Haunted by the Earl's Touch - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,39

in uniform stepped in front of her. ‘Can I help you, miss?’

Surprised she stared at him. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Lieutenant South, miss. Revenue officer. May I know your name?’

‘Miss Wilding,’ she replied, surprised. ‘I thought I might hire a boat.’

The young man winced. ‘His lordship said you might find your way down here. I regret that there are no boats for hire today.’

Mary gaped at him. ‘His lordship?’

‘The Earl of Beresford, miss.’ He coloured. ‘You really should go back to your family. The earl said he was sorry for your disagreement and that he would buy you the bonnet you wanted.’

‘Bonnet?’ She almost spluttered the word, but she could also see there was no sense in arguing with the young man. The earl had been before her. How could he have guessed her intention, when she’d had no idea of coming down here until but a few moments ago? And this young lieutenant was looking at her as if she was some spoiled miss sulking over a bonnet. It was really too much. She was going to have strong words with his lordship. Very strong words indeed.

‘Good day, Lieutenant,’ she managed through gritted teeth. He bowed and she turned and marched back up the hill to her...to her gaoler. This was intolerable and so she would tell him.

The hill seemed a great deal steeper on the way up. She was required to lean into the slope and watch where she put her feet on the uneven pavement, not to mention dodging people headed downhill.

She glanced up to catch her bearings. Ahead of her, a brewer’s dray blocked half the road. Pedestrians were manoeuvring their way around it.

‘Careful, miss,’ a man with a handcart said when she almost ran into him.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, sidestepping out into the road to avoid him.

‘Look out!’ a male voice cried.

She looked up, expecting to see yet another cart heading down the hill. She gasped. Not so. A barrel hit the cobbles and bounced. Behind it stood a tall broad-shouldered familiar-looking figure, hand outstretched. A slighter figure darted into the alley, barely avoiding the barrel when it landed.

A woman screamed. A man shouted and leapt clear.

The barrel was rolling right for her, rumbling and banging over the stones. She picked up her skirts and ran for safety against the wall of the nearest building. She slipped, falling to her knees. Pain shot through her foot and up her shin. Sickening.

The barrel was upon her.

She struggled to get to her feet. A hand grabbed her under the arms and pulled her clear.

The barrel slammed into the wall two feet from her with a resounding bang—into the very spot she had thought to take refuge. Splinters flew. Beer showered the cobbles and nearby pedestrians. One of its iron hoops bowled on down the street, clanging and bouncing wildly, scattering people in its path, disappearing around the bend, terrified shouts marking its passage.

‘Are you all right?’

A youngish man, decently dressed but hatless, was holding her against his chest, looking thoroughly discomposed, his hair ruffled and his cheeks pink. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ he asked again.

‘I’m fine,’ she croaked, trying to ignore the throb of pain in her ankle.

A hand grabbed her and pulled her away. ‘Miss Wilding,’ the earl said, his voice full of anger, his chest rising and falling as he fought to catch his breath. His gaze raked her person, his eyes wide with anxiety. He blinked and then all she could see in his expression was the usual stern disapproval. ‘I see you are like a cat, Miss Wilding. You have nine lives.’ He turned to her rescuer with a frown. The man stepped back and put a respectful distance between them.

She stood on one foot, not daring to test her weight on the other. ‘This gentleman saved my life. Thank you, sir.’

Her rescuer bowed. ‘It was nothing.’

The earl frowned. ‘Then I owe you my thanks also.’ He didn’t sound terribly grateful. He sounded annoyed.

The young man took another step back. ‘I was glad to be of help.’

‘Did you see what happened?’ the earl questioned, looking at him intently.

‘I saw nothing until I saw the barrel bowling down hill and the young lady falling. I acted without thought.’ He glanced up the hill. ‘Jack Bridges should be whipped at the cart tail for letting a barrel go like that.’

Mrs Hampton puffed up to their small group. She glared at the crowd gathered around the smashed barrel, some on their hands and knees