She eased alongside the pavilion, clinging to its smooth walls as best she could, gripped the lip of the window and stretched for a peek. Just as she leaned closer, a bird cried overhead and something splashed into the puddle beside her. She jumped in surprise, lost her grip and slipped.
She landed in the puddle with a splash, her foot twisted painfully beneath her hip. She immediately tried to get up but collapsed again at the fiery explosion of pain in her ankle.
She considered various words she had overhead in London, but decided they were unladylike and thus unsuitable for a potential duchess.
“Curses,” she said instead, then managed to ease onto dry ground at least.
Her ankle was already beginning to swell. Her slipper was muddy, her stockings laddered, and her dress mired. She was seated on the ground, out of view of anyone who might approach the folly, unable to walk, and was keenly aware that no one knew her location. The clouds seemed to be gathering overhead withgreater vigor, but she could not be much more wet than she already was.
It was a most unsatisfactory predicament.
Helena pulled herself to the path in the hope that at least she might be seen—if anyone ventured this way. It did not appear to be a strong possibility. The forest now seemed full of shadows and desolate beyond all. She had a moment of fear that she might never be found, not until she had wasted away to a pile of bones, then shook her head.
Nonsense. She had found this predicament and she would solve it.
Somehow.
There was a broken stick not ten feet away, undoubtedly debris from the forest. If she could reach it, she could use it as a cane and perhaps hobble to the edge of the forest. Chances were better of being discovered there. Helena grit her teeth and began to crawl toward the stick, dragging her injured foot. Never mind her slippers, her dress would be ruined as well, but any sacrifice was better than perishing alone.
She was halfway to the stick when she heard galloping hoofbeats. Could it be that someone sought her?
No, it could not be, and no one would look for her in this place. A galloping horse had to be on the road to Addersley Manor. At such a pace, the rider would soon be elsewhere, and she had best make the most of opportunity.
Helena took a deep breath and screamed with all her might, just as the first fat raindrops began to fall.
“Help me!”
Joshua reined in the stallion at the unexpected sound of a woman’s cry, certain his ears had deceived him. Then she screamed again. He turned the horse, wondering at the lady’s distress. He was near his mother’s folly which no one visited any more.
Where else might the imperiled woman be? Who would walk in the forest alone? The villagers all said the folly was haunted, though he had never believed as much. He could be as skeptical as he chose, but the woman’s cry made the hair rise on the back of his neck.
“Help me!” she entreated again, and he thought her voice was familiar.
Could it be Miss Emerson?
Why would she be walking alone, much less be visiting the folly?
That question nigh convinced him that it had to be Miss Emerson, for no one else of his acquaintance in the region would embark on such a venture.
The rain began to fall in heavy drops as he guided the horse along the forest path and Joshua was glad then of his heavy cloak. The weather was turning foul quickly and he drew his hood higher. He broke free of the forest to find Miss Emerson sprawled in the clearing in evident distress. Without a thought, he leapt from the saddle and strode toward her side.
“Oh!” she said, her tone so rapturous that he could make no sense of it. “Thereisa highwayman in Nottinghamshire!” And she smiled at him, an expression so dazzling that Joshua could only stare.
Indeed, his heart skipped a beat and words abandoned him. He had thought her a beauty before, but this smile was beyond brilliant and more heartfelt than any she had shown him thus far.
Joshua suddenly realized she did not know who he was. He wore his old cloak and rode Gerald’s horse. She could not see his features because of the hood. Even if she saw his waistcoat or took heed of his boots, she would recognize neither.
He could pretend to be the man she wished to meet, for just a moment, only to encourage that radiant smile.
He dared not speak, lest his identity be revealed.
He bowed low to her, ensuring that the hood shadowed his face, and offered his hand to her.
She shook her head, flushing prettily. “I fell, sir,” she admitted. “And my ankle will not bear my weight. Your arrival is both timely and welcome.” She pushed back her bonnet, which drooped low in the rain, and regarded him with undisguised admiration.
His heart was racing, but he strove to hide her influence over him. He knelt before her, well aware of her curious scrutiny, and gestured to her delicate ankle.
She flushed crimson. “It is the left one, sir, and I would be most grateful if you could verify that it is not broken. I have no notion how to be certain but it does not bear my weight.”
