Fair Juno (Regencies 4)

Helen nodded. ‘So I believe.’ She should have guessed this man wasn’t Hedley—his voice was far too deep, far too gravelly. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage due to the unfortunate circumstance of their meeting, she studied her hands, clasped in her lap, and wondered what her rescuer was thinking. She had had ample opportunity to admire his length as he had lain stretched out beside her. A most impressive length. The single comprehensive glance she had had, before his head had hit the branch, had left a highly favourable impression. Despite her predicament, Helen’s lips twitched. She could not recall being quite so impressed in years. Reality intruded. She had hit him and knocked him out. He, doubtless, was not impressed at all.

Surreptitiously observing his damsel in distress as she knelt beside him in the shadowy twilight, Martin could understand his earlier conviction that she was an angel. Thick golden curls rioted around her head, spilling in chaotic confusion on to her shoulders. Very nicely turned shoulders, too. A silk evening gown which he thought would be apricot under normal light clung to her shapely curves. He could not guess how tall she was but all the rest of her was constructed on generous lines. He glanced at her face. In the poor light, her features were indistinct. An unexpectedly strong desire to see more, in better light, possessed him. ‘I take it this same Hedley Swayne is expected here at any moment?’

‘That’s what the two men said.’ Helen spoke dismissively. In truth, she could summon little interest in her abductor; her rescuer was far more fascinating.

Slowly, Martin got to his feet, grateful for his angel’s steadying hand. His faculties were a trifle unsettled, his senses distracted by her nearness. ‘Why did they leave?’ She was quite tall; her curls would tickle his nose if she were closer, her forehead level with his lips. Just the right height for a tall man. Her legs, glorious legs, were deliciously long. He resisted the urge to examine them more closely.

‘I held the second pistol on them.’ Sensing his distraction and worried that she might have caused him serious injury, Helen frowned, trying to study his expression through the gloom. Reminded of his pistols, she bent to retrieve them, her silk skirts clinging to her shapely derrière.

Martin looked away, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasies crowding in. Damn it! The situation was potentially dangerous! Definitely not the time for idle dalliance. He cleared his throat. ‘In my present condition, I feel it might be wise to leave before Mr Swayne arrives. Unless you think it preferable to stay and face him?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Heavens, no! He’ll have a coach and men with him. He never travels without outriders.’ Her contempt for her abductor rang in her tone. A sudden thought struck her. ‘Where are we?’

‘South of Taunton.’

‘Taunton?’ Helen stood, the pistols hanging from her hands, and frowned. ‘Hedley mentioned estates somewhere in Cornwall. I suppose he was going to take me there.’

Martin nodded; the explanation was likely, given their present location. He glanced around to reorientate himself, then reached for his pistols. ‘If he’s likely to come with friends, I suggest we depart forthwith. My curricle’s in a lane beyond the wood. I was passing when I heard your screams.’

‘Thank heaven you did.’ Belatedly, Helen shook out her skirts. ‘I held very little hope we would be near any main road.’

She glanced up at her rescuer, to find he was studying her, the shadows concealing his expression.

Martin smiled, a little wryly. His angel was not out of the woods yet. ‘I hesitate to disabuse you of such a comforting thought, but we’re some way from any main road. I was taking a short cut through the lanes in the hope of reaching the London road before the storm.’

‘You’re going to London?’

‘Eventually,’ Martin conceded. The branches above obscured too much of the sky to let him judge the approach of the rainclouds. ‘But first we’ll have to find shelter for the night.’

With a last glance about, Martin offered her his arm.

Quelling a rush of uncharacteristic nervousness, Helen placed her hand on his sleeve. She had no choice but to trust him, yet her trust in gentlemen was not presently high.

‘Was it from London you were taken?’

‘Yes,’ Helen felt no constraint in revealing that much but the question reminded her to be wary until she knew more of her rescuer, fascinating though he might be.

Absorbed in negotiating the numerous hurdles in the congested path through the trees without further damaging her gown, Helen felt the calm certainty with which she normally faced her world return. Her rescuer’s strong arm assisted her over the blockages. The subtle deference in his attitude effectively dispelled her fears, settling a cloak of protectiveness about her. Relieved to find his behaviour as gentlemanly as his elegance, she relaxed.

Martin waited until they were some distance from the clearing before appeasing his burgeoning curiosity. The question burning his tongue was who she was. But that, doubtless, would be best left for later. He contented himself with, ‘Who is Hedley Swayne?’

‘A fop,’ came the uncompromising reply.

‘You mistook me for a fop?’ Despite the potential seriousness of their plight, Martin’s latent tendencies were too strong to repress. When she turned her head his way, eyes wide, her lips parted in confusion, his eyes wickedly quizzed her.

Helen caught her breath. For an instant, her eyes locked with her rescuer’s. Three heartbeats passed before, with a desperate effort, she wrenched her gaze free and snatched back her wandering wits. ‘I didn’t see you, remember.’

At the sound of her soft and slightly husky disclaimer, Martin chuckled. ‘Ah, yes!’

A fallen tree blocked their path. He released her to step over it, then turned and held out his hands. From beneath her lashes, Helen glanced up at his face. A strong, intriguing face, rather more tanned and harsh-featured than one was wont to see. She wondered what colour his eyes were. With a calm she was not entirely sure she possessed, she put her hands into his. His strong fingers closed over hers; a peculiar constriction tightened about her chest. Helen glanced down, ostensibly to negotiate the fallen tree, in reality to hide her sudden frown at the ridiculous skitterishness that had attacked her. Surely she was too old for such girlish reactions?

Resuming his place by her side, Martin glanced down at her bent head, perfectly sure, now, that the tremor he had felt in her fingers had not been a figment of his over-active imagination.

Highly experienced in the subtleties of this particular form of play, he sought for some topic to get her mind off him. ‘I trust you’ve suffered no harm from your ordeal with those ruffians?’

Determined not to let her ridiculous nervousness show, Helen shook her head. ‘No—none at all. But they were under orders to take care of me.’

‘So I heard. Nevertheless, I dare say you’ve had your wits quite addled by fright.’