Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

“No. There’s nothing between us and the manor house in that direction.” She pointed. “Or the village in that direction.” She swung her arm around.

“Fool, bloody fool. I should have realized. The birds, that was it, when there were no birds, I should have—”

Because the conversation he was having appeared to be with himself and had nothing to do with her, Francesca ignored him. She bent down, and by testing the ground in front of her with her hands, she was able to creep slowly forward. Wolf was whining anxiously at her back, clearly of the opinion that she was pushing her luck, but she ignored him, intent on getting as close as possible to the stricken stranger. She’d remembered seeing a boating accident once, when she and her family were holidaying in the Lake District. A child had fallen from a boat, and one of the men stripped off his jacket and used it as a sort of rope, so that the child had something to grasp.

Francesca didn’t have a jacket, but she did have her woolen cloak. It was old but it was made of stout Yorkshire wool, and Francesca thought that it would do very well.

The stranger was still muttering to himself, so Francesca interrupted him. “Sir?” He swung his head around, eyes narrowing, as if he was surprised to find her there. “Can you move at all? If I were to twist my cloak into a rope and throw it toward you, could you use it to try to pull yourself free?”

He was watching her mouth intently, as if he was trying to read her lips. Perhaps he was delirious.

“Sir?” she repeated desperately. “Did you understand what I said?”

“Cherries,” he said, as if he’d come to some important decision. “Ripe cherries. But the hair is wrong, and the nose…”

Crouching on the edge of the mire, her skirts muddy, her face frozen, and her hair damp from the soft falling rain, Francesca wavered in her determination to rescue him by herself. “I’m going back for help.” She spoke loudly and clearly. “I don’t want to leave you here, but I think I must. It will not be for long.”

He blinked, and clarity returned to his face and focus to his eyes. “No,” he said with hoarse desperation. “Don’t go. I promise you I am unhurt, just very tired from a night spent trying to keep myself from being swallowed up by this infernal muddy soup.”

Francesca hesitated.

He could see the doubt. “Please,” he repeated. “If you go, I won’t be alive when you get back. Don’t desert me.” He was tired and close to the end of his strength. She read it in his eyes as they stared at each other, and knew that this man’s life was in her hands. She felt a trembling deep inside her as she acknowledged the responsibility, but it was one she was willing to accept.

“I will do my best,” she agreed. “I won’t desert you.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, and despite his state, there was something about his smile…

Francesca busied herself by removing her cloak and twisting it until it resembled a bulky rope. One end she wound as tightly as she could around her hand, and then she tossed the other end toward him.

It fell short.

He tried to reach it anyway, stretching out his free arm, scrabbling with his fingers. The branch cracked sharply, and the mire made a horrid sucking sound, as if it wasn’t prepared to give him up. Wolf began barking hysterically, dancing in tight circles. Quickly Francesca pulled her cloak back, trying not to panic at the sight of him grappling with the branch to keep himself from being swallowed.

“This…bloody…thing…will…not…hold…much…longer,” he gritted.

“You swear a great deal,” she said, flustered, struggling with her cloak.

He laughed wild

ly.

Francesca prepared to toss him the makeshift rope once more.

He tried to alter his position so that he had a better chance of catching hold of it when she threw it, and then swore again, abruptly. “Damn and blast it! I can’t feel my legs. It’s the cold, curse it.”

Francesca prayed it was not something worse. If he could not help her with the task ahead, then they were both lost.

He struggled, and ominously the branch cracked again. “I’m sinking,” he said grimly.

“Hold on!”

“If I stop talking you’ll know I’ve gone under.”

“At least you’ll stop swearing.”

“It’s…not…unreasonable…to…swear…in…the…circumstances.”

Ignoring him, on her hands and knees, Francesca began to creep closer still, feeling her way, and although she sank a little, she didn’t stop moving until the ground began to tremble violently. “That’s far enough.” Behind her, Wolf showed his concern by whimpering.