Page 6 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“No need.” She bent and he couldn’t quite see what she was doing, but she came up with a coil of rope in hand.
He stared, confounded.
She tied an end around her pommel and then lifted her chin toward him. “Your hands are free, are they not?”
“They are.”
“Then, catch.” She tossed him the other end. A very neat throw it was too, landing in the muck just before him. He grabbed it up.
“Now, hold on. Or better yet, tie it about you.”
He did, looping it about his chest.
Bending low, she whispered something to her mount. The horse began to back away.
Keswick held on tight, though he’d lost one of his gloves in the fall and his hand slipped in the mud. Leaning back against the pull of the rope, he used it as leverage and dug his heels in. Pointing the toes of his right foot upward, he leaned back and strained with the muscles of thigh and shin, fighting against the hold of the mud.
Her horse sank back, keeping the rope taut and the pull steady.
There. A bit of wiggle room. He kept it up and after a moment, his booted foot broke free.
“That’s one!” he exclaimed.
The second came about rather more awkwardly. He took a closer grip on the rope and leaned even more heavily against it, trying to pull his second foot out without digging the first one back in. It took longer, with more strain and more wiggling, but eventually, it popped out too.
“That’s both, then?” she asked as he flailed and fought not to go under.
“Yes. Can your mount back further up and pull me out?”
“Of course.”
He let the horse and the rope do most of the work until he drew close to the bank and the bottom firmed up. Clambering out, he bent over his boots, scraping mud away and assessing the damage. It was bad, but salvageable. A good cleaning with water and vinegar, a couple of days to dry and a thorough oiling with his special mix of tallow and neat’s foot oil should do the trick.
And then he looked up—and forgot about his boots entirely.
“Thank you . . .” He’d already begun, but the words faded and stalled. “Howoldare you?” he asked suddenly, instead. She looked like a girl—an uncommonly pretty girl with fiery coloring.
“Nineteen years, nearly twenty,” she replied as she untied the rope from her pommel and began to coil it up again. She gave him a sharp look. “How old are you?”
Not the polite answer, but the one he deserved, no doubt. “Six and twenty,” he answered absently. “You are terrifyingly competent,” he said as she tugged at the rope, waiting for him to release it.
More than uncommonly pretty, he thought, as he worked to free himself. And yes, that was the right word to pull from his mental dictionary, as she had worded it. For her looks were not in the common way at all. Her eyes were deeply set and slightly slanted and just the dark, amber color of good, old French cognac. His glance bounced between her other attention-catching features--wide cheekbones and a pointed chin and rich, auburn hair curling beneath a military styled hat.
“Forgive me,” he said, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. “My manners are inexcusable. But seeing as there is no one to make the introductions and given the bizarre nature of our situation, perhaps you will forgive me.” He sketched a bow. “I am Colm Newland, Viscount Keswick.”
“Ah, yes,” she said with a faint twist of a grin in his direction. She turned to fold back the long edge of her skirt and tuck the rope into an oddly shaped and positioned saddlebag. “I recognize your name. I heard—”
“That I am a rakehell?” he interrupted bitterly. “A dangerous flirt? To be avoided at all costs?” Usually it was a relief when his reputation preceded him. It saved him from having to do something to establish it again. But this time—he felt a surprising stab of disappointment.
“I heard,” she said deliberately, “that you were coming early to stay at Greystone Park before the house party.”
“Oh.” He pushed back a surge of embarrassment. “I apologize. My manners are truly atrocious today.”
She shrugged. “Easily forgiven—if you will but promise to do the same for me. I am forever saying the wrong thing or asking the wrong question, so your turn to be gracious will undoubtedly come soon enough.”
“You are very kind, Miss . . .?”
“Lady,” she corrected. “Lady Glory Brightley.”
