The front…
Before I finished the thought, I was up and shoving past Mrs. Talbot whose only moment of good sense the entire day had been to get out of my way.
The offending door swung on its hinges in the cool breeze as I raced past, grabbing my scabbard by the door while callingfor Adriane. In my panic, I somehow managed to spot a bare footprint in the frost-covered mud.
Toward Rose Hall.
Were I thinking more clearly, I could have reached that conclusion on my own. She was always trying to go that way. She wanted to seehim. Convinced that one look at her and he would fall to his knees, beg forgiveness, and wed her instantly. As though he hadn’t scoffed at that very notion years before. As though he hadn’t thrown her away with the rubbish and left her to the wolves.
My heart pounded and my lungs rejected the cold, damp air. Belting the sword to my waist while running was more of a challenge than I had anticipated and I slipped in the muck.
“Adriane!” Again and again, I shouted for her. Enough times that I began to despair of ever finding her.
“Here!” A throaty feminine voice called out. Not Adriane—but someone. And thank Christ that someone wasn’thim. I crashed through a row of overgrown hedges, desperately trying to drag air to my lungs.
And there she was, still pallid and wraithlike on a bench in the clearing. Barefoot in her nightdress, her hem covered in several inches of mud. But she was alive and whole and as lovely as the first time I saw her.
“Adriane! You should not be out, sweetling.” She gave one of her pained tremulous moans, clutching at her head.
My knees gave out just before her. I caught her hands in mine, pressing a kiss to my designated place on her temple. “How did you get so far? You must be chilled.”
Now that I had found her more or less safe, I recognized the cool, late-winter morning seeping into my shirtsleeves and breeches. Her paper-thin nightdress was surely no protection.
“I wanted to greet the sunshine.” Not the celestials again… I wouldn’t have to fire Mrs. Talbot, she would quit. The sun andthe moon and the stars always left Adriane rattled. That talk brought out the worst of the disquieting tones of her voice and the swaying motions that made the older woman uneasy.
“Of course. But you know I worry. Perhaps we can meet the sun on the veranda tomorrow?” I offered, pressing a silky curl behind her ear.
Lord, her hair was lovely. No matter how sick she got, it never lost its sheen. It fell in a black gossamer curtain around her shoulders.
“The sun won’t come out tomorrow.”
Her eyes were the clear blue of ice and her tendency to stare from under lidded lashes unnerved even me on occasion.
“Your sun would not dare hide. Not if you wished to see it. I won’t allow it.” I had no such power, but in her less lucid moments she sometimes forgot that no one could control the figments of her twisted imagination, not even me.
“Pardon me…” A small voice called from behind me.
I finally recalled the feminine voice from earlier. Bone-deep exhaustion had set in while I soothed Adriane and standing was a trial.
She was a pretty thing, all blonde hair and green eyes. Her Grace had never hired girls so lovely when I had been invited to the house. She had probably been worried about what her son would do to them.
“You’re a new one,” I quipped.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked. Her accent was vaguely French. Where in France she was pretending to be from was anyone’s guess. The London cadence was there, hovering just underneath, begging to be freed from its indistinctly Parisian prison. I could no sooner restrain the resultant eye roll than I could stop the sun from setting.
“Oh, good Lord. Does Her Grace pay you extra to fake the accent?”
“Excuse me?”
“C’est probablement le pire accent que j'aie jamais entendu.” My French was impeccable, accent included. Nearly five years on the continent fighting Napoleon had done that. I would eat my hat if she understood even half of what I said.
“Peut-être n'avez-vous jamais parlé à une française.”
Fortunately, I wasn’t wearing a hat and therefore wouldn’t have to eat it. In the language itself, she was slightly better, but the accent was still heavily English.
I was so distracted by it, I had failed to note the breeches she was wearing. That was particularly absurd.
“I’ve spoken to plenty of Frenchwomen. In France. Where I was stationed. Perhaps you should speak to one. Your French is worse than your accent,” I lied. “And the breeches? Is that some ridiculous fashion plate told Her Grace was in style?”
