Chapter Three

My heartbeat pounded in the base of my throat as he reached for me.

“I’ll carry you back to the house.”

“No, please—”

He hoisted me in the air.

The breath whooshed from my lungs. I expected him to cradle me to his chest like a delicate babe, but he tossed me over one shoulder. His meaty shoulder dug painfully into my gut. I grasped for handfuls of his jacket.

I swallowed a shriek—and probably half my tongue—as he levered himself to his feet. I teetered, but he tightened his arm in an unyielding band around my thighs.

Glory, but I was high off the ground. My head spun. Pebbles crunched beneath his Hessian boots, the polished leather glinting in the lamplight. Just who did this stranger think he was?

He tilted in an easy lope as he crossed to the manor. He hesitated mere seconds at the various turns, choosing a path without slowing. Francine trotted behind, a befuddled look on her face as she passed under the full light of a lantern. Our eyes met. Help, I pleaded, in the silent communication of friends as dear as sisters.

She scurried forward, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress.

“Um…”

The man seizing me paused for a scant second. My head whirled as he turned, swinging me around. Francine caught up to us, panting.

“Are you sure you should be carrying her like that? It doesn’t exactly look…proper.”

Far from it, considering my behind was thrust into the air for anyone he approached to admire. He shrugged, jostling an involuntary grunt from me. Without a word, he continued on his way.

No. My hopes of finding and wooing Frederick burst with every step we took in the wrong direction.

A chill washed me from head to toe. What if someone found us like this? Surely they wouldn’t insist I marry…him?

Francine ducked under the low-hanging branch of a tree jutting over the hedges and galloped to place herself firmly in the stranger’s path. Not that he couldn’t have simply stepped over her, with his superior size. I bit my tongue to withhold delirious laughter.

“Perhaps you should set her down, sir.”

My, but she almost sounded authoritative. I hadn’t known she could do that.

“And why is that?” the man drawled.

Blast him, but he shrugged again. I winced. I’d have a bruise on my belly if he kept this up. I thumped him on the shoulder. His body vibrated with contained laughter. The oaf did it on purpose to cause me discomfort!

Francine drew herself up. “As I’ve said, it isn’t proper. If you’ll please set her down and fetch a footman—”

“He’ll carry her the same way I am now.”

Unlikely. A footman would at least take care not to jostle me.

The man, unwilling to see reason, strode forward. Francine scuttled to the side to avoid being trampled. She took up position behind us once more.

“I insist…”

The last of the hedges fell away. We approached the manor. I twisted under the stranger’s arm, but he veered away from the terrace.

“Where are you taking her?” Francine demanded. She sounded breathless. No doubt from keeping pace with his long-legged stride. “You’ve passed the parlor.”

He quickened his pace. The roughened gait robbed me of breath anew.

“Taking her inside would draw too much attention,” he said without sparing a glance for Francine—or a care for me. “I assume you would prefer to avoid scandal?”

“Well…yes.”

Don’t be fooled, Francine. Stop this!

My friend fell silent.

The stranger used my rump to shove open the door to a sweltering room that stank of lye. The kitchen. A scullery maid, the only person in the darkened hovel, dropped her sponge and sank into a curtsey. The man ignored her, crossing the room in three steps and exiting into the hall.

As the cooler air bathed me, I relaxed. “You can put me down now.”

He strode down the corridor, away from the ballroom parlors.

I stiffened. “Surely you don’t intend to carry me all the way to my room.” I’d kick him in the stomach if he tried to mount the stairs.

“No.” His voice was calm, but it did nothing to quell the jitters in my belly.

He nudged open a door with his foot. The moment he strode inside, a woman cried, “Oh dear.” The telltale crumple of her body hitting the ground dominated the silence.

An unladylike snort rent the room. “Oh please. Get up. She looks hurt.”

The stranger dropped me onto a soft, horizontal surface. My head spun as the world righted itself. Powder-pink walls, the cloying stench of too much perfume, and a young lady hunched over a form on the ground, waving smelling salts beneath an older woman’s pronounced nose. I was in the ladies’ withdrawing room.

