three
All the years spent fencing, boxing, and marching at Sandhurst had made Anthony restless when he was inactive. The day at Dockerly Castle was too clear and unseasonably warm for him to remain indoors.
After working for several hours with his secretary and reviewing the ridiculous amount of documents he had to read and sign, he opted for a walk before dinner. He hadn’t seen his guests yet, but they would be busy refreshing themselves, and to be honest, he wasn’t eager to talk to Helen.
He remembered her to be pretty, quiet, and sweet. Not much else. End of story.
In a plain but robust tweed suit, he started to trek uphill.
The crisp air was thick with the scent of pine resin and wet soil, a good change from his stuffy room that smelt of centuries of power, intrigues, and bloody battles. The path through the forest was steep but empty. Solitude and the sounds of the forest, exactly what he needed.
As he climbed, he wondered if Helen would be happy with him. An arranged marriage was one thing, but a miserable life was another. If he couldn’t have passion, at least he wished for a friendly relationship with his future wife, companionship and who knew, perhaps something deeper. He had the last word, though, as much as he respected Grandmama. And he would like to?—
“Hullo!” a feminine voice called. “Hey, you! Over here!”
He turned around. A dark-haired young woman waved to him from the trees lining the path.
“Me?” he asked.
“Yes. Would you come, please, sir? It’s an emergency.”
“What sort of emergency?” He strode off the path towards the woman until he understood what the emergency was.
A fawn had got itself tangled in a thicket of cleavers and other vines. Its large eyes were filled with terror. The more the young deer struggled, the worse it got tangled.
“I’ve been trying to rip these stems for ten minutes,” the young woman said, “but they’re too thick. Do you have a blade?”
He knelt. “Yes. Keep the vines lifted so I won’t hurt the fawn.”
He used his Scottish dirk to make short work of cutting the stems. The fawn let out long bleats while trying to kick its long legs.
“Calm down,” she said. “Your mother must be close, right?”
“Likely. It’s better not to touch it. The mother won’t like our scents.”
He ripped the last vine, and the fawn sprang out of the bush, bleating louder. It vanished into the forest with quick leaps. At least it wasn’t hurt.
The young woman exhaled. “Thank you. I didn’t know what to do.”
He put his blade in the sheath, wincing as a few bristles stung his hands. “Bloody thorns.”
“Let me. I’m an expert in removing thorns. I deal with thorns on a daily basis. I’m fairly quick, too.”
Before he could utter a word, she grasped his hand and used her half-moon-shaped fingernails to extract the thorns with deft moves.
He got lost in the sensation of her soft hand on his and her focused expression as she pulled out the biting spines.
“And the last one, I think.” She removed another thorn and then stroked his hand with gentle fingers. “I don’t feel any more of them. Do you?”
“No, I don’t.” He withdrew his hand, annoyed by a flutter in his chest.
“I’m Isabella. I’m from London, but my family have been invited to the castle. Do you work there? Goodness, there are so many servants it’s like a small village, and I’ve already forgotten their names.” She laughed. “I mean, we have servants in our house in London and our manor in Devon, but here there is a small army of people, and the castle is huge! What’s your name?”
He was tempted to lie, just to listen to her chatter for longer, but since she had to be Helen’s sister, she would learn soon enough who he was. “I’m Anthony Beaufort, Duke of Gloucester.”
Her rosy cheeks turned crimson before paling. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” She shot up to her feet and brushed leaves from her skirt. “I had no idea. I mistook you for a servant, sir.”
“Do not worry.” He rose as well. “And you can call me Anthony.”
