A Waltz Through Time Read online

  When he was finished, he washed his hands in the now cool water, and dried them on a bit of cloth. Returning to the woman, he pulled the soft covers up to her chin, dragged a chair to the side of the bed, and sighed, closing his eyes. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon him.

  He had been traveling for more than a fortnight with little rest, pushing hard to make his estate in Devonshire. The ship from France had caught a late season storm, making the passage difficult, and the roads over land were mostly frozen over. His horse had gone lame from a stone a few days prior, and was just this evening well enough to bear a rider again. He had been saddling him when the woman had come in.

  She stirred slightly, and he opened his bloodshot eyes and looked down at her. Her eyes opened, radiating pain and confusion. She turned her head slightly and looked up at him. He could have sworn she nearly smiled. He felt another stirring of admiration. Her pain, he knew, must be great at the moment, and yet she still had it in her to smile.

  "I thought I got rid of you," she said hoarsely.

  "Unfortunately not," he said with a tired drawl.

  "Can I hope to get rid of you in the near future?" she asked, sounding very hopeful at the possibility.

  He fought the twitch of his lips, and forced blandness to his tone. "It's something I've done, isn't it."

  She stared at him for a long moment. Then two. Then three. He, who had never had a woman look at him as if trying to determine if his soul was covered in soot or not, tried not to shift uncomfortably. Despite the pain that he could still see in her eyes, a sparkle came into them. "You're too handsome," she stated with certainty.

  He almost laughed. Almost. "Even if this were true," he said with continued forced blandness, "I wonder that it sounds like a failing in your eyes."

  She let the remark go, and continued her perusal of his soul, listing things as she apparently found them. "You keep to yourself," she murmured. "Wealthy probably, bored certainly . . . alone, I think."

  He hid his discomfiture and cleared his throat. "Have we met before, my lady?"

  She shook her head side to side on the pillow. "No."

  She closed her eyes, and seemed to be gathering her strength, then she tried to struggle to a sitting position. "Paladin, is he ok?"

  "O . . . k?" What the deuce did ok mean?

  She sighed, and mumbled something that sounded like "right" under her breath. "Is he alright," she amended. "Did he get fed and his tack taken off? He's a very particular horse."

  No doubt.

  "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I was more concerned with the horse's owner."

  She chuckled, the sound pitched low. "I am not his owner. If anything, he adopted me. He's a wild horse, as far as I can tell. He's had no owner, belonged to no one."

  He helped her to a sitting position as she struggled to rise. "You shouldn't be straining yourself yet," he said brusquely.

  She shook her head again. "You don't understand," she said, sounding out of breath from the brief tug-of-war. "He'll be here any minute. He doesn't like to see me this way."

  A slight pang gripped his stomach. Indigestion? "A . . . husband?"

  She laughed quietly again. "No."

  "Brother? Father?"

  She just shook her head, and tried to stand. He held her firmly down, looking at her in frustration. "I have just spent the last harrowing hour of my life sewing up the wounds on your leg. I would appreciate it if you didn't move about and open them again."

  She fought the hand that held her, though she did so with seemingly little fear for herself, even though the situation might, to her, warrant such feelings. She had already seemed to have taken his measure and he'd been found wanting. Dismissed out of hand. The feeling of dismissal was an entirely new one to him, especially from a woman. Women usually at least pretended to like him, if only for his wealth and title.

  "You don't understand," she huffed, trying to swing her legs over the side of the bed. "If I don't go see him, he'll come see me!"

  It only occurred to him that she might mean her horse, when he heard the innkeeper give a shout. A moment later came the sound of tables overturning and crashing to the floor, plates and all, then an odd clip-clop on the stairs that strangely sounded like a horse ice-skating.

  The lady on the bed, (he would really have to get her name soon), suddenly put her face into her hands and groaned. He almost fell out of his chair in surprise when a horse's head came into view, nickering, as though he was politely asking after the lady's health.

  He looked at the horse, then to the lady on the bed whose face had now gone crimson with embarrassment, then back to the horse. And then he started to laugh. He laughed so hard and for so long that tears streamed down his cheeks and he collapsed back into his chair.

  The horse ignored him, lowering his head as he squeezed through the door and into the room. He came to the bed and snuffled the woman's hair, licking her face like a beloved hound might.

  "What is your name, my lady?" Drake asked, with mirth still dripping down his face. He swiped at it with his sleeve.

  She sighed, and both tried to pat her horse to assure him that she was well and swat his head away from her hair. "Gwen."

  "Gwen." He said the name out loud. It suited her. "Short for?"

  "Gwenalyn."

  He nodded. "And the reason you are wearing a stable-boy's clothing?"

  She swatted at her horse again as he had now taken to munching on her shirt, and mumbled, "None of your business," almost under her breath.

  He smiled, feeling a kinship toward her already. "Have you any family that I might send word to? You need time to rest and heal."

  "No," she said shortly. The word seemed to hold much pain for her. His expression sobered, and he looked at her for a long moment. Her horse was beyond ridiculous, behaving more like a faithful hound than any horse he had ever come across.

  "Do you have anywhere to go?" he asked gently.

