The Duke's Headstrong Woman (Strong Women Find True Love 2)

Unfortunately... the storm in Lord Beckham's soul was not the only storm brewing at that particular moment in time. As Nadia drew closer, trying to comfort the sullen duke, a loud thunderclap shattered their moment together; startled, the two nobles looked to the sky, only noticing all too late that a thunderstorm had darkened the moors and forests of the Emerys estate. Nadia hastily glanced across the fields - they had spent all morning riding, into the afternoon, and had ranged too far for the two of them to make it back safe to the manor in time.

"The storm doesn't seem interested in waiting for us to complete this particular conversation," Lord Beckham said, his voice once again strong, alluring; and now, full of duty, as he searched for a resolution to their particular situation. A slow panic set into Nadia's mind; she hadn't realized just how far they had ranged, nor had she been paying attention to the weather, and she quietly cursed herself.

"I'm... sorry, I'm not certain that Pierre can make it terribly far in heavy rains," she said, voice warbling. Lord Beckham comforted Nadia's fear, stroking her tied-back tail of flowing hair as he quickly thought on a decision; another thunderclap echoed overhead.

"You spoke of your father tearing down the hunting lodges and cabins, though - generally, estates like these have gamesman or warden cabins - do you remember any, possibly still standing, out in the woods?" Lord Beckham said. "I'd presume they'd be located... back, the route we came, in the deepest part of the forest."

"Y-yes!" Nadia recalled. "I... I don't think father's had it torn down since last I lived on the estate, but a gamekeeper's cabin once laid in the heart of the forest's edge here, if we can—" a loud crash of thunder, a flash of lightning, and a light, dewy misting of rain fell down upon them all at once, and with each movement intent, Lord Beckham grasped Pierre's bridle; the horse whinnied, and he set Lady Havenshire upon her steed with great, effusive strength.

"We must be hasty, ride ahead of the storm as best we can," he insisted. Nadia blinked at the sudden strength shown by the man, but she had little time to contemplate now, driving Shadow back into the darkness of the forest as the lightning and thunder nipped at the horse's hooves.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Here!"

She heard his voice pierce through the waves of rain falling overhead; cascading, wet waves, sheets of the stuff now coating her, soaking through her thin riding jacket. She shivered as Shadow trotted and whinnied in protest, feeling the fear and the chill running down Nadia's back. Lord Beckham's cry felt like utter providence; she pulled back on the reins of her steed, who took off through the thickets and blanket of fallen leaves into the forest like an arrow plunging to its target. Nadia held close, a shiver rocking her frame as she held on tight, hearing only the soft patter of her shocked pulse reacting to the cold. Lord Beckham had gone ahead in search of the cabin; she remembered it from her childhood, and the grumpy, strange man who had lived out in the woods; one bulging eye, clad always in clumsily-sewn furs, occasionally dragging reams of sliced venison in a cart for her father to serve during dinner banquets.

"M'lady?" she heard him cry out in concern as another thunderous crack struck the sky, lightning creasing through coal-gray clouds. She raised her hoarse voice to assure him, but she could speak barely above a whisper, the cold soaking through into her bones. A painful eternity passed before they arrived at a small clearing, Shadow hopping over a fallen, rotted log and a handful of gnarled, aged branches as she saw him there in the doorway; her peculiar, but strong, savior. Her breath ragged she gripped tightly to Shadow as the horse brought her alongside Pierre, who had already decided to take a rest in the mud again, rain splattering against the creature's back.

"M'lady, I'm begging your pardon, but you look quite dreadful," Lord Beckham joked as her arm across his shoulders and hoisted the soaked, cold, tired woman off of her horse's back. The position brought to her pained memories of her father, struggling to make it up the stairs, and she shook her soaked dreams loose and pulled herself up proudly, not willing to let a man do her walking for her.

"I... I'll be just f-fine," her lips chattered at the cold along her skin, and she shivered her way through puddles of mud and overgrown, marshy grasses, her boots now sloshing as water and mud snuck through the leather and clung to her stockings. Her legs shaky, she nearly lost her balance in the mire - Lord Beckham was quick to grasp and steady her, though he kept his distance, not wanting to patronize the proud woman with the offer of unnecessary help. She smiled glibly, not sure if he had come to recognize her as an equal quite yet... but it was a nice step.

"I'm c-cold," she shuddered as she pulled open to the door to the cabin. Lord Beckham saw her in and surprise swept her features at how pristinely preserved the place appeared; she had utterly forgotten it even existed after the gamekeeper passed years ago, and she had thought the same of her father; and perhaps he had. But aside from dust clung to the tr

ophied heads of elk and moose and deer and exotic manners of beast arrayed along the walls, the cabin felt positively homey; a fireplace sat unused, dried logs adjacent to the stone mantle, a writing desk off to one corner; a rather spartan bed in a simple frame with white, dusty sheets in one corner; a velvety couch set opposite the fireplace, cushions overstuffed with goose feathers. Nadia took stilted steps inside as Lord Beckham pulled the door shut behind them, the rain pattering loudly against the roof; she could spot no leaks, the cabin again defying every expectation, as even the family manor itself had run afoul of various holes in the roof over the years.

