Page 20

Chapter

TEN

“Would you look at all this, Blodwyn.” Who knew that once they crested the small hill, Lottie and her stout pony would be confronted by a shimmering expanse of water on the other side of it?

It wasn’t so much a small lake as a big pond, but it was no less pretty for the distinction, and the wild fowl floating atop it seemed to like it, whichever it was.

It was so shallow she could see all the stones carpeting the bottom.

Thick bulrush and tall water reeds framed one side.

Their blooming heads fluffy with cottony seeds now that it was near the end of their season.

The opposite bank was all tall grass and late-summer wildflowers that split to frame either side of a well-trodden path.

An inviting path to who knew where, that followed the edge of the pond until it disappeared beneath a vast weeping willow.

Its long branches brushing the water and providing a haven for the two young geese playing a splashing game amongst them.

“If I’d have known about this, I’d have brought some bread.” Blodwyn’s ears twitched in agreement. “Would you like a drink, girl?” The ears twitched again. So Lottie guided her down until they were just feet from where the shallows kissed the shore before she slipped off the horse’s back.

Blodwyn took no encouragement to wade into the clear water up to her knees, her thick tail swishing with joy as she sniffed the fragrant summer air around her.

Lottie removed her bonnet and the jacket of her riding habit and went to sit on the bank to watch her, then decided Blodwyn had it right.

Why sit when you could wade? So she toed off her riding boots, bent to strip off her stockings and then, because the wretched thing would be more trouble wet than it was dry, she shimmied out of the heavy and voluminous skirt of her riding habit and rolled up her breeches as far as they would go.

Despite the early morning summer sun, the water was bracing.

Cold enough to cause a thousand goose bumps to erupt all over her skin but not cold enough to dissuade Lottie from wading into it until it covered her knees too.

There was something wonderfully liberating about being in the water—especially when she had the beautiful landscape stretching around her.

Lady Frinton had been specific that the next clandestine planning meeting for the vexing viscount’s surprise party was to take place in her bedchamber at ten sharp, so she had at least two hours to herself to soak all of nature’s wonderment up.

Heaven!

Oh, how she had missed Kent! Almost as much as she had missed her family. Suffering Lord Wennington’s occasional presence was a small price to pay for the luxury of both.

A dragonfly buzzed past her nose and then dipped to hover over the water as it whizzed toward the willow, drawing her eyes to the two splashing goslings again.

Now that her ears were attuned to the sounds of the pond, one was squawking as it rapidly flapped its wings.

The other was pecking at something under the waterline just beneath it.

Lottie smiled at the playing geese until something about it seemed off. For all the movement, the squawking bird wasn’t moving an inch. Almost as if it was trapped on something.

“Are you stuck, little fellow?” She waded closer to check and could see that it was more distressed than playing. His friend appeared to be trying to free him.

It was probably a line left by a careless fisherman and if it was wound around the poor thing’s feet, he was going to do himself a mischief if he kept yanking on it so violently.

“I’m coming—try to keep calm.” A ridiculous thing to say to a goose.

As if it spoke English! But she hoped the reassuring sound of her voice would help it realize that she was a friend and not a foe.

The depth of the pond remained unchanged as she waded farther, thank goodness, but the gravel beneath her bare feet was sharp. “I’m almost there, little—”

“Stop!” She instantly halted at the loud and panicked bellow from behind, and spun around in time to see Lord Wennington galloping toward her at full pelt. “The bottom of the pond isn’t—”

The end of that sentence disappeared as the shingle ledge beneath her feet slipped away with the speed of an avalanche and, because she was already unbalanced thanks to his unnecessary hollering, she yelped as she fell backward into the water.

It all happened so fast and so unexpectedly, Lottie managed to swallow half the pond in the process.

She came up coughing and spluttering, unexpectedly having to tread water because this part was so deep.

“Try not to panic!” shouted Lord Wennington, who was obviously panicking as he threw himself off Zeus to run along the path. “I’m coming!”

She still hadn’t caught her breath when his intent to save her became apparent, tried to wave her hands to stay him, but all to no avail. Fully clothed and while still in motion, he did an ungainly dive off the bank and, with a huge splash, joined her in the water.

