Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

That was why she was out here in the cold and the rain, walking upon her beloved moors. Soon there would be nothing for her to see from her window but houses and rattling vehicles and people, lots of people, all crowded into the confines of the smoky, dirty, and ever expanding city of London.

Already she felt the ache in her heart at leaving, the loss of her freedom. She would put on her smart traveling outfit, the one her mot

her had purchased in York, and the façade that went with it. Respectable, restrained, proper Miss Francesca Greentree—everything that deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t.

Wolf barked again. He ran higher, to the very top of a limestone outcrop, and stood with legs stiff and wiry coat bristling, staring intently down the other side. Francesca knew that over there lay the green and deceptively beautiful Emerald Mire, and that the mire was the last resting place of many a wandering sheep, or an unwary stranger.

Quickly she climbed up to join the lurcher, ignoring the splatters of rain falling about her. A strong gust of wind caught at her clothing, and she tugged her cloak closer around her. Her skin tingled with the cold, her blood was coursing through her veins, and her body felt alive, and at one with the elements.

At that moment she reached the summit. Her hand resting on Wolf ’s head, she drank in the view, storing it away in her heart for the long months ahead.

Wolf took off, loping down the other side, straight for the mire. Francesca called him to come back, but he ignored her. Worried, even though she knew he was familiar with the dangers, she caught up her skirts and ran after him, her old boots slipping and sliding on the rough ground.

“Wolf!”

He turned and gave a series of barks, as if to say, Can’t you see him! before he set off again.

Francesca stared out over the green shimmering surface, and she did see him. The man.

He was lying awkwardly, trapped, with his arms wrapped around a branch that had somehow found its way into the mire. His head was turned away from her.

Was he alive?

A shiver of horror went through her and she slowed her steps. He was so still. He must be dead. She told herself that she should go and fetch help to remove the body, but her feet wouldn’t move.

Aware that Wolf was still barking, she hushed him. And then she saw one of his hands move, just a twitch, and the man lifted his head and turned his face toward her. It was pale, mud-smeared, with eyes so dark and burning that for a moment Francesca was frozen to the spot, her gaze locked with his.

And, the strangest thing, he smiled. “It’s you,” he said, his voice deep and hoarse.

As if he’d been expecting her.

Chapter 2

Francesca felt her heart give a painful jolt. He was alive and there was no time to be lost! She picked her way onto the outer edges of the treacherous mire, until her boots began to sink. Wolf ran ahead of her, knowing instinctively where it was safe; he was showing her the way.

Cautiously Francesca followed until she reached the spot where the big dog stopped. There was a patch of ground about a yard across that was solid and safe, but all around the mire shimmered treacherously. “Good Wolf,” she murmured gratefully, ruffling his coarse coat. “You’re far too fussy to get your feet wet, aren’t you, boy?” For a moment her fingers clung to his warm, wiry body, seeking comfort.

How was she going to save the man? He was closer now, but still out of reach by several feet, and there was nothing lying about that she could use. She needed a rope or a pole, something for him to cling to so that she could drag him to safety.

He was watching her, probably wondering if she was going to join him in the mire. “My dog knows the safe path,” she explained.

“I hope you’re right.” He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, smearing the mud. He had a gentleman’s voice, he’d been to a good school, but other than that and the fact that his hair was as dark as his eyes, Francesca couldn’t tell what he looked like.

“How long have you been here?”

“All night.”

He moved, grimacing with pain. Was he injured? Francesca could see that he was holding on to the half-submerged branch with the crook of his elbow. It didn’t look very secure. Something needed to be done, and soon.

Wolf made a whimpering sound in his throat and Francesca patted him again, soothing him and herself, while her gaze remained on the man. His head had dropped down, but now he lifted it again and his gaze fastened hungrily on to hers, as if he was afraid that if he blinked or looked away she might disappear.

“Are you injured?” she called out to him, feeling shaken. “Can you move at all?”

“You’re not a dream, are you?” he said.

“No, I promise you I’m no dream.”

“And is there a Gypsy camp over the hill?”