  She looked at him, her horse still nibbling on her shirt, and didn't answer.

  Well, that was answer enough.

  He nodded, his decision made. "I have a proposition for you."

  Chapter Three

  "A . . . what?" She swatted at Paladin again halfheartedly as, what she assumed was the innkeeper, came to her door wearing an angry scowl.

  Before he could utter a word, she blurted out, "I'll pay for it! Whatever he did, or damaged, I'll pay for it!"

  The innkeeper shook his head. "He only upended my tables, nothing permanent. But he cannot stay in the room with you. He must go back to the stable."

  Paladin, who had finally stopped trying to eat her shirt (dumb horse) turned and looked at the man standing in the doorway. "Yes, of course," Gwen said softly. She reached out and grabbed one of Paladin's reins that was dangling and dragging on the floor. "You need to sleep in the stables like a regular horse," she said firmly.

  He snorted.

  The effect on her face was not pleasant.

  The man in the chair next to her made an odd sound in his throat, likely a laugh that he was trying to force into a polite cough, but she pointedly ignored him. "You must, Paladin. This is a respectable inn. They don't allow horses inside." She tried to reason with the horse, but as if to make a point, he started munching on her shirt again.

  She sighed. She would have to spend the night in the barn with him. She doubted he would allow anything else.

  She looked at the big man filling the doorway. "Could you perhaps . . . let me borrow a blanket? I'll sleep in the barn with him. He won't leave unless I do."

  "Out of the question," the blue-eyed man next to her snapped.

  She ignored him, and used Paladin's reins again to try to pull herself up. She almost gasped at the shock of pain, and closed her eyes to steady the sudden dizziness. Stars that hurt! She couldn't help the slight sound of pain that escaped her lips.

  "Gwen," the silky voice said beside her. It was said with such patience and such compassion that her head turned toward the velve
t sound without her permission. She stared into the man's blue eyes. "Please let me handle this," he said quietly.

  Her leg was on fire, and she was exhausted. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she nearly drowned in the eyes that bore into hers with startling intensity. She nodded slightly, and then her leg buckled beneath her. The man caught her before she hit the bed, gripping her arm in a firm grip. He took her other arm, and slowly eased her down, then helped her lay against the pillows again, pulling the covers up to her chin.

  It felt . . . surreal.

  She was being tucked into bed by someone she didn't even know, while her horse was attempting to make enough space to lay down beside her.

  In an inn. In the 19th century.

  She hesitantly touched the back of her hand to her forehead. Was she burning up with a fever? That might explain all of this. Surely that would be the only thing that might.

  She heard the two men speaking in undertones by the door for a few minutes, and then the graceful, blue-eyed man came back and sat in the chair next to her. Its distance was now considerably farther from the bed than it had been due to Paladin's bulk rearranging a few things.

  The man looked at her for a moment before speaking. She didn't open her eyes, but even still, she could feel the heady weight of his stare. "I realized that I've neglected to introduce myself. You may call me Drake."

  She smiled slightly. "Even I know that men and women with titles do not go around handing out their first names," she said quietly. "What is your full name?"

  He was quiet for a long moment. "Nikolas Drake Rhys Griffeth, Earl of Erendale."

  "Is that all of it?"

  Quiet again.

  Apparently not.

  "You might as well get it all off your chest now," she murmured.

  He sighed, and she could practically feel him funneling his hands through his hair in frustration. "Duke of Bainsbury might be somewhere in that long list of names as well," he admitted.

  She smiled. "I think Nikolas is a nice name."

  "It's the name of my grandfather as well. I use Drake to reduce confusion."

  Gwen pried an eyelid open, and turned her head. "It's nice to meet you."

  He nodded. "I can see that you need rest. I'll make use of that chair over there by the fire and rest for a few hours as well."

  "You don't have to stay," she whispered, already beginning to drift into the fog of sleep, and the release of pain.

  She was asleep before he could reply.

  Chapter Four

  Drake procured another quilt and feather pillow from Jameson, and decided to stretch out on the hearth rug instead of trying to sleep sitting up in the chair. His thoughts drifted as he lay there.

  Gwen.

  He had decided, before Jameson had showed up, to offer her the hospitality of Bainbrook Hall for her convalescence. His grandfather on his mother's side resided with him. It wouldn't cut down on any talk of impropriety, though. He would have to check with her to see if he could set her up somewhere else first. But, if she had nowhere else to go, and no one else to turn to, he was not going to turn her out, no matter what the ton might say. He cared little for what others thought of him.

  He thought, with an ache that had only ever slightly dulled over the long years, of the family that was lost to him now. His mother, father, two brothers, and two sisters were all killed in a fire at his family estate in Wales seven years ago. He had been away at school at the time. Word had come in the middle of the night.

  He remembered clearly the missive, the curve of the words, the shaky loop of the F. He remembered staring at the paper for a long moment. A moment that would be burned inside of his heart forever, brighter than the fire at his back. He remembered the pain, fast and smothering. The fear. He remembered it all.

  He had heard that a blow, a shock such as that, rendered one dull. Their senses slowed or ceased, their brain refused to function. Not so. It had seemed to be the opposite for him.