My so-called savior didn’t even pause to attend my injury. He turned to the pair of women and said in a jovial voice, “I’m afraid Miss Wellesley has turned her ankle. Would you kindly inform our hostess and send a footman?”

My breath caught. How did he know my name? Something about the set of his eyes was familiar. Had we met? No—I recalled every man near my height or taller; not many men of the ton met that description. In the strong withdrawing room light, I noted the expensive cut of his waistcoat. The newest fashion. He had to be a guest, not a local.

As the young lady guided her mother, still nursing a fit of vapors, from the room, the stranger also stepped back. A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I’ll leave you, as well.”

Good riddance. Sitting up, I speared him with a glare as he retreated. My muscles tensed as he wrapped his hand around the door and drew it shut behind him. The second the latch clicked into place, I jumped to my feet.

A second snick echoed throughout the small room. My stomach shriveled to the size of a raisin. I bolted to the door and yanked on the handle. Locked.

“Damnation.” I slapped my palm against the wood. It stung. “You dastardly, flea-bitten knave. Come back this instant.”

A low male chuckle drifted through the barrier. It swiftly dissolved into silence.

“Rose.” Francine snatched my arm, tugging me away from the door. “What’s gotten into you?”

I shook her off. Tears stung my eyes, not all induced by the fetid flowery scent clinging to every inch of this room. I turned and rested my back against the door. “He’s locked us in.”

There must be another way out. The moment I turned, my gaze lit upon the shuttered window. A smile chased away the frustration seething in my belly.

Noticing my expression, Francine twisted to peer over her shoulder. Upon spotting the window, she shook her head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not. I am not climbing out a window. I will wait.”

“At least help me up.”

The window, shuttered and latched, rested above the basin women used to wash up. The chamber pot, tucked behind a screen, rested in the opposite corner of the room. I crossed to the window. When I tugged the rickety table out of the way, the basin tottered. It nearly tipped over and sloshed water over my dress, but Francine leaped to help. She grunted as we maneuvered both pieces out of the way. I smiled with gratitude. “Thank you.”

She wore a dubious expression. She didn’t answer.

With a clear reach, I stood on my tiptoes and fumbled with the latch to the window. My fingers fumbled and slipped, my arm aching from the strain. Relief trembled through my arm as I dropped it to my side once more. “Help would be nice.”

She raised her eyebrows as she crossed her arms. “How do you think I’ll be able to help? I’m half your height.”

I studied the window. It didn’t lie too far out of my reach. With a boost, I’d be free of this room in minutes. “Lift me up.”

No rustle of movement hailed her compliance. I glanced over my shoulder to find her in exactly the same spot. She locked her gaze with mine. Did she think she could out-stubborn me? I had sisters. I stared her down.

A minute passed. She dropped her gaze. With a gusty sigh, she stepped forward.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Drop to your hands and knees, please. I’ll use you as a stool.”

She grumbled as she lowered herself to the ground. “Wouldn’t you rather use, I don’t know, an actual stool?”

“Do you see one here? I don’t.” The only piece of furniture, aside from the screen hiding the chamber pot and the basin on its rickety stand, was the divan. “I could be the stool and you could unlatch the window, if you think you can reach.”

“You know I can’t.” She muttered obscenities under her breath. Who said botanists didn’t know any colorful words?

She grunted as I stepped onto her back.

“Hurry up. You’re no fleet-footed fairy.”

I scowled. “I’m going as fast as I can.”

With the added height, I unlatched the window within seconds. The sill jutted out at the level of my chin. How was I supposed to climb up? Although I scoured the walls, I found no other hand- or footholds than the windowsill itself. I hooked my fingers onto the frame. They trembled, collapsing from the strain before I settled a fraction of my weight on them.

“Um…Francine, I think we have a problem.”

“If the problem is that you’re currently standing on my back, I have a stellar solution for you.”

“Not funny, Francine.” Wind whipped by the open window, tugging at my hair and howling my defeat. Frederick didn’t magically appear, offering to rescue me if only I let down my golden hair. He could be anywhere.

I would have to liberate myself on my own.

Below me, Francine grunted, “I’d appreciate it if you concocted your next brilliant idea while not standing on my back.”

