Page 2 of Greystone’s Legacy (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #5)

The horse had remained remarkably patient throughout the proceedings, but now it shifted nervously as another crack of thunder split the air.

Hester worked quickly to attach the travois to the saddle, detaching the reins from the bridle to give the length she needed behind and using the stirrup leathers to create secure anchor points.

She tested each connection, knowing that a failure could prove disastrous on the treacherous path ahead.

She just hoped the horse would prove sensible and not kick out backwards when he sensed something dragging behind him, or all her hard work to save the injured man's life might prove useless after all.

Finally satisfied with her work, she reached up to take hold of the bridle and took a deep breath.

The journey home would be slow and dangerous, requiring all her attention to guide both horse and burden safely through the gathering storm.

Already the rain was falling, and the wind had picked up, carrying with it the sharp scent of lightning.

"Well then," she said to the horse, who flicked an ear in her direction, "shall we begin?

" Without waiting for a response, she started down the path, choosing each step with care.

The travois dragged behind them, and she found herself grateful for her family's long history in these mountains.

Every childhood lesson about safe paths and dangerous ground would be put to good use before they reached Wynstanley House.

As Hester guided horse and burden carefully along the mountain path, she found her gaze drawn repeatedly to her unconscious charge. The rain had plastered his fair hair to his forehead, highlighting the aristocratic planes of his face in a way that invited closer study.

The practical part of her mind insisted that she should focus entirely on the treacherous ground beneath her feet, but something about the stranger commanded her attention.

Perhaps it was the contrast between his evident refinement and their current circumstances.

His clothing alone spoke volumes: the perfectly tailored coat, now liberally splashed with mud, would have cost more than Wynstanley House saw in several months' income.

Each time she glanced back to check the travois was holding together, she noticed some new detail.

His hands, though currently slack in unconsciousness, bore no callouses or signs of manual labour.

The signet ring on his right hand gleamed dully in the fading light, though she couldn't make out its device without stopping to look closely.

His features, which she had initially registered only as generally aristocratic, revealed themselves to be quite striking upon closer inspection.

A particularly loud crack of thunder made the horse start, and Hester had to pause to calm it.

As she stood there, murmuring soothing nonsense to the nervous animal, she found herself wondering about the man's story.

What business could have brought someone of his obvious status to this remote corner of Wales?

She could not think of a house of sufficient consequence within ten miles at least, that a gentleman like this would visit.

As she encouraged the horse to move off again, they stalled, and Hester realised the travois had became snagged on a protruding sharp rock.

"Easy there." She halted the horse and moved back to free the travois, taking the opportunity to check on her passenger.

The wind whipped her skirts around her legs, and she shivered, suddenly aware of how the rain had soaked through her wool dress.

Her mysterious gentleman would be even worse off, she realized, lying insensible and exposed to the elements.

The cut on his temple had stopped bleeding, but the rain had washed away the dried blood, leaving a stark reminder of his vulnerability.

There was something profoundly unsettling about seeing someone so obviously accustomed to elegance and privilege rendered helpless by circumstance.

The fine linen of his cravat had come partially undone, and without thinking, Hester reached to straighten it.

Her fingers brushed against his skin, finding it cooler than she would have liked.

The contact sent an unexpected shiver through her that had nothing to do with the chill air.

She withdrew her hand quickly, chiding herself for the liberty.

Whatever his circumstances, he remained a gentleman, and she had no business touching him beyond what was necessary for his safety.

Still, she couldn't quite suppress her curiosity about what colour his eyes might be, or what his voice would sound like when he finally regained consciousness.

The gathering gloom reminded her that they still had nearly a mile to go before reaching Wynstanley House.

The path here was wider and better maintained, but the failing light would soon make navigation treacherous.

Hester lifted her face to the weeping sky, trying to judge how much daylight remained.

The heavy clouds made it difficult to be certain, but she suspected they had less than an hour before true darkness fell.

Best make haste. Grabbing at the sharp rock, she threw it aside and returned to the horse's head.

As she urged the horse carefully forward, Hester found her thoughts returning to the strange turns of fate that had brought them to this moment.

This morning, her greatest concern had been gathering enough blackberries for Aunt Felicity's preserves.

Now she was responsible for the life of a mysterious gentleman who had literally fallen into her path.

Would he be grateful when he awoke, she wondered, or mortified to find himself at the mercy of a rural Welsh family of reduced circumstances?

The latter seemed more likely, given what she knew of the nobility.

Still, there was something about the set of his mouth, a certain sensitivity in his features, that made her hope he might prove different.

The steadily increasing whistle of the wind provided a counterpoint to her thoughts, while the steady pattering of rain created a rhythm that matched their slow progress down the path.

These familiar sounds of her homeland seemed to emphasize the stranger's presence, as though the very landscape recognized him as foreign to its ancient permanence.

Hester straightened her shoulders, pushing away such fanciful thoughts.

Whatever mysteries surrounded him would presumably be solved when he regained consciousness.

For now, her duty was clear: to see him safely to Wynstanley House, where Aunt Cecilia's practical nursing skills and Aunt Felicity's more esoteric remedies would surely set him to rights.

Yet as she guided horse and travois around a particularly treacherous bend, Hester couldn't quite suppress a flutter of anticipation at the prospect of unravelling his story.

The Wynstanley ladies' quiet life rarely saw such intrigue, and she found herself rather looking forward to discovering exactly what sort of mystery she had rescued from the mountain's harsh embrace.