Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

The next morning…

“Esme, are you in there?” The door rattled on its hinges as something hard rapped against the solid oak. “Time to wake up, old gel. I come bearing gifts.”

Miss Amanda Preston sat bolt upright in a narrow cot. For a moment she couldn’t reconcile the deep voice outside with the odd dreams she’d been having, least of all determine where she was or why she was wearing a night rail that wasn’t her own.

As the man outside knocked again, this time a little more insistently, the sharp sound jolted her memory like the claps of thunder that had rattled the cottage through the long dark hours.

The storm. She’d sought shelter here after she’d…

She blinked at the bright and merry sunshine pouring in through the windows. The morning radiance had chased away the shadows and eeriness that had lent the lonely cottage such a mysterious air the night before. Especially since it seemed her well-meaning, albeit odd, hostess, Mrs. Maguire was gone. Not even that peculiar feline, Nelson, lurked about.

Why, in daylight the entire place looked rather ordinary. Amanda would have sighed in disappointment had not the pounding started again, as well as the voice.

“Esme? Are you well? Come now, open the door. Her Dragonship sent me over with a basket of provisions, including a nice roast chicken for Lord Nelson, and by the smell of it, a batch of Mrs. Stocken’s scones, which are making me nigh on faint. That, and this demmed leg.” The last comment was muttered more like a curse. “Oh, playing hard to get, are you? I’m going to count to three, and if you can’t get decent in that time, I’m still coming in.”

Of all the impertinence, Amanda thought, until a jolt of panic raced through her. This man intended to come in, and she wasn’t dressed. Not even moderately decent.

“One!” came the cry from the door.

Goodness, where were her clothes? She glanced first toward the hearth where they had hung the last time she’d seen them. There was nothing there now but a bundle of herbs. She dashed out of bed and ran right into a low table, sending it toppling over.

The rather boisterous laughter from outside did nothing to improve her mood.

“Who have you got in there, Esme? A lover? I’ll be jealous if you’ve been cheating on me.” More laughter ensued. “Stow the bastard quickly for I won’t stop counting just to protect your questionable reputation. Now where was I? Ah, yes—two!”

A lover? Last night her hostess had seemed so kindly, but now Amanda was starting to wonder about the lady’s character if she had such forward callers so early in the morning.

Taking one more frantic glance around, she spied her gown neatly folded on the chair beside the bed.

In her haste, she’d bolted right past it.

If she felt relief in finding her gown, her panic returned tenfold. She stared down at her clothes and wondered what one did next. She’d never dressed herself a day in her life. Her mother had forbidden her and her sisters from ever doing anything for themselves. It just wasn’t done, the lady had exhorted her daughters time and time again.

But it had to be done now. And quickly.

The pounding on the door started anew. “Esme? Are you well?” Now there was an anxious tone lacing the voice outside, something that spoke of friendship and respect and, well, concern.

She wondered if anyone was so worried about her now that she’d gone missing. Amanda snorted and decided worry was the least of the emotions that were probably echoing through the manor. Most likely the walls were reverberating with her father’s complaints as to the “expense” of bringing her home, while her mother fussed peevishly about the possible scandal of it all.

Meanwhile, outside Esme’s cottage, this man didn’t seem the least deterred by expense or propriety as he hammered on the door. “Three! I’m coming in whether you like it or not.”

“Oh, no, please don’t,” Amanda called out as she frantically yanked her dress over her head. Suddenly instead of being her sister’s best day gown, the elegant creation turned into a straitjacket, trapping her arms askew, not even allowing her a peek at Mrs. Maguire’s anxious protector.

The door to the cottage creaked open. ?

??Esme? Is that you?” The bemused questions were followed by footsteps and the tap of a walking stick. “I think not. I haven’t seen a pair of legs that fine since the last time I saw the Revue in London.”

A hot blush rose up on Amanda’s cheeks. He was looking at her legs? She knew right there and then this trespasser was no gentleman.

All her mother’s stern warnings about the evils of men rose in her ears like a cacophony of banshees. To answer their strident cries, she struggled to pull the dress down.

At least far enough to cover her knees.

Her ankles could wait, some little wicked part of her ventured.

“So who have we here?” The footsteps and tap of a walking stick drew closer.

“Sir, I beseech you to leave. At once,” she pleaded through the tangled folds of her gown. “I am not decent.”