Page 4 of The Major’s Mistake (Intrepid Heroines #7)

Three

J ulian reined his mount to a halt on top of the ridge and paused to take in the view.

The Lake District was certainly worthy of all the countless stanzas of poetry penned in its praises.

The sun was sinking slowly into a feathering of clouds, and the diffusion of light cast a soft yellow glow over the still surface of the lake below.

In the distance, the craggy cliffs and steep hills of yew mixed with pine took on a flat, ethereal quality in the gathering shadows.

The big bay stallion tossed its head and gave a whinny of impatience.

Julian lingered a moment longer, then turned the horse back down the narrow trail.

He didn’t regret in the least his decision to quit Town.

Somehow the balls did not seem nearly so glittering nor the conversations quite so entertaining as they had in his youth.

The ton —the gentlemen in their impeccably tailored evening clothes and the ladies in their silks and jewels—were no longer as perfect as he had remembered, merely ordinary people with the same strengths and frailties as the rest of humanity.

Perhaps the grueling years of military action on the Peninsula had changed more than just his physical appearance, he mused.

Hunger, thirst, fear, suffering, the prospect of death —all had the effect of making the artifices of Polite Society seem so very superficial.

After such experiences, it was hard to listen to eligible young ladies carefully schooled to chatter on about nothing more substantial than the weather or the latest fashion.

Even worse were those who hung on his every word, assiduously nodding in agreement to any opinion he voiced. At times, he felt he could have announced he was going to strap on wings and fly to the moon and no one would have dared dissent. After all, he was a marquess, and he was wealthy.

And eligible. The combination gave him rein to have whatever it was he wanted in life.

He let out a weary sigh. Maybe while he was here he would begin to figure out just what that was.

The trail threaded down through a stand of live oak, thick with an undergrowth of brambles and bushes.

As he rounded a tight bend, still deep in thought, his mount came up short, shying sharply enough to nearly send him tumbling from the saddle.

With a few choice words, Julian settled the stallion and urged him forward.

The big bay still refused, and the marquess was forced to dismount and lead the way on foot.

Then he saw what the problem was.

Half hidden by an outcropping of rock, a young woman was kneeing in the middle of the rough path, gently lifting an injured crow into a large willow basket set down by her side.

“A moment,” she called, without turning around. She carefully arranged a bundle of cut herbs to keep the broken wing from jostling against the woven vines before getting to her feet and brushing back a loose strand of dark hair.

“I’m sorry for startling your horse—” The young lady froze in mid-sentence and nearly dropped her basket. For a long moments she stared in shock, then whispered a single exclamation.

“ You .”

Julian was equally speechless. His body went rigid as he regarded her face, thinner than he remembered it, but no less lovely.

Without another word, she whirled around and slipped away into the trees.

Julian stood staring at the swaying boughs long after the leaves had stilled. It wasn’t possible! He had thought that she lived far to the north, in Scotland, with his redoubtable great aunt. His hands tightened around the leather reins.

What was she doing here, of all places?

A cold knot formed deep within him. Had she left his aunt’s home, perhaps to … marry? He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest felt as if an iron band was encircling it.

Why should it matter? he chided himself. After all, it would be strange if she had not taken a husband, despite the cloud of scandal hanging over her. She was a beautiful woman, and many men would be willing to overlook a … transgression of the past.

As if in sympathy with his mental state, his leg buckled slightly with the strain of standing for so long. He shifted his weight and leaned against his stallion’s flank for support.

His jaw set on edge. He told himself that if he had any sense at all, he would set off for London at first light and inform Atwater that he must find another man for the job.

Staying here could only serve to open up painful wounds, and Lord knew, he had enough of those already without having to deal with ones from the past. With an audible grunt, he pulled himself up into the saddle and continued the ride on to his estate.

Far out across the lake, a mass of storm clouds blew down from the high hills, casting an ominous black shadow over the still waters …

But not nearly as black as the Marquess of Sterling’s mood.

