Page 72 of Duke of Storme
“Tonight?” Calder’s voice cracked with disbelief. “Your Grace, no horse alive could make that journey safely in this storm.”
“Mrs. MacLeod is dying.” Diana moved toward the stalls, her gaze cataloging the available horses with surprising competence. “What about Tempest? She’s calm under pressure and knows the highland trails.”
“Tempest is the Duke’s personal mount,” Calder protested. “She’s trained for battle, not for ladies’ riding.”
“Then she’s exactly what I need.” Diana reached for the mare’s bridle. “Please, Mr. Calder. Help me, or I’ll saddle her myself.”
The older man studied her face for a long moment, seeing something there that made his shoulders slump in resignation. “Your Grace, if somethin’ happens to ye, the Duke will have my hide.”
“If something happens to Mrs. MacLeod because we did nothing,I’llhave your hide,” Diana countered with a firmness that would have astonished her sisters.
Twenty minutes later, Diana guided Tempest into the storm’s fury. Rain struck her face like hammers as the wind tore at her cloak. But Tempest moved with steady confidence. The ridenormally took thirty minutes. Tonight, it would take at least an hour. Diana leaned low over Tempest’s neck while lightning split the sky above them.
The path wound upward through rocky terrain. On her left, the ground dropped away into Glen Coric’s depths, invisible but no less dangerous. Diana kept her eyes fixed on the trail ahead, trusting Tempest’s instincts. Halfway to the cottage, thunder made Tempest shy violently to the right. Diana felt herself sliding sideways, her heart lurching as she glimpsed the ravine’s black maw. She hauled on the reins, fighting to regain control while rain blinded her.
“Easy, girl,” she gasped.
Tempest settled, but Diana could feel the mare’s tension. They were both dancing on the edge of disaster.
When they finally reached the MacLeod cottage, Diana’s hands were numb with cold. But lamplight glowed warmly in the windows.
She dismounted on unsteady legs and pounded on the cottage door.
“Mrs. MacLeod? It’s Diana – the Duchess. I’ve come to help!”
Finn’s boots echoed against flagstone as he returned to Storme Castle near midnight. His traveling coat dripped with rain. The journey back from Inverness had been treacherous; six hours stretched to ten by the storm.
“Your Grace!” Mrs. Glenwright appeared from the kitchens. “Thank God ye’re safe. But… there’s been a situation with Her Grace...”
Finn’s stomach dropped to his feet. “What’s happened? Is the Duchess all right?”
“Och, aye. She’s fine… but she went out into the storm.”
Before Finn could demand details, he caught sight of movement in the drawing room. There, by the dying fire, sat Diana in her nightgown and wrapper, her hair loose and drenched around her shoulders, a teacup warming in her hands.
“Diana.” Relief flooded through him so powerfully it left him breathless.
She looked up as he entered. Shadows danced across her face in the firelight. “You’re back. The storm caught you, I see.”
“Aye.” He moved into the room, noting the exhaustion in her posture, the way her usually pristine appearance spoke of a night spent in hazardous circumstances. “Mrs. Glenwright says ye went out tonight.”
“Mrs. MacLeod needed help.” Diana’s voice was quiet but steady. “Her labor went wrong, and there was no time to wait for morning.”
Finn felt his jaw clench. “So ye rode out in a storm that could have killed ye?”
“The shepherd’s path was passable. Barely, but passable.”
“Barely? Diana, that path is treacherous in good weather. In a storm like this–”
“In a storm like this, one of your subjects was dying,” Diana interrupted, her voice carrying a note of steel. “And I had the means to help her. So, I did.”
Finn stared at her, this woman who’d just risked everything to save a tenant’s life, who sat before him with rain-dampened hair and mud-stained wrapper, looking more magnificent than any London belle in silk and jewels.
“Ye could have died,” he said quietly.
“But I didn’t.” Diana set down her teacup and met his gaze directly. “Mrs. MacLeod and her baby are both well. That’s what matters.”
“Is it?” Finn moved closer, unable to maintain distance when she’d just returned from dancing with death. “And if ye’d fallen from that path? If the horse had stumbled in the dark?”