He popped up gasping, no doubt in shock from the cold, and rather gallantly began to swim toward her.

“Try not to panic,” he repeated again, quite unnecessarily when she had stopped choking and was bobbing quite happily now that initial shock of her dunking was over.

“It is impossible to float if you panic.”

“Good advice.” She wanted to laugh but held it in to mime a few calming breaths for his benefit, seeing as, for once, he meant well. But then she couldn’t resist stretching out on her back and kicking her legs as the giggles escaped. “And good heavens above, it works!”

He stopped paddling and scowled. “You can swim.”

“Like a fish,” she sung, twisting to her front so that she could swim lazy circles around him as he treaded water.

“I thought you were drowning!” He seemed more annoyed than relieved that she wasn’t.

“I did try to tell you, but you were flying through the air before I could get any into my lungs. But thank you for trying to rescue me anyway. It is much appreciated.”

He huffed and swam the few yards to the shallow shingle ledge, then began to wade to the shore. “What sort of an idiot goes for a swim when the sun has barely risen and the water is freezing?” He tossed that insult masquerading as a question over his shoulder.

“The sort of idiot who is on a rescue mission of her own, that’s who.” With a huff of her own, she continued swimming toward the trapped gosling. “One of your birds has caught himself on some line.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” Under her breath she added, “You rude oaf.” Then twisted her neck to check he hadn’t heard. Which of course he hadn’t because he was already halfway up the bank, muttering to himself. No doubt something unpleasant about her.

She was less than three feet away from the gosling when she heard the angry “Bloody hell!” and twisted in time to see him wrestle his trapped arm out of his coat before he slapped the sodden garment on the grass.

By the looks of things, he was also about to strip out of his waistcoat, and while her wayward eyes were sorely tempted to stay right where she was to watch that, she had a bird to save.

“Keep calm, little fellow.” She reluctantly turned and reached out a hand, only to have the gosling’s frightened friend peck at it.

She brushed it away, trying to wedge her body between the trapped goose and its protector, ignoring the pecks at her shoulder from one to grab the other who was indeed now so terrified, she feared for his foot.

As soon as she lifted its quivering body out of the water, the problem became apparent. It wasn’t a fisherman’s line but what appeared to be a strip of net that the gosling was caught in, and in the struggle, it had knotted itself around the leg.

One hand cradling the bird close to her chest while it fought her, she tried to untangle it, but her cold fingers achieved little. She was concentrating so hard that the first she knew of Lord Wennington swimming back up behind her was when he spoke.

“I’ll need to cut it off.” And lo and behold, he had a penknife with him, which he unfolded beside her.

Their limbs brushed as they both treaded water, which was almost as disconcerting as him being back in the water with her.

So close she could see the copper flecks in his whiskey-colored irises and the dark stubble on his chin. “Hold him still.”

With no better plan, she did exactly that, keeping the gosling’s wings from flapping while Lord Wennington held the trapped foot and carefully set about cutting each thread so as not to hurt it.

“Blasted poachers.” His eyes flicked to hers briefly.

“Like to help themselves to my carp but can’t ever be bothered to clean up after themselves.

” She got the impression he was more annoyed at the litter they left behind than the theft of his fish.

Then, in a more surprising turn of events, he paused the cutting to stroke the head of the young goose, those usually hard eyes uncharacteristically tender.

“I won’t hurt you, little one, I promise.

” Miraculously, that seemed to do the trick as the bird stopped struggling, allowing him to slice through a few more threads while he continued to soothe it.

“Not long now. You’ll soon be back with your mother.

” His eyes lifted to hers again, warily this time. “And on the subject of his mother…”

Lottie pulled a face, all too aware of how territorial and aggressive certain geese could be. “I’ve not seen her.”

“Then keep your eyes peeled. After my dip in this ice bath I’d rather not be pecked to death today.”

As if that warning summoned her, a very large, very angry goose immediately swooped down from the sky, plopped on the water inches away, and began to hiss. Her powerful wings arching, ready to attack.