I stepped down so quickly, I tripped over my feet. I stumbled to the side. My friend righted herself. She crawled to the wall and rested her back against it.

After a moment, she opened her eyes a slit to glare at me. “How can you weigh so much? You’re as slim as a birch tree.”

I ignored her. “I need to escape out that window.” Every second we dallied Frederick took one step closer to proposing to Miss Johnstone. My stomach churned. Me. He should be strolling with me.

I tugged Francine to her feet.

“We’ll have to move something for you to stand on. Something,” she added with a venomous glare, “that is not me.”

Ignoring the barb, I suggested, “The table?”

Her gaze narrowed on the basin and its frail stand. “Unlikely. I don’t know how it supports the basin, let alone your considerable weight.”

I bit my lip. “We’ll have use the divan, then.”

Francine groaned. “Still better than me, I suppose. If we position it with the arm under the window, it should lift you high enough to climb out.”

The divan weighed more than its delicate length and spindly legs suggested. We heaved with difficulty. Every inch was a victory. I half-expected our hostess to barge in and witness us rearranging her furniture, but my luck held. With both our combined weights, Francine and I shoved the settee the last foot toward the window.

It rested in an ungraceful position. At an angle, its arm touched the wall at one corner. The other end ate up the length of the withdrawing room. The oriental rug wadded underneath one leg. It looked hideous.

Francine would have a lot of explaining to do, when someone finally appeared to unlock her from the room. I met her gaze. “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

She pursed her lips. “And climb out a window? No.”

I refused to squander another moment. Bunching my skirts above my knees, I leaped onto the divan. In two steps, I reached the end touching the wall. The settee teetered. The far end lifted toward the ceiling. I yelped.

Francine tackled the end rising into the air. It dropped to the ground with a thump. “Go,” she urged.

I stepped onto the high arm, grasped the window frame, and straddled the sill.

My skirts clumped around my thighs, exposing the long length of my stocking-clad legs. I yanked the fabric even higher to ease the tightness around my hips. I gripped the window frame for balance as I threaded my other leg through the opening.

“What do you see?” Francine called from behind me.

I carefully squeezed my head and torso into the open air. My arms clutched the windowsill to keep me from pitching forward onto my face. The lamplight inside left spots on my vision. I squinted.

“I see a bush below me. The leaves should cushion my fall.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” my friend answered in a voice overflowing with trepidation. “The most common species of bush around these parts is prunus spinosa.”

“So?” I asked, listening with only half an ear to Francine’s dissection of the plant. I squirmed, aiming for the plump middle of the bush.

“So, while blackthorn is disgustingly common and rampant, it is also notorious for its—”

I jumped off the windowsill and into the plant. I screeched with impact. Small, sharp pinpricks of pain bombarded me from all sides, especially the tender skin on my legs where my stockings left my skin bare.

“—thorns,” Francine completed. She paused for a beat then called, “I tried to warn you.”

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.

Tears stampeded to my eyes. I didn’t move a muscle, not even to breathe. My skin throbbed all over—my back, my rump, and most especially my poor legs. I tested my range of movement, wincing at the pull of thorns. A rip scarred the air—my dress.

“Blast.”

Even that obscenity couldn’t adequately convey my frustration.

“Are you all right?” Francine called from inside.

“Just peachy. Didn’t you know having thorns in one’s hair is the latest fashion?”

Silence stretched as I tugged one hand free with concentrated effort. A gust of wind chilled me. It brought the strong, heavy scent of rain.

“Thorns are the rage? You should have told me,” Francine said, her voice muffled. “I have a bevy of plants with thorns at home.”

Apparently, sarcasm didn’t carry through walls.

With my free hand, I meticulously removed the other barbs from my clothes and hair. By the time I waded free, my stockings were shredded into ribbons.

Cuts on my arms and legs throbbed. My backside stung, too. But I was free. That had to count for something, right? The night wore thin, but I had time to find and secure Frederick’s affections. With the cloying darkness, he might not notice the shabby state of my attire. Or else, find my dishevelment becoming.

And the sky would rain shillings. I snorted at my overly optimistic thoughts.

My stomach lurched as a man’s voice cut through the air.