Mr. James Huntington of London.”

“Yes, yes, come in.” A balding man, shorter than James, with bright blue eyes and a ruddy, genial face, waved a hand lens at him. “Welcome, Mr. Huntington. I received your uncle’s letter and have been expecting you. Do sit down.”

Sir Edward settled in the chair opposite. “I knew your grandfather—a fine man. We exchanged correspondence on matters botanical. His passing was a great loss for the scientific community—but I’m sure you didn’t ride all the way out to Brookdale just to accept my condolences.”

“No—although I thank you for them. I need your help locating a valley my grandfather visited on one of his expeditions to North Africa.” James reached into his coat pocket for the letter and handed it to Sir Edward. “I would be interested to know your opinion on this.”

The botanist took it and began to read. “What misfortune,” he said when he had finished. “To discover a new bloom and be prevented from collecting it. That must have been one of his chief regrets.”

“That and the loss of his friend, Mercer.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“Have you heard of the valley, or have any idea where it is?”

Sir Edward shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Well, James hadn’t expected it to be that easy. He settled back and looked about Sir Edward’s library. It reminded him of his grandfather’s study. The cheerful fire burning in the grate warmed what was clearly a working room—full bookshelves, sturdy tables given over to scattered notes, hand lenses, and stacks of pressed botanical specimens. The north wall was filled with framed watercolors. Leaf and stem, root and petal—all the glories of the plant kingdom rendered in exquisite detail. The vital quality of the illustrations caught his attention.

Sir Edward followed his gaze. “Ah. Lily’s botanicals. My niece, Miss Lily Strathmore. She has quite a talent, don’t you think?”

“There’s a remarkable spirit in her work.”

Could it be that the same creature he had encountered had the talent and sensitivity to produce such paintings? It was said that only a fine line separated the artist from the madman—or in this case, the madwoman.

Sir Edward nodded toward the paintings. “Lily captures the essence of the bloom without distorting the proportions or rendering the detail inaccurately. Her paintings are portraits rather than merely technical illustrations. You must meet her before you depart—a charming girl. In fact, you must meet the whole family.”

“I would be delighted.” James mouthed the polite response. In truth, he would be delighted to find out where the valley was and take his leave, without causing further embarrassment to himself or Sir Edward’s peculiar niece.

“Good. You will take tea with us. Now, concerning your grandfather’s letter—I am familiar with the
Orchis
mentioned. It is of the Mediterranean
Orchidaceae
family, all terrestrial, you know. The species described in the letter grows in hilly, upland terrain. We need a map.” Sir Edward rose and went to a large wooden case. He retrieved a roll of paper, cleared an area on one of the wooden tables, and unfurled the map.

James rose and joined him, securing one edge with his hand. “North Africa. And a good map, too.” He ran his finger along the southern coast of the Mediterranean, through Morocco and Algeria, and halted. “Tunisia. My grandfather was here, in the northern mountains.”

“That still leaves you with a very large area to search.”

James traced a meandering blue line. “This is the river my grandfather followed from Tunis. Local tribesmen might be able to help, but I can’t count on it—not with the reception they gave my grandfather and his poor friend Mercer.”

Sir Edward pointed. “Don’t forget the elevations. The flower grows in the uplands. That should narrow your search considerably. The valley might not be impossible to locate. Think of it, being the first to collect an entirely new species of flower—discovered by your grandfather, no less! Let me just see…” He turned his attention to a heavy, leather-bound volume on the next table and paged through, muttering Latin names and nodding occasionally to himself.

James looked down at the map again, studying the mountains. At least he would not have to search the vast southern desert. He would be spared bad-tempered camels and blowing sand.

Sir Edward closed his tome with a clap. “I can find no mention of anything that could be the flower your grandfather describes. Possibly in the
Primulaceae
family, but it is hard to say. You’re not thinking of going alone, are you?”