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The Edge of Baycliff Woods

Sommer-by-the-Sea, England

T he lush, early summer countryside of Sommer-by-the-Sea was a welcoming sight, especially after the last grueling eighty miles.

Captain Thomas Grenville rode along the familiar paths of Baycliff Woods.

Now, away from the chaos of war, the Scottish Clearances, and their aftermath, he confronted the uneasy stillness of coming home.

The boy who rode off to war had faded away a long time ago.

The terrain sloped upward, giving way to rolling hills thick with trees that stretched toward the horizon. As he rode beneath the green canopy, he glanced overhead, but the setting sun was obscured by the storm clouds gathering in the darkening sky.

He paused at the crossroads where the main road skirted Baycliff Mound.

The roadway would be an easier ride, but it would add precious time to his journey.

Thomas glanced up again. He’d never make it home without getting totally soaked if he followed the road.

His decision made, he spurred his horse, Valor, forward.

They veered off the path and began the steep but manageable climb up Baycliff Mound.

The wind picked up and howled through the trees the closer he got to the top of the hill.

Halfway up the climb, the first raindrops fell.

He pulled his coat around him in an effort to stay dry and cursed under his breath.

“Welcome home, Captain. So much for getting home before the storm,” he added with a mocking chuckle.

It was fitting, in a way. Sommer-by-the-Sea had never been known for its predictable weather. If anything, the countryside seemed determined to give him a baptismal return, though he might have preferred a quiet brandy.

Within minutes, the rain was lashing down, drumming against his coat as the trail churned and turned into sludge beneath Valor’s hooves. For a disorienting moment, he wasn’t in England at all, but in the rain-soaked fields of France, where mud was as thick as gun smoke.

Valor shook, sending a spray of water from his mane in every direction. His ears flicked back before he gave a deep, rumbling snort.

Grenville exhaled and wiped his face. His hand drifted to his coat pocket and closed around the familiar shape, the cool, etched gold coin. Barrington’s calling card. A summons to action, but this time, the battlefield wasn’t across the sea. It was here.

He had left the service to take up the title, now Baron Greystone, whether he liked it or not, and manage the estate his father could no longer oversee alone.

His days were consumed with settling disputes, managing tenants, and navigating the layered intricacies of the family’s holdings.

The work kept him busy. Kept him focused.

The responsibilities were better than pacing the halls at night.

But they didn’t settle the restlessness, the unease that remained bone-deep and familiar.

A crack of thunder rolled over the ridge, startling a flock of birds from the trees. Grenville’s body tensed at the sound. Old instincts. He drew a breath and held it.

You’re not there. You’re here.

He let his breath out slowly, then drew in another. The scent was of rain on the rich soil and wet leaves, not the battlefield. He was in Baycliff Woods.

He’d be home soon, dry, with a glass of brandy. Not the cup of hot cocoa, Mrs. Cove, the family’s housekeeper, gave him with a cluck of disapproval over his muddy boots on her clean floors. A smile tugged at his lips. He hadn’t thought of Mrs. Cove in years.

“Come on, boy,” he murmured softly to Valor. “Let’s get home before this storm drowns us.”

He was eager to leave the ghosts of the past behind, at least for the night. With a gentle nudge, he urged his horse forward, hooves squelching through the mud.

As they emerged from the woods, the horse’s ears flicked sharply forward, muscles tensed under the saddle.

Beneath him, his mount’s muscles tightened.

Grenville’s gaze narrowed. There’s something ahead .

He tightened his grip on the reins. “Steady,” he whispered.

Through the downpour, a shape began to emerge.

“A carriage,” he muttered, tilting his head to the right. “And it’s listing awkwardly.”

The rain eased just enough for him to see the problem. One wheel had sunk deep in the mire. A figure, undeniably feminine despite the soaked cloak, struggled beside an elderly coachman.

Grenville urged Valor forward, stopping a respectable distance away. “It’s a nasty storm. Allow me to help you get out of this mess,” he called out.

The woman turned toward him, rain dripping from the brim of her hat. “That won’t be necessary.” She turned away from him. When he didn’t move, she glanced over her shoulder “We can manage on our own.”

Grenville huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, but denying a gentleman the chance to be gallant? That, my lady, is a true scandal.” He gave a mock bow, the rain spilling off his hat’s brim as if nature itself disapproved of his jesting.

