Page 6 of Lady Controversial
He raised a hand to greet a few of his tenants whom he passed toiling away in their well-ordered fields. Legacy had blown off steam and seemed a little better behaved, so Ellery gave him a longer rein, content to saunter along and enjoy his self-imposed freedom. He was in no particular rush. Besides, if he moved slowly there was an outside possibility that he would find some sign of Woody. It was ridiculous quite how much he missed the little dog. He really should have taken him to London but had wanted to ride Legacy and his mother, who hated dogs, had refused to have Woody in the carriage.
Next time he would insist.
But unless he could find Woody, there would be nothing to insist upon. That truism depressed him and took the edge off the pleasure he took from his surroundings. He reached a track above which tree branches met and intwined, making a leafy canopy that scattered a rainbow of coloured leaves in his path. He pushed Legacy into a trot and then a collected canter, secure in the knowledge that this was private land and that he would have it to himself, give or take the odd keeper or tenant.
Legacy reared up without warning, almost sending Ellery tumbling over his quarters when a gig came hurtling directly towards them, obviously out of control.
‘What the…’
He struggled to remain in the saddle as Legacy’s flailing hooves spooked the already terrified cob conveying the gig. Its eyes had rolled back in its head and the driver was incapable of stopping it. He managed to calm the stallion, who now pranced on the spot, but could only watch in helpless dismay as the light gig wobbled on obviously worn springs and toppled slowly, depositing its driver in a ditch.
Ellery leapt from Legacy’s back and left the horse with reins dangling, trusting to luck that he wouldn’t bolt. He ran towards the overturned vehicle, his annoyance at the driver’s irresponsibility replaced by concern for his welfare. He had taken a hard tumble and lay where he had fallen, unmoving.
‘Are you hurt?’ Stupid question, Ellery thought, as he touched the driver’s shoulder and received a groan by way of response. ‘Stay still and catch your breath. Where does it hurt?’
‘Everywhere,’ groaned a remarkably high-pitched voice.
Its owner ignored his advice to remain still and pushed himself into a sitting position, which is when Ellery realised his mistake. The driver was a woman, that much was obvious from the waterfall of tangled hair that she pushed back from her forehead to reveal the largest and most engaging grey-green eyes that Ellery had ever encountered. They were sparkling with indignation.
‘How is Henry?’ the woman asked on a choked voice.
‘Henry?’
‘My horse, you idiot! This was all your fault.’
Ellery couldn’t recall the last occasion upon which anyone had addressed him as an idiot and smiled in spite of himself. ‘Stay there, I’ll check.’
Henry was a great deal more equable than Legacy. Despite the fact that the gig had overturned, the cob had remained on his feet and was placidly snuffling at the ground in search of something edible.
‘Henry is none the worse for wear.’ Ellery offered the woman his hand, which she accepted with an indignant huff, leaving an ugly straw bonnet that had obviously tumbled from her head on the ground behind her. He wondered where she had come from and deduced it could only have been Rose Cottage. It was for that reason that Ellery himself had chosen to ride this seldom travelled track. ‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Crawley?’ he asked, trying to hide his amusement when he noticed her highly unorthodox clothing.
‘I am Isolda Crawley,’ she replied, clearly striving for dignity while simultaneously searching for her bonnet. ‘Whom must I thank for overturning my conveyance?’ she asked in a sweetly sarcastic tone.
‘Ellery Haigh at your service,’ he replied as a dog came hurtling out of the undergrowth, its tail spiralling.
‘Brutus!’ Miss Crawley cried. ‘I am so glad you are unharmed.’
‘Brutus?’ Ellery frowned. ‘That is not Brutus. That’s Woody.’
‘Woody?’ Miss Crawley seemed bewildered.
‘You have stolen my dog.’
Chapter Three
Overcome with giddiness, Isolda found it difficult to concentrate her thoughts. Thoughts that were definitely deceiving her since she was convinced that she’d had an accident and that a handsome stranger with dark eyes, darker hair and disarmingly rugged features had come to her rescue. Presumably she’d incurred a concussion, which would explain such a flight of fancy. Isolda most emphatically did not habitually waste her time or energy speculating upon the unattainable, nor did she have any interest in such ridiculous fantasies. She left that sort of thing to Jane.
She adjured herself to concentrate upon her more immediate concerns and wiggled her arms and legs experimentally, wincing as pain shot through her body. Isolda bit her lip and blinked to clear her vision and concentrate her mind so that she could decide which part of her hurt the most. Then her fictional hero offered her his hand, presumably to help her up from the ditch into which she had been so unceremoniously deposited. She was most reluctant to accept that hand. It clearly wasn’t real and would bring her caprice to an abrupt end. But she reached out her own hand in spite of herself, as if she was no longer in control of her own reactions, and her fingers met with warm, solid flesh.
‘I am not imagining things,’ she muttered breathlessly.
His strength took her breath away as he pulled her to her feet effortlessly yet carefully. Despite the cold weather he was riding without a coat and she could see the muscles at work in his broad shoulders and equally broad chest. He also looked rather angry.
The fog cleared from Isolda’s brain and she recalled that he had introduced himself.
Andshe had called him an idiot.
A sound that could have been anything from a suppressed laugh to a groan slipped past her lips.