Sykes shook his head as he took in the pinched face, haggard from lack of sleep, and the awkward limp, more pronounced than usual.

“What in the devil is so important that you have to go haring off again on horseback this morning, guv? You look like hell, if I may say so. Whatever it is, let it wait until later. Come on back to the library and finish attending to your correspondence. I’ll stir up a nice fire and fetch some tea. ”

Julian ignored his valet and signaled for the groom to lead his stallion over.

Sykes muttered something under his breath that included the words “stubborn” and “ass”.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m not yet a total invalid.” There was an edge to the marquess’s words. “I believe I can manage a simple ride.” Without further words, he set his foot in the stirrup and, after only the slightest hesitation, mounted the big horse.

Sykes’s lips tightened as he watched Julian trot off.

He couldn’t help but wonder what errand one of the young grooms had been engaged in this past morning.

Whatever message he had brought back, it certainly had his employer in a rare mood.

After another few moments, he gave a resigned sigh turned back towards the manor house.

As soon as he reached the lane leading into the village, Julian set his horse into a easy canter.

The information had been easy to attain.

Of course his neighbor, the garrulous Squire Lakeland, had been able to tell him something of the neighboring gentry.

The name of Lady Thornton appeared somewhere in the middle of the list, along with the information that the lady was recently arrived to take up residence at the small property she had inherited.

Why, the Squire even vaguely remembered the lady from years ago, though of course he was not nearly as old as she was.

At least gossips had some use, he thought with a grimace. He hadn’t bothered to read the rest of the long and prosy missive, which detailed the histories and pedigrees of the other nearby residents.

So, Aunt Sophia was here. Another grimace passed over his face. How ironic that he had chosen his most isolated holding, imagining that he was escaping from the concerns of his present …

Only to stumble into the shadows of the past.

He urged the big bay into a faster pace. Duty as well as affection demanded that he pay a call on his aging relative, but he knew that if he were entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that something much deeper was spurring him onward.

During the grueling military campaigns, he had learned it was best not to shy away from one’s fears but to face the enemy head on.

Perhaps now, older and wiser, he might finally vanquish whatever hold the past had over him, along with the nightmares that plagued his sleep for seven long years.

The directions were clear enough. He turned his mount into a narrow drive lined with neatly pruned elms. It wound up through a copse of yew and oak, then opened into a open expanse of meadow and walled gardens.

Up ahead was a small stable and barn, while farther on, an ivy-covered limestone manor house, modest in size and adornments, sat surrounded by a profusion of rose bushes, its golden color aglow in the afternoon sun.

As he drew near to the stable, he slowed the stallion to a walk. In his haste to arrive, he realized he had given precious little thought to how exactly he meant to proceed.

A figure came out from the shadows of the potting shed.

She was wearing the same ill-fitting garment as last night and her long dark hair was pulled back in the same simple way, though a few more tendrils had escaped to brush against her alabaster cheek.

At the sight of him, she stopped dead in her tracks and clutched the large copper vat she was carrying.

“I wish to pay my respects to Aunt Sophia.” His voice sounded cold and brittle, even to his own ears.

Her lips curled slightly. “Your wishes are of no concern to me, milord. And in any case, you would hardly find her here, but up at the manor house.” She turned and began walking away toward the stable.

Julian drew in his breath. He hadn’t meant to start out so badly. For some reason, rather than ride on, he guided his horse at an angle to cut off Miranda’s retreat.

“Sophia is not at home.” There was a fraction of a pause. “But of course,” she added with some asperity, “You needn’t take my word for it.” With that, she quickly ducked around the dancing stallion and disappeared through the tack room door.

He slid down from the saddle and stood for moment, not quite sure what it was he meant to do.

If his aunt was away, there was no reason for him to linger, and yet his feet were strangely reluctant to move.

He let his gaze wander over the place, and indeed, there didn’t appear to be anyone else stirring.

Feeling rather foolish to be standing like some nodcock in the deserted stableyard, he forced himself turn back to the saddle, when all of a sudden, a high-pitched yelp caused his head to jerk around.