"M'lady, please," Lord Beckham pointed her to the couch, his movements and voice and everything about him, so full of that duty. She had not yet seen him like this, so dedicated; he had something he needed to accomplish, and he moved with haste and attention to do just what he needed to do. She appreciated it silently, her teeth chattering, her hair streaming with moisture; she wrung her messy ponytail out to draw some of the moisture away from her head, though it did little to abate the shiver shocking her spine. Lord Beckham grasped the wrought-iron fire poker at the mantle and used it to claw cobwebs and sheets of dust from the fireplace, rolling over the dried-out wooden logs from the pile nearby and throwing them into the stone chamber, searching for any manner of match or flint with which to ignite the objects.

"It's... I didn't r... remember, how cold it could get in r-rainstorms, here," Lady Havenshire said, shuddering; Lord Beckham's face, vexed in concern, turned to the woman; noticing her shivers hadn't calmed, he approached her and grasped the shoulders of her soaked jacket. He very carefully tugged at the garment, taking great care not to act in a manner unbecoming of her own autonomy; he slid the soaked jacket down her body, off of her arms, hanging it atop one of the bedposts, droplets of water flowing freely from the cloth, so saturated with rain that it quickly created a puddle beneath it.

"The rain makes it far worse, m'lady, as do wet garments swimming atop your skin," he murmured to her. She heard a clothy shuffling and turned to see the duke removing his own heavy jacket - it fared far better in the rain, its leathery surface having deflected much of the rainwater, its interior lined with furs and stuffed comfortably; she could feel the jacket's warmth and squirmed as he placed the garment across her shoulders. It was far too large for her, of course, but the extra size only made it all the warmer and more comforting.

"I'm... I d-don't think I've ever seen a j-jacket, like this one," Nadia chattered out, smiling meekly as her skin flushed from a deep pale to a light, lively pink.

"The weather on the moors of Berrewithe has a tendency to get rather unpleasant as autumn and winter approach, particularly at the manor and in the hills beyond," Lord Beckham said, eyes scanning the mantle for something to finish his fire-tending task with. She watched him in quiet awe - now, without his jacket, she got to see more than she had ever gotten to see before, his white silk undershirt clung to Lord Beckham's body... a body she quickly came to appreciate. A chiseled frame lay beneath the garb, his chest broad and virile; his arms powerful, his skin a rich, deep and alluring tone, his damp hair thrown to one side of his alluring face as he searched the cabin for a flint to strike. She gasped gently on seeing him, more impressed by a man than she perhaps ever had been, though that little impish voice inside of her reminded her to remain steady. Not to get carried away. He was still a man, a privileged man, even with that... tempting body, and those eyes, and his powerful voice...

"Ah," he finally exclaimed in satisfaction, discovering a small flint and tinder in a box upon the mantle. "Now, let us hope we're fortunate enough that years of mold and damp rains haven't fouled the wood, and that rust hasn't claimed the firesteel," Lord Beckham commented quietly as he kneeled before the fireplace. Lady Havenshire found herself drawn curiously to his back, as if in a trance; she couldn't stop looking at those chiseled lines of strength and masculinity drawn across his back, visible through his wet shirt. She swallowed hard, adoring the sight of him; still so unsure of what she'd found in him, but so wanting. She heard the repetitive click-click of a rigid chert struck against the small piece of steel; as she came around the couch she saw a small, flashing spark kicked towards the dried-out wood. He repeated the motion as she watched, the chill lifted from her back, her cheeks now burnished a bright tone as she watched his every movement. She took a ragged breath - the sound haggard not from the cold now, but from the adrenaline-rush of emotions in her warmed veins, so enticed by a man who so selflessly helped her from the cool touch of the rushing rains.

With a quiet roar a fire kicked up from the meet of sparks and log, and the flames spread quick, until a warming glow flowed outward and through the cabin, coating both of its inhabitants with an orange-tint glow. Her eyes flashed alight and she felt the warmth begin to cascade over her. Lord Beckham turned, faced her and smiled, shrugging.

"I suppose that... worked, did it not, m'lady?" he asked, a boyish sort of humble charm to his words. She remained silent; she found it hard, in fact, to speak, or to think; she had so utterly been taken by her interest in him that it reduced her to something of a simpering little girl.

"I..." she tried; he stepped closer, and she could smell his scent, feel his warmth; his broad chest before her, she felt the need to press her cheek to it, to hear his heart beating, to know he was flesh and blood and man like all the others, and not some manner of wild dream her imaginative mind had conjured up to fill her fantasies.

"The fire should help... you've not caught some manner of malady out in the cold, have you, m'lady?" he asked, worriedly. She bit her bottom lip, her shoulders shaking. "M'lady, I..." she silenced his concerned words by pressing her fingers suddenly to his shirt; he recoiled at first, and she could tell that a part of him still felt so averse to a woman's touch. Such a mystery was he; she had divined some terrible thing had befallen him in the past, to hurt his heart so much as it was; she felt all at once compelled to heal him, as best she could.

"L... Lord Beckham," she whispered, her words unsteady as she toyed with the buttons on his shirt.

"M'lady, I..." he said strenuously, glancing to the dingy window, watching the rain fall.

"W... what happened?... d... do you not... like the touch, of... of a woman..." she said. "Your shirt is... is soaked, you must be q... quite cold..."

"I'm n... I'm fine, I ju..." his voice trailed away; his expression grew both enthralled, and pained, as if some great hesitation stewed beneath his skin, forcing him to shudder, full of fear. "I... I deeply, deeply desire the touch of a w... a woman, of you, but I... I'm not wo... rth, I'm not—I'm not as much of a man, a gentleman, as you think I am."

"Lord Beckham..." she whispered.

"Marshall," he insisted quietly, hesitantly opening his arms and gently, so gently, pulling her closer.