  He remembered everything.

  All of it.

  When he had arrived, several harrowing days later, it was to find his grandfather staring at the ashes of his home, with his head in his hands, sobbing. His grandfather had retired from the Navy, and he never cried. Seeing him like that had given him the release he'd needed to mourn his family as well. Until that moment, he'd locked it away, in shock. But then, seeing his grandfather sobbing, something had broken loose in him, and he'd clutched him tightly in an embrace and cried with him.

  His grandfather was all that he had left in the world. He was an ornery old man, but Drake loved him fiercely. They needed each other, they two.

  Drowsily he thought with satisfaction upon his proposal for Gwen. He was certain she would accept.

  As he finally crossed the threshold of sleep, a horse's snores followed him into his dreams.

  * * *

  Gwen came awake slowly. Before opening her eyes, she listened to the sounds around her, trying to remember something important that felt hazy and indistinct at the moment.

  The where: an . . . inn.

  The snorer: undoubtedly Paladin.

  She smiled and opened her eyes, turning her head on the pillow. There he was. In all his horsey glory. She chuckled quietly. He slept on his back, with his legs pointing straight up toward the ceiling. It was no surprise. He slept like that all the time. She had tried to explain that he should sleep on his side with his legs curled under him like the rest of all horsendom, but Paladin marched to the beat of his own drum, and he was stubborn.

  Males.

  Her gaze rested on the other male in the room, and she blinked.

  His Grace was awake and staring at her beneath a half-lidded gaze. The gaze held affection, admiration . . . and desire.

  "Do I have to marry you now to save your reputation?" she asked, her voice husky from sleep.

  The corners of his lips tilted up in an almost smile. "Nothing so dire, I assure you." He stood and stretched, and then moved toward her and the bed.

  "Button brain!"

  Paladin snorted, almost like a sneeze, and then stretched his legs high to the ceiling before opening one eye and focusing it on her. "You need to go to the stables and get something to eat. Please . . . please try not to damage anything!"

  His big lips moved as if he were chewing on something, and Gwen laughed as she watched him rise to all fours.

  Her one-of-a-kind knight in shining armor.

  Be still her heart.

  He leaned down and nibbled a bit on her quilt, then turned around in the small space and squeezed through the door. She heard his clippity-clop-slide as he made his way down the stairs.

  Polished wood floors and stairs could do that to a horse, she imagined.

  Drake pulled the chair forward and sat in it again. "Button brain?"

  "A term of endearment," she assured him with a small smile.

  "Indeed." His eyebrow arched, and he sat back in the chair, shaking his head in puzzlement. "I've never seen a horse behave that way before. He seems to be part nanny goat, part wolfhound, and part something else entirely."

  Gwen smiled. "Someday you might earn that story, Your Grace, but not today."

  He winced. "Please, call me Drake."

  She studied him for a moment, and then nodded.

  "I assume I can use your given name since you've given me no other."

  Her lips twitched. His highness seemed frustrated over that fact. "Gwen will do for now."

  He sighed.

  She remembered suddenly their truncated conversation last evening. "I remember you telling me that you had a proposition for me," she said levelly. "If you're asking what I think you're asking, I'm going to let Paladin kick you."

  She would not be anyone's mistress.

  He lazed back in the chair, watching her for a moment before he answered. "No, I'm not currently on the lookout for a mistress. Quite the opposite, in fact. I need your help in finding a wife. And in the meantime, I thought you would do me the honor o
f becoming duplicitously engaged to me."

  Her eyes almost bugged out of her head. She probably looked like one of the characters on the old Saturday morning cartoons. "You want me to fake an engagement with you, and also help you find a wife?"

  "Yes, and as you are helping me with that, I thought we could get engaged so that woman will at least think twice before showing up in my bed naked."

  Gwen blinked. “Women show up in your bed naked?” She didn't know what to do with that statement. Other than . . . “Do you keep them?” If they were going to give themselves to him like a toy, she'd like to know if he kept them like a toy.

  “Of course not!” He sounded indignant. “I don't care to spend time with idiot females who throw themselves at me. If I kept every female that did that I'd have a whole bloody harem by now.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Are you saying this happens frequently, and you've never slept with them?”

  He tugged on his cravat. “I'm not a bloody virgin if that's what you're asking.”

  She folded her arms and gave him a look. “I wasn't, actually. I just find it hard to believe.”

  “That so many women are trying to ensnare me?” His aristocratic eyebrow winged upward, and Gwen almost laughed. His pride was hurt.

  “No. That I can believe. You're ridiculously handsome. You'd be called a pretty boy where I come from.” He looked startled, but Gwen went on. “No, it's that the women seem to have no shame. Who does that!”

  He still looked a little dazed from her “pretty boy” comment, but his full lips twisted into a smile. “You wouldn't?”

  “Of course not! And how, exactly, do you want me to find you a wife? Am I to ensnare her and tie her up?"

  His lips quirked in a smirk. “That won't be necessary.”

  Gwen sighed. “Perhaps how is the wrong question. Why do you want me to find you a wife, and why do you want a fake engagement to me? Those two things seem to be at cross purposes.”