Page 27 of The Book of Lost Stories
‘Yes, and her daughter, Arabella, is out. Nell has met her, but I dare say they will not deign to recognize me even if we should be in the same room together. I don’t expect their notice. I must say, though, I would like to meet Grandfather’s heir, Nathaniel Hartwood,’ Alys added teasingly. ‘Nell says he is the handsomest man in London. Indeed, from the brief glimpse I once had of him in Harrogate, I believe she is saying no more than the truth.’
‘Oh, pray do not lose your heart to someone unattainable, Alys!’
‘I do not intend to lose my heart at all,’ she replied, thinking affectionately that it would be odd to be separated from her quiet, kind companion after so many years together in rural isolation.
She looked forward to telling James and Charlotte of her plans in the airiest way possible at a suitable moment. It would brighten what looked likely to be a dismal Christmas, especially since the arrival of Charlotte’s mama and sisters, who frequently invaded the Dower House without a by-your-leave, to squabble over bedchambers and hangings.
*
Due to a sudden and obstinate burst of conscience on James’s part, Alys and Letty set off for London in the antiquated family coach, travelling by very easy stages. This was preferable to the stagecoach, which might have been faster, but uncomfortable and quite an expense, and it had the added advantage that they might take all their belongings with them at once.
It was a chilly February, but at least the roads were free of snow as they set off. Only James had come to see them depart, and when his stout figure was finally obscured by a turn in the drive, Letty dissolved into tears over Pug, who was clutched in her arms wrapped in an old shawl like an exceedingly ugly infant.
Alys succumbed to no such excess of sensibility, but wrote her way through several counties and a succession of unexciting inns.
Suddenly, something extremely odd was happening to her characters. Simon de Lombard seemed determined to break out of his villainous mould and prove himself to be a man of honour, while behind her hero’s fair face lay a dark and devious mind.
It was all strangely exciting.
*
Alys looked up with a sigh and stretched her stiff fingers as they approached the modest inn where they were to spend their very last night on the road.
‘Letty, if Sir Walter Scott is ever to readthisnovel, I am sure he will consider my “pure vestal light” to bequiteburned out!’
Letty, so huddled in cloaks and shawls and scarves that only her little pink nose was easily visible, was just about to answer when there was a sudden jolt and a mighty rending of metal and wood. Then the coach tipped over, sending them tumbling to the floor in a heap.
It came to rest at an angle, one upper wheel spinning crazily, the other splintered, while the horses plunged nervously in the traces.
Inside the dark coach there was a moment’s silence. Then Miss Grimshaw sat up, murmuring distressfully, ‘Oh dear, ohdear!’
Pug sat on Alys’s chest and licked her face until she pushed him off and struggled to her feet.
‘Are you all right, dearest Letty?’ she enquired, making her out in the gloom.
‘I believe so,’ Letty quavered. ‘A little bruised, perhaps.’
‘I, too, but I must get out and see what the damage is. Howslow they are in releasing us.’ She reached up and pushed at the door above her unavailingly.
It was suddenly wrenched back from outside and a pair of strong hands was extended, into which she automatically put her own.
A deep and odiously familiar voice drawled, ‘Allow me!’ before ruthlessly dragging her upwards into the light.
12
Bruising Encounters
‘Simon de Lombard,’ said a tall, dark-haired man of forbidding aspect, stepping forward and bowing. His eyes rested on her in a way she could not quite like, with a familiarity and almost contempt for her person.
Ravish’d by Cruel FatebyORLANDO BROWNE
Alys found herself grasped rather familiarly about the waist, swung down and set on the ground next to her rescuer, dishevelled and conscious that she had lost her bonnet and her hair hung down her back. She looked up into a dark, sardonic, hawk-nosed face that lightened into amusement as he recognized her. A smile curled his lips.
‘We meet again, Miss Weston.’
‘Lord Rayven!’
‘Yes, it is I, the wicked villain of the piece,’ he declaimedrather melodramatically and she stared at him with large, startled grey eyes.
