Chapter 2
Two
A VEILED APPROACH
“Adder,” he warned.
“Yes,” she replied. “It will be long gone.”
Darcy supposed he should ask her what she and her man might be doing on Netherfield land, but it occurred to him that he might have ridden a bit too far south this morning; he might be the trespasser.
After a few minutes—which seemed like hours—the world began to cease its violent spinning; slowly, he righted himself, feeling her hand drop away.
The sound of hurried footsteps gradually fading told him that the mystery woman had set off to fetch her medicine.
Turning towards Gallant, he saw to his relief that the horse had not gone far.
He went to him immediately, but the horse, restless and distressed, began pawing and butting him.
His fore inner fetlocks showed signs of irritation—he, too, had avoided the adder by means of the nearby stinging nettles.
Gallant plainly wanted the pain to stop, and expected Darcy to do something about it and do it quickly.
He hoped the woman would not delay, and that her remedy would not make things worse.
After what seemed a long while but may have been short minutes, she returned; she held out a small, stoppered brown bottle, and he took it from her outstretched hand.
Her husband was nowhere in sight, which was inconvenient—he could have used some help holding the stallion while applying the ointment.
He heard the sound of cloth tearing and turned towards it—to his surprise, she was evidently tearing up a muslin apron or skirt of some sort.
Gallant however, soon commanded all his stray attention. As he worked to soothe the stallion, she laid strips of muslin at his feet.
“Is your man nearby? I could use some help holding this horse.” His tone was harsh, but Gallant, for all his large size, was an utter ninny when in pain, and was growing more upset with every passing second.
Abruptly, a mere lad, handsome, sturdy, but not more than four years or so in age, approached at a run; she snagged him, holding him in place a few feet away, murmuring lowly, brushing a hand down his back with what seemed a soothing motion; the child did not respond, looking between Darcy and Gallant.
Could this be…Neddy? Not her husband, but her son.
For some reason, this thought had never occurred to him.
“I do not think my man will be very helpful,” she said smilingly. “His name is Edward, but he usually answers to Neddy.”
It was useless to try and treat the horse untethered; in fact, he was unsure whether he could treat him at all.
He managed to coax him to a tree possessing a convenient branch and tethered him as well as he could.
Gallant was restless and upset, however, requiring most of his strength to keep him in place.
And now the muslin strips she had provided were several feet away.
“Do you suppose you could bring those cloths over here, and saturate a couple of strips in your ointment for me? Gallant is not in a cooperative mood.”
She did not move immediately to do so—somewhat to his surprise, as she had been so helpful up to this point. That was when he noticed that she still held onto the boy.
“Neddy. Let us get the cloths and bring them to the gentleman.”
He rolled his eyes at her inclusion of the lad, who should not be anywhere near his stallion.
“Tell the boy to keep well back,” he ordered. “Please. This horse has been known to kick and bite.”
“The mystery is why anyone would possess such a beast,” he overheard her mutter, and he resented it.
Keeping one of the cosseted boy’s hands in hers, she turned to fetch the cloths; the boy, however, began screeching, and lunging for Gallant.
She picked him up, and it was nearly all she could do to hang on to him—he fought her with all of his small strength.
“Edward!” he ordered. “Stop it. Stop it now!” He was master of a great estate; grown men stopped in their tracks when he used even mild tones of command.
In the stress of the moment, he had used his harshest. The young woman startled, but Edward did not even acknowledge that he had spoken, still struggling against her hold.
Without another word, she strode away from him and Gallant both, back from whence she had come, still and barely hanging on to the spoilt child.
The lad, he noticed, had eyes only for Gallant—it was as if there was nothing else in his world except for the horse, and his mother was but an obstacle preventing him from reaching it.
The lad grabbed at her; she half-turned, trying to keep hold of him. The hood fell back and away.
For the first time he saw her face.
He caught his breath.
Her eyes, large and dark, might be said to be her loveliest feature, but her skin was creamy, her cheekbones high, her nose pert, her chin determined, her brow fine.
And her hair…oh, her hair. It was not up, nor hidden beneath a matronly cap, but a lustrous mane of wild curls, in colours of deepest mink to golden sunlight, disappearing into the back of her cloak in a thick fall.
Instantly, he imagined those curls spread above him in a surge of feeling so intense, so unexpected, it was like an adder striking—a sharp, almost painful paralysis of his senses.
Darcy came back to himself in a flush of heat.
Almost at the same instant, he saw the child reach for her face, clawing.
The girl could not seem to hang onto him and protect herself.
“Devil take it!” He hurried to her side, seizing the child, pulling him away.
Still the child fought, blindly now, screaming, grabbing at the skin of his arms through Darcy’s coat.
Had the fabric been less substantial, it might have hurt. His shrieks were louder now.
Or was that the woman’s screams?
Not knowing what else to do, he wrapped his arms tightly about him. Immediately, Edward began beating his head against his Darcy’s chest, but Darcy quickly thwarted him by restraining him so that he could not move at all. The lad was a strong one; he was remarkably difficult to contain.
“Let him go!” the woman cried, and began tugging at his sleeve with a surprisingly strong grip.
“I am not hurting him,” he said. “Edward.” Darcy spoke his name in the same tone that once worked on Georgiana when in one of her tantrums from long ago—calmly, sternly.
“’Orse!” the boy shrieked.
“You are scaring the horse. Edward is too noisy. Too noisy for the horse. Scaring the horse.” He kept the tenor of his voice an even tone, firm but not angry, louder than Edward’s childish cries, but not shouting, repeating the same words continually until at last he was certain he had caught the child’s attention.
The woman’s too—she had ceased her cries and was listening rather than fighting him.
At the same time, he strode farther away from the animal.
“’Orse,” the boy repeated, but in a much more usual tone.
“The horse is not calm. You hurt your mama. I cannot allow wild, noisy boys near the horse. Hurting mama is bad. Scaring the horse is bad.” The boy did not reply, looking at him with his impossibly big, blue eyes.
“I am not his mother. I am his sister.” The woman’s voice was even now as well.
His heart lifted at this information, although he shoved the unlooked-for feelings aside quickly. “I beg your pardon.”
She must live nearby, judging from the length of time it had taken her to retrieve the remedy for his horse. “I will carry him to your home.”
“It is unnecessary. He is settled now, and your horse is restless and in pain. I will take him.” She held out her arms and he saw the beginnings of a welt swelling upon the skin of her neck from the boy’s wild tantrum. Darcy was loath to let him go.
What he wanted to do was insist upon bringing him home, and see for himself the conditions in which she and her brother lived.
Once there, he wanted to scold their parents for failing in his discipline, for letting the boy grow feral and uncontrollable.
It was probably a stupid notion, and even ungentlemanly—she wanted to take the child and leave, as was her right.
Certainly it was none of his business. But was it better to allow a young lady to suffer?
“How old is he?” he asked, instead of handing him over.
“He is three years,” she said.
Younger than I thought. Much younger. “A sturdy lad, indeed. Your home is this way?” He began walking in the direction that he had seen her disappear earlier.
She started after him, protesting, “Sir, I will take my brother. He is accustomed to our daily walk.”
He glanced her way. “I assure you, miss, you have nothing to fear from me.” Unlike this little hellion.
Her reply was quick and certain. “I never thought otherwise. It is simply unnecessary for you to go to the trouble.”
Probably she believed him to be Bingley. The hellion, now that they were out of sight of the horse, seemed to forget about his passion for it. “Dig-a-dig-a-dig-a-dig-a!” he chattered with animated, if incomprehensible, expression, looking at Darcy with deep interest. “Doku! Doku-ah do-o-o.”