A crack of thunder split the air. Lightning followed, quick and sharp. The carriage horses startled, stamping and pulling against the wet reins. The elderly coachman struggled to calm the agitated team.

Grenville swung down from his mount, boots squelching into the mud. He moved quickly to the lead horse, murmuring steady nonsense in a low, firm voice. The reins jerked in the coachman’s hands, tugged taut by the horses as another crack of thunder spooked them.

But the lead horse beneath Grenville’s hand began to settle, ears twitching, head dipping slightly. A moment later, the others followed.

“I have them under control now, sir. Thank you,” the coachman said, his grip easing as control returned.

Grenville released the bridle and stepped back. The coachman turned to the young woman. “This rain isn’t letting up. One more pair of hands will make a difference.”

He saw the way her jaw tightened, the flicker of irritation in her eyes. Clearly, the notion of accepting help, especially from him, clearly chafed.

“Tell me, Captain, do you make a habit of collecting wayward travelers?” Her tone was cool, and clipped, matching her words.

He arched a brow. “Captain?”

She tilted her head. “You sit a horse like a man trained for battle, but you don’t wear your rank like a badge.”

Grenville hesitated for the briefest moment, studying her.

Most people made assumptions about rank and station based on uniform or reputation.

But she had read his proof of command in his posture and his control, not as an ornament.

It was an astute observation, sharper than he expected, and far more intriguing.

Amusement tugged at the edge of his mouth, tempered by curiosity.

“As for wayward travelers,” he said at last, with a half-smile, “I only stop for the interesting ones. And you, my lady, are certainly more intriguing than the average highway mishap.”

“Not so bold.” She shrugged, murmuring almost to herself.

He raised a brow. “And you, I wager, don’t much care for men who are.”

A muscle twitched in her cheek, but she didn’t flinch. “Care? No, Captain.” She let the title linger, deliberate now. “I merely know the sort.”

He observed as she gathered her sodden skirts and caught the smallest hesitation, the flicker of something else in her eyes. A challenge? A memory, perhaps? But more than likely, a warning.

The woman turned away, her skirts in hand, and he exhaled, shaking his head. Stubborn. Proud. He should have expected nothing less.

Still, he couldn’t help but watch.

Her wide-brimmed hat did little to keep the rain at bay.

Grenville noticed how her soaked clothes clung to her, revealing the graceful lines of her figure.

Long tendrils of her fiery red hair had escaped, plastered to the curve of her long, slender neck.

Her green eyes, sharp and bright, flashed with irritation and determination.

Stubborn and proud, admirable traits until they stranded one in the mire of their own pride.

Grenville stepped closer, shaking his head. Mud pulled at his boots with every step. “Battling the elements alone? Is a noble effort,” he said, his voice low, “but even the fiercest warriors know when to accept an ally.”

He watched the battle play out in her stance, the rigid set of her shoulders clashing with the flicker of resignation in her gaze. The fight was still there, but so was the sense. Her clenched fists loosened, and the rigid line of her posture began to ease.

At last, she spoke, her tone quiet but firm. “Very well.”

Grenville nodded once, stepping toward the horses. He ran a steady hand down the nearest gelding’s rain-slicked neck, murmuring quiet reassurances. The animal flicked an ear, muscles twitching beneath his palm.

Checking the harness, he made a minor adjustment to the traces to keep them from tangling.

As they worked side by side, the rain became little more than a distant drumbeat against the earth.

Grenville stole a glance at her. Fiercely intent, her brows were drawn in quiet concentration.

She did not fumble, did not hesitate. She met each challenge with steady hands and a sharp mind, adjusting tack, soothing the horses with quiet murmurs that even the downpour couldn’t drown out. ”

The storm may have been relentless, but so was she. A woman like this would not bend easily, nor did she shrink from a challenge. He had fought alongside men who lacked her steadiness. That was an intriguing thought. If he were to choose allies in a fight, he would want her on his side.

Grenville held the reins firmly. “Easy now… easy.” His voice was calm and steady, coaxing the horses as they struggled, but their hooves were unable to find solid footing.

“Steady… that’s it.” The carriage rocked, but refused to move.

“Good lads,” he murmured, though the praise was hollow. The mud had it firmly in its grip.