Free Julie Anne Long by The Runaway Duke Page B

and mussed and nearly as agitated as Edelston.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you, Lord Edelston, Your Grace, but have you seen Miss Rebecca at all today, Lord Edelston?”
    Edelston frowned. “No, Gilroy. I thought she was dressing for luncheon.”
    “She seems to be . . . well, sir . . .”
    “What is it, Gilroy?” Edelston’s voice had gone weak with dread.
    Gilroy capitulated with a sigh. “’Twould seem that Miss Rebecca is missing, Lord Edelston. And Sir Henry would like to see you in the house at once. If you would, sir.”
    Edelston’s ears began to ring. He found he lacked the breath to stand up.
    “Come, Tony, let’s go see what this is about, shall we?” Cordelia said sweetly. She looped her arm through his and nearly pulled him off the bench. Side by side, they followed Gilroy into the house.
    From the back of a horse, the road leading away from Rebecca’s father’s estate had always seemed a civilized thing. The cart, however, revealed otherwise; it lurched over countless bumps and pebbles and ruts with a sadistic thoroughness. Before long, Rebecca was convinced that by the time they reached the village her bones would be jellied inside her skin and her teeth would be rattling around inside her mouth like dice.
    And Connor’s admonishment not to breathe had proved unnecessary. Breathing had ceased being an attractive pastime once she realized that whatever had occupied the cart before her—dead cattle? rotten turnips?—had generously left behind its essence.
    In the cart, she measured the passing of time by the increasing warmth of the sun seeping through the canvas that covered her. Mercifully, after about what Rebecca estimated to be hours and hours, Connor pulled the gray to a halt. The cart lurched and squeaked as he swung down from it, and she heard his boots crunch toward her.
    “Rebecca?” he whispered.
    “Who else? The Duke of Wellington?” she said crossly, and the canvas lifted from her head to reveal Connor’s white teeth shining down at her like a bright crescent moon.
    “Bit of a bumpy ride, eh, wee Becca? It’s smoother up top, but seeing as how we’re spiriting you away, I thought it wisest you should ride like cargo.”
    She never could stay cross with Connor. She smiled back at him. “Where are we?”
    “Come,” he said, and extended his hand. She gripped it; his hand was warm and rough, dark hair curled at his wrist. With a start she realized she had probably not held his hand since she was twelve years old. The sensation was both new and strangely eternal, and she felt a peculiar impulse to examine it the way she would any newfound treasure. But Connor gave a pull, and Rebecca’s protesting bones and muscles were soon in an upright position on the ground in back of the cart.
    In front of them was a little cottage, clean but weatherworn, and a woman stood in the doorway. The woman ran a hand through her dark hair, which was pulled back and fastened into one long braid that trailed over her shoulder, and then rubbed her hands down the front of her apron.
    “Ye caught me at me chores, Connor Riordan,” the woman said in a mock scold.
    “Aye, my timing is always excellent, eh, Janet luv? This is the friend I told you about. Miss Rebecca, Miss Janet Gilhooly.”
    Janet and Rebecca took the measure of each other. Janet had fair skin and large dark eyes set beneath stern straight eyebrows and a wide, generous mouth bracketed by faint grooves. She was very pretty, and older, Rebecca decided, easily thirty or so. Her dress was a clean but faded gray, like the outside of her cottage.
    “’Tis jus’ like ye not to run off wi’ an ugly lass,” Janet said at last to Connor, who burst out laughing and had to be heartily shushed by Janet.
    “Come inside, the two of ye, for ye haven’t a minute to spare. You can hire a coach going north in St. Eccles, but best ye get there before the sun is too low in the sky. We’ll get yer clothes and a cuppa and then off wi’ ye.” Janet