She hoped the hut still had a roof. The baron left England well before she was born after he’d shot and killed some lady’s husband in a duel. It was said he’d escaped to France. Her godfather, a distant cousin of Fortescue’s, remained in charge of the property ever since.
Their way was slowed by dense underbrush and fallen trees blocking the trail. Hetty pulled her coat free of brambles again, alert to shove the man upright if he slipped sideways. He managed so far to remain in the saddle, a hand resting on her shoulder. He uttered a string of what she assumed were French curse words. She was relieved that she didn’t understand them, but to hear a man curse made her aware of just how difficult her situation was. She was alone in a forest with a stranger and a Frenchman. Well, there was no one to blame but herself, for his was not the light touch of a dance partner at a ball. It was the hard hand of a man whose countrymen had fought and slain many English. Perhaps he’d been a soldier in Napoleon’s army. She was eager to ask him what brought him here. But that would have to wait.
Chapter Two
In the failinglight, Hetty led the horse to the old hut which was wedged between two aged oak trees. She feared it was a ruin, but on closer inspection, the roof and walls seemed to be intact, although covered in creeper. The lean-to at the side, where wood was stored, would provide shelter for The General.
She brought the horse to a halt, and the man slid off and sank to his knees. “Zut!” He rubbed his eyes with an impatient hand. “Give me your arm. I think I can make it inside.”
She braced herself and helped him stand. He leaned against her and staggered to the doorway.
“Merci beaucoup.I am most obliged to you.”
He wavered, one hand against the wooden planks of the hut as she wrestled with the door. The wood was damp and swollen, and the door stuck fast. Frustrated and aware of the large man who struggled to remain on his feet beside her, she put all her weight behind a kick. It flew open with a bang.
He took two unassisted steps into the room, then collapsed onto a pile of horse blankets, sending dust into the air. As she was about to check on him, he groaned and turned to nod at her.
Hetty darted out to tie The General’s reins to a branch and gave him a pat before returning inside.
The interior of the hut was sparsely furnished with a bench along one wall with shelving and a narrow cot against the other. Logs were stacked beside the fireplace, plus a box of tapers and a flint on the shelf above. The wherewithal to light a fire, heartened her. If the tapers weren’t damp, she’d find kindling and get the fire started.
The man lay with an arm over his eyes.
“Sir?” She touched his arm, and he raised his head and looked at her. Once again, she was caught by the contrast between his tan skin and blue eyes, a foreign and exotic blue like the Mediterranean sky she’d seen in paintings. “I’ll need two of those blankets for my horse. May I?” He rolled to one side with a soft moan.
“Sorry, your head must pain you.”
“It’s like my head is on a blacksmith’s anvil and the blacksmith is pounding it,” he murmured as Hetty eased the blankets out from under him.
She sneezed. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and there was the lingering odor of game birds. A few odd feathers fluttered about in the draught and cobwebs swayed from the ceiling. Outside, the storm gathered pace, and the shutters began to bang against the two small window frames. Aware she must go outside, she seemed caught by the sight of him lying there and was unable to drag her gaze away. She turned briskly to the door. “We need kindling and I must tend to my horse. Would you like me to help you onto the bed?”
“Non, merci. See to your horse.”
The General tore at a patch of grass while the trees whipped around him. Under the slope of the roof, she removed the saddle and threw the blankets over his back, then secured them around his neck. A trough nearby was almost full of rainwater but iced over. She found a sturdy branch and hammered at the ice until it broke, aware it would form again. She would have to check on it later.
She patted the horse’s neck. “I hope you’ll be all right here, Gen. If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself and neither would Papa.”
Already, the pines were dusted white like sugar on a confection, and a blanket of snow covered the ground. She tried not to dwell on how long she would have to stay here and continue the pretense. Alone with the Frenchman, she had no choice. Her disguise would protect her, she hoped.
Hetty shivered as she left the shelter of the lean-to, and a fierce icy wind numbed her face. She took the opportunity to answer a call of nature and darted behind one of the broad oaks. The wind slapped at her naked derriere like an unwelcome hand. She did up her breeches and gathered up an armful of small branches and pine cones, still reasonably dry. Hetty returned to the hut which was just as cold inside as out. She levered the door shut against the force of the wind with her foot.
He’d managed to move and sat on the cot with his head in his hands. He looked up as she entered. “Wood.Bravo.”
She’d struggled to get used to the cold after living in the Indian climate for years. Her father believed the cold to be healthy; it thickened the blood. He instructed servants not to light fires unless it was freezing. Hetty didn’t enjoy a cold bedchamber, so she often lit a fire herself. There was a trick to it, she’d discovered, and she was good at it. But there was no coal here. Relieved that the taper lit, she knelt before the fireplace. The kindling caught with a small hopeful flame. It spread, a comfortable sight that would soon remove the chill from the small space.
Hetty sat back on her heels and turned to him. His long fingers prodded his scalp and raked through his coal-black hair. Which fell back into neat waves. “Any better?”
“Oui. My head aches a little.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He moved his feet as if about to rise and then had thought better of it. “I forget myself.” He bowed his head then winced. “I am Guy Truesdale.”
Hetty recognized the name immediately. “You are a relative of the baron?”
“Oui.I am the sixth Baron Fortescue.”
She stared at him, aghast. Should she bow? She wasn’t entirely sure she could carry it off. “Lord Fortescue left England years ago. Your father.”
