Page 1 of Greystone’s Legacy (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #5)
Chapter One
On a late September afternoon, Hester Wynstanley reached between thorny branches for the last of the season's blackberries, her basket already half full of the dark fruit.
The mountains of her Welsh home loomed above her, peaks obscured by writhing tendrils of mist, while the narrow path below her feet wound treacherously along the edge of a cold stream running down through the rugged valley.
The scratches on her wrists above her gloves were worth the trouble, she decided, thinking of Aunt Cecilia's blackberry preserves that would see them through the winter months ahead.
Such practical considerations always occupied Hester's thoughts during her foraging expeditions.
She could ill afford to purchase what nature provided freely.
A cool breeze stirred the hem of her serviceable brown dress, carrying with it the sharp scent of heather and approaching rain.
Hester straightened, pressing one hand to her lower back as she surveyed the stark beauty of her ancestral lands.
The Wynstanley estate might be reduced in circumstances, but these mountains had been her family's home for generations, and she found a quiet pride in that fact.
The sound reached her first: a horse's nervous whicker, unusual enough in these remote parts to draw her attention immediately.
Hester turned, her keen eyes scanning the narrow track that curved around the mountain's shoulder.
There, perhaps fifty yards distant, stood a magnificent bay gelding, its coat gleaming even in the sullen afternoon light.
Her heart quickened as she spotted the crumpled form beside the horse.
A man lay motionless on the rocky ground, one boot still caught in the stirrup.
The horse shifted restlessly, and Hester's breath caught in her throat as she realized how easily the animal could drag its master over the edge of the path and into a fall which would surely prove fatal, if it hadn't already.
Letting her basket fall forgotten among the brambles, Hester gathered her skirts and picked her way carefully along the steeply treacherous ground.
Years of experience navigating these paths steadied her steps, but she could see how a stranger might have come to grief here.
The loose shale could shift without warning, and the deceptive slope of the ground could easily catch out the unwary.
As she drew closer, the quality of the man's clothing became apparent.
His coat was of the finest wool, the cut unmistakably London fashion, though now liberally dusted with Welsh dirt.
A gentleman then, and one unused to these mountains, judging by his presence on this particular path.
Any local would have known better than to risk it on horseback, especially with the recent rains making the ground more treacherous than usual.
The horse stamped impatiently, and Hester reached out to gentle it, speaking in the soft Welsh-accented murmur she used with nervous animals and moving slowly.
"There now, bach, be still. We'll sort this out, you'll see.
" The gelding's ears flicked toward her voice, and she was able to grasp its bridle, keeping it from any sudden movements that might harm its master further.
After a moment the horse seemed to relax, and she dared to reach out to free the man's foot from the stirrup, thinking that at least this should prevent further calamity.
Hester knelt beside the man once the horse had calmed, taking in his condition.
Blood trickled from a cut at his temple, but his breathing was steady.
When she stripped off a glove and pressed careful fingers to his throat, his pulse beat strong and regular beneath her touch.
His features were aristocratic: a straight nose, firmly set mouth, and a jaw that spoke of determination.
Young too, she thought, not much older than her own four and twenty years.
Standing there contemplating the unconscious stranger, Hester felt the weight of responsibility settle upon her shoulders.
She could not leave him here, that much was certain.
The mountain weather was too unpredictable, the dangers too numerous.
Already she could feel the temperature dropping as evening approached, and the gathering clouds promised rain before nightfall.
If she left him, he might perish of exposure before she was able to get back with help.
Yet the practical difficulties of rescue seemed almost insurmountable.
Wynstanley House lay nearly two miles distant, and while she was strong from years of manual work, she could hardly carry him such a distance, nor was there any possibility of her lifting him onto the horse.
She knew her own limitations. The horse complicated matters; she dared not leave such a valuable animal to wander the mountains, yet managing both beast and rider would require all her ingenuity.
Hester squared her shoulders, her mind already turning to possible solutions.
The Wynstanley women had survived far worse challenges than this, she told herself firmly.
Between the three of them, they had kept the old house standing and food on the table through years of genteel poverty.
Surely she could devise some way to transport one unconscious gentleman to safety.
A distant rumble of thunder spurred her to action.
Whatever she meant to do, it would have to be done quickly.
The mountain storms were not to be trifled with, and she had no intention of becoming another victim of their fury.
As she began to examine the surrounding area for anything that might prove useful, Hester spared a rueful thought for her abandoned blackberries.
Aunt Felicity would be disappointed, but surely even she would agree that rescuing a stranger took precedence over preserves.
A small grove of trees nearby offered plenty of sturdy branches, and Hester concluded that her own garments might serve where rope was lacking. The task ahead seemed daunting, but she had no choice but to succeed.
The first order of business was to secure the horse.
She looped its reins around a sturdy rowan tree, speaking softly all the while.
"Just a moment more, bach. We'll have this sorted directly.
" The gelding's dark eyes watched her intelligently as she began gathering fallen branches from the surrounding area.
Years of collecting firewood had taught her what to look for. She needed strong, straight pieces, not too thick to manage but sturdy enough to bear a man's weight. The recent storms had provided an abundance of fallen wood, and soon she had assembled a promising collection.
Thunder growled again, closer now, and Hester quickened her pace. She laid out two of the longest branches parallel to each other, then began the painstaking work of weaving shorter pieces between them to form a platform.
The next part would be more challenging.
Hester glanced down at her dress, considering.
The outer wool was too thick and sturdy for her purposes, but beneath it.
.. She felt her cheeks warm slightly as she reached for the hem of her petticoat.
It was one of her better ones, fine linen that had been part of her mother's trousseau.
Aunt Cecilia had modified it herself to fit Hester's taller frame, adding a length at the hem.
"Needs must," Hester murmured, steeling herself before grasping the fabric firmly and tearing.
The sound of ripping linen seemed unnaturally loud in the mountain silence.
Strip after strip came away in her hands until her petticoat was significantly shorter.
She tried not to think about what her aunts would say when they saw the damage.
Working quickly now, she began binding the branches together with the strips of linen. Her fingers moved surely, creating knots that would hold fast. The construction began to take shape: a rough triangle that would drag behind the horse while keeping its burden safely above the ground.
The unconscious gentleman hadn't stirred during her labours, though his chest still rose and fell steadily.
Hester paused in her work to check his pulse again, finding it unchanged.
His skin felt cool beneath her fingers, prompting her to work faster.
The air had grown notably colder, and the first spatters of rain began to fall as she completed the final knots.
Now came the truly difficult part. Hester studied the man's position, planning her approach. He was considerably larger than her, though thankfully not enormously so. Still, moving him without causing further injury would require both strength and care.
She positioned the travois as close as possible, then knelt beside him. "I do beg your pardon, sir," she murmured, though he couldn't hear her, "but this may be somewhat uncomfortable." Sliding her arms beneath his shoulders, she began to shift him carefully onto the waiting branches.
It took all her strength, and she was grateful for the years of physical work that had built her capability.
Even so, by the time she had him properly arranged on the travois, she was breathing heavily and her arms trembled slightly.
She paused only long enough to ensure he was secure, using the last strips of her sacrificed petticoat to prevent him from sliding off.