Scandalous Miss Brightwells [Book 1-4]

“Bravo!” she cried as her mare’s hooves pounded into the soft earth on the other side, having cleared the hedge by a good margin. “Good girl!” It was self-congratulation for herself as much as for her horse.

Panting, she edged Brownie across the stream and turned to wait for Mr Patmore. He wasn’t far behind her, an impressive figure in his buff riding breeches and well-cut jacket. Even from here she could see the set determination in his eyes, the square chin above the broad shoulders, a face that was handsome if one liked interesting angles. Not a question for herself to consider.

He raised his head a moment just before his horse took off into the air, and for a split second, they locked glances. There was the shared jubilation of conquering danger, a rare camaraderie.

His horse came down on the other side hard as it reached the stream, seeming to right itself before its right fetlock rolled. It seemed it encountered something loose and unsteady beneath the shallow water’s surface. A rock perhaps. Or a stone. And as Carnaby went down, whinnying in panic, Mr Patmore disappeared into the water beneath the full weight of his horse.

Eliza saw it happening in slow motion, it seemed, long before the inevitable; her scream echoing in the air before she knew she’d opened her mouth. Flinging herself from the saddle she splashed into the shallow depths, exhorting her groom who’d just appeared on the other side of the hedge, to ride for help.

Mr Patmore was only partly visible beneath the flailing animal, but her seeking hands found the lapel of his jacket, and she pulled with all her might. Nothing budged, neither he nor the horse, until she felt a thrashing against her thigh in the murky depths, and a spear of relief his neck hadn’t been snapped by the impact.

Plunging her hands once more beneath the water she felt for his face, just at the moment Carnaby made a supreme effort to raise himself.

The water was deep here, and one more step had her almost losing her footing. The terrible whinnies of the agonised animal tore at her eardrums and her heart, but her focus was on saving Mr Patmore’s life. She only had seconds.

Mercifully, the broken horse managed one final thrust, which enabled Eliza to snatch at the gentleman’s arm with both her hands. Dragging his body with all her might, she was able to free him so that he emerged, gasping, breathing in life-giving air.

“Dear God, I thought that was the end of me.” Mr Patmore, waist-deep in water like Eliza, struggled to his feet, and was only able to keep his balance with the help of Eliza’s steadying form. He leaned on her, limping to the side of the stream, shaking his head as he stared at the wounded animal whose heart-wrenching noises tore at Eliza’s heart.

“What can we do to ease his pain?” she asked, putting her hands to her ears before wading back into the water to see if she could do anything.

“Poor wretched creature.” Mr Patmore limped over and crouched beside them to stroke Carnaby’s muzzle. The sweet bay gelding gazed up at them with pain-filled eyes, and Eliza had to turn away.

“Carnaby here, and I, had not had time to become acquainted, and Lord knows, I couldn’t have borne it if it had been my faithful steed, Barnabus, back home, but I’m a cad for pushing him to do something so risky before I knew he was up to the task.”

“You were trying to keep up with me. Any gentleman would have done the same.” Eliza felt the tears burn her throat before looking about them—green fields bordered by hedgerows and not a soul in sight. “I hope help comes soon.”

“And that the groom thinks to bring a pistol to put poor Carnaby out of his pain.”

“No!” cried Eliza. “You don’t know that he won’t survive. He

mightn’t be up for what you bought him for, speed, but he deserves a chance.” She felt as if her heart would break.

Mr Patmore stroked the animal’s muzzle and nodded. “Of course, I’ll see the best is done for him. Now, do you think you can help me negotiate the incline? I think we’re both getting chilled.”

The current was strong, and to reach the riverbank required quite a step up. Mr Patmore winced in pain as Eliza helped him to his feet once more. “Lean on my shoulder,” she said, “and you can apply what pressure you need to climb out of the river. I assure you; I’m stronger than I look.”

“After your Amazonian efforts yesterday—and just now—I don’t need to be told.” He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Montrose, I fear I shall have to put you to the test.”

“No need to feel guilt if I buckle. But we have nothing else to try.”

With painful effort, they got Mr Patmore out of the river, and Eliza helped to settle him against a fallen log.

She stared dubiously at the deserted fields. “I hope we won’t have to wait too long until the groom returns with some strong men, and hopefully the doctor.”

“And bandages for Carnaby.”

Eliza turned her gaze upon his ankle. “Let me help you get your boot off before the swelling makes it difficult.”

He stretched out his leg to give her access and closed his eyes, tipping his head up to the sky. Eliza could see the sheen of sweat on his face—not water—though he was dripping wet. So was she. Glancing around, she reassured herself that her little mare was doing what she ought. The well-behaved creature was quietly cropping the grass nearby, and Eliza was grateful for its obedience.

“How are you bearing up, Mr Patmore?” She felt anxious.

“I’ll just have to endure, won’t I, Miss Montrose?” He didn’t open his eyes, and he spoke through gritted teeth as Eliza began to tug at his right Hessian. Wincing, he added, “Perhaps you’d amuse me with your conversation to help me take my mind off the pain.”

Now that the urgency was passed, Eliza felt calm. Calm and able to be herself. Which is why she meant it when she said, briskly, and with no self-pity, “I’ll talk to you, but I can’t promise to amuse you, Mr Patmore. There’s nothing amusing or entertaining about me. I’ve been told so on more than one occasion. I’m a spinster soon to be married, and one day I shall die. Like most women, my life will be unremarked upon, but I’m sure I can be content with this lot as any other.”

“Good Lord, what a dreary speech! You don’t even aspire to happiness?”