Page 85 of The Mistletoe Countess
The man’s lips tipped slightly. Ever so slightly, but a success nonetheless.
“Terror is extremely exhausting, Brandon.” She stifled a yawn. “I slept for ten hours after readingThe Hound of the Baskervilles.I think it’s time to go to bed.”
“Excellent notion, my lady.”
“And Brandon?” She started for the stairs and then stopped. “Thank you for coming to the east wing tonight. It was exceedingly heroic of you.”
He ducked his head in silent acceptance of her gratitude. She raised her head and slowly walked up the stairs until out of Brandon’s view—then she ran down the long, dark hallway to her room.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Grace breathed in the crisp air of the afternoon, enjoying the fresh snowfall covering the beautiful countryside with a fine dusting of powdery white. To get a closer view, she’d taken one of Havensbrooke’s stallions, Dash, out for a ride. He lived up to his moniker, gliding across the lush fields and offering her a sense of celebration since successfully managing workmen, surviving a ghost hunt, and—most daunting of all—navigating morning tea with Frederick’s sister.
Of course Eleanor proved the perfect example of a genteel, collected English lady. Nothing like Lady Moriah. Thank heavens! And Grace didn’t seem to shock Eleanor half as much as she thought she might, even when Grace put an inordinate amount of sugar into her tea or spoke of the glassworks with such exuberance that the table shook. Perhaps Frederick or Lavenia had given her due warning. Very clever of them.
The meeting also proved providential in a most desperate of ways. Eleanor Percy Ratcliff knew something about fashion! So Grace divulged her deepest concerns and inadequacies regarding the topic, particularly with the upcoming dinner party at Lord and Lady Keriford’s house, and Eleanor rose to the challenge—referring Grace to a dress shop called Rouselle’s in nearby Edensbury.
The idea of embarrassing her husband and all of his progeny by wearing a summer gown on a winter evening seemed less likely than ever. Eleanor even allowed Grace to take a few fashion magazines for perusal.
Following a path along the tree line, Grace reveled in the beauty of her new home. Untouched forests, acres of farmland, and a river emptying out into a lake—with a gristmill at the water’s edge. Havensbrooke was a gold mine of opportunity.
As the spires of Havensbrooke Hall rose in the distance, she felt a renewed connection. Yes, she could learn to love this place. And if God had brought her all this way under such extreme circumstances, He must certainly think she belonged here too, even with a ghost haunting, a possible murderer, and Grace’s poor fashion choices.
A movement to the right caught her attention. Through the veil of trees, a rider approached, clothed in black with a scarf covering the lower half of his face. A chill snaked up her neck. She turned to a sound on her left, only to find a second rider, both in pursuit ofher.
Well, this definitely proved that something underhanded was going on, because hooded men didn’t ride around on other people’s land for an afternoon excursion of delight.
The house waited up ahead, at least a fifteen-minute hard ride away. Plenty of time for the assailants to catch her, possibly kill her, and maybe even drag her lifeless body into the woods to dispose of it under freshly dampened, snow-covered earth.
She stiffened her shoulders. They’d have to outride her first.
Thankful for her billowing riding skirt, she tossed her right leg over the saddle to secure a better grip on the horse and spurred Dash into a hard gallop. Here was another logical rationale for riding astride. Escaping murderers.
Up ahead and off to her right, a cottage came into view. Not huge or elaborate, but enough to provide witnesses and possibly a weapon.
Perfect.She glided across the field, hooves beating close behind. With a quick tug to the strap at her chin, she flung her riding hat in the direction of the man at her right. It hit his shoulder, surprising him enough to nearly knock him from the horse.
Aha! What else? She leaned close, reaching into the saddle bag, her hand meeting something hard and metal. Wrapping her fingers around the find, she turned enough to get in a solid aim and swing. The horseshoe slammed into the short man’s leg, provoking a cry of pain that spooked the horse and sent the animal galloping in the opposite direction.
One down.
But the tall man was gaining on her. She neared the cottage, urged Dash to jump the stone fence surrounding the house, and slid from the horse before he’d come to a complete stop. Without looking back, she ran to the cottage door, slapping her palm against the wood.
“Help.”
She turned to see the tall man on the other side of the rock wall.
“Please.” She shook the door handle. “Let me in.”
Just as he jumped the fence, the cottage door opened and Grace stumbled inside to find a motherly looking woman staring at her, wide eyed.
“Two men in black are chasing me.” She burst out the words. “Do you have a weapon we can use to fend them off?”
The dark-haired woman stood immobile, so Grace ran to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards for a knife.
Suddenly the sound of a gunshot reverberated through the room. Grace froze and waited for death’s icy grip. Most books described it that way, but on the contrary, her pulse pumped a warm stream through her quivering legs.
A child’s cry sounded from the corner of the room where a little girl, perhaps four or five, sat tucked against the wall, knees to her chin. Oh dear! Had Grace gotten a mother killed?
