Two Lady Scoundrels and a Duke - Tessa Candle Page 0,5

now see it was black as a raven’s wing. And there was something about the way that she moved—with a grace and pride that he could not reconcile with the humble cottage in which this person dwelt. A sigh escaped his lips, and she turned to look at him.

“I see you are awake.”

That voice trickled over his insides like fresh spring rain, energizing him in an instant. Were his senses merely addled? Who was she? “Come closer, please. I cannot see you from here, for my head is very bad and my vision unsteady.”

“I prefer to keep my distance. I brought you here because I could not let you die on the side of the road, but I realize now I have taken a great risk bringing a man into my cottage.”

Of course. He was a beef-wit to be so forward. “I apologize for my unpolished manners. I have not even thanked you. Let me do so now. I thank you with all my heart. I was injured in a highway robbery last night. I am not quite myself.” No humble peasant woman spoke as she did. Her accent and air were not of this class. And her voice… that voice. She sounded like Katherine Blake. But no, it could not be, could it? He had to know. “Katherine, is that you?”

The woman had walked to the fire to fetch something warming on the hob, but she froze when he uttered these words. Then she seemed to recover herself and said, “Last night you called me Marie. I am Mrs. Sheldon.”

Married, then? His heart sank. And he had called her by the name of his old mistress, like a ruddy ill-bred fool. But she had evaded answering his question. Was she Katherine? He knew it was her, so why would she not acknowledge it? “I apologize for the error, and for mistaking you for a prior acquaintance upon whom I wish never to lay eyes again.” Maybe if he emphasized the point it would help his case. If she was Katherine, and he was not merely mad with brain fever, he had a lot to account for.

She paused for a long time. When she spoke again her voice was quieter. “I see. Do not trouble yourself. It is no matter.”

He waited for her to say something else, to acknowledge who she was. But she was silent as she stirred the contents of a bowl.

“And is your husband here, Mrs. Sheldon? I am sure he played some part in my rescue, and I should like to thank him as well.” Perhaps it was self-delusion, but he doubted her marital status.

“I am a widow. You have only me to thank—unless we include the horse that you rode in on, for he very obligingly pulled the sled for me. I am afraid he is sharing a humble shed with my hens at the moment. I have not any proper stables.”

His heart lightened. She was free! It would not matter if she were not his beloved, but she was. He could feel it in his heart. “Thank you, madam. When I am well enough to travel, I shall see about better arranging matters.” And I shall see your face clearly, and then how will you deny it? “I am sure he and the hens are getting on famously. Chickens are sparkling conversationalists, you know.”

“I did not know that.”

Did he hear a quiver of laughter in her voice?

“Oh, indeed.”

“Well I hope your horse is a worldly fellow and not a Francophobe, for they are French hens.”

He chuckled. It was so like Katherine to say it with such an arch tone. He could not see her face clearly, but he could imagine her delicate left brow elevated over a grey eye sparkling with mirth. His voice caught slightly as he said, “Some intercourse transcends the spoken word. I am sure they understand each other, as though they were old and dear acquaintances.”

She huffed. “I have some gruel for you here, if you are hungry. Can you feed yourself?”

“I believe so, thank you.” He cursed himself as soon as he said it. He should have insisted that she spoon it into his mouth, for then she would have to be close enough for him to see her face clearly. “But I am more thirsty than hungry. Have you anything to drink?”

She took a clay pot from the hearth and poured something into a mug for him. Then she put it and the bowl onto a battered old