Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
A horse whinnied.
Theodore’s first thought was that if Leon Marks and his land development team caught him, he’d go to jail. The second was that he hoped they did and fished him out. His third thought was spent puzzling out why a billionaire would ride a horse into a bog. Sure, the filthy rich did all sorts of bizarre, eccentric things, but this was particularly strange and stupid.
Slowly turning his head, mud up to his ears, he was going to shout a warning, but instead watched with growing terror as a white, mud-splattered horse thundered toward him with impossible ease, as if there wasn’t treacherous, sucking mud beneath its hooves.
And astride it was a woman clad in all black, from tattered long coat and riding leathers down to her gloves and boots. Her clothing was old, but not like the vintage styles Theodore wore. For all he knew, she could’ve been fresh off the set of a spooky period piece or a late 1700s reenactment, a renegade woman boldly decked out in what those times would consider men’s clothing.
She was riding hard, her gaze pinned on him, dark brows pinched in fierce determination.
Just as he thought she’d blow past him, she withdrew her foot from the stirrup and slid bodily down the saddle in the most astounding feat of trick riding he’d ever seen in real life. Before he could process what was happening, she reached into the muck and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, hoisting him out and into the saddle.
Next thing he knew, they were galloping out of the bog, weaving in and out between the trees, his rescuer perched snuggly behind him. Cool air whipped against wet skin, an unflattering recipe for chattering teeth and a runny nose. He eyed his shirtsleeve, covered in a thick layer of sludge, and sniffed back hard instead. That was the best he could do.
Too amazed by the circumstances to speak, he snuck a glance over his shoulder.
She had curly, raven-black hair cut chin-length on one side, undercut on the other, and brown eyes so dark they were nearly pools of black. Her skin tone could’ve rivaled moonlight, and if it was anything like his, no amount of sun exposure would tan it.
Unlike her roughened, old-timey clothing, her makeup seemed quite modern—smokey eyes and dark purple lipstick. The combination wouldn’t be out of place in a Tim Burton movie.
Could there be camera crews nearby, filming in secret? Surely, he would’ve heard about a film production coming to the area.
But despite the impossibility, Theodore glanced back again, hoping to glimpse recognizable features.
A green ribbon was tied in a neat bow around her neck, a lovely pop of color offsetting her fiercely serious expression and grim attire.
He tried to parse her features further, considering if maybe he’d seen her on the cover of an entertainment magazine. But then his thoughts jumped to how much taller she sat in the saddle than him, how her broad shoulders and solid arms framed his body, and that perhaps she was the lady goth version of Henry Cavill instead.
He liked that. A lot.
With her arms pressed around him, holding the reins, and her leather-clad thighs squeezing his, radiating warmth he desperately wanted—no, needed —to soak in, he tried not to focus on every flex of muscle. Or how the horse’s undulating motion rubbed their bodies together. The combination was wreaking havoc in places that made him grateful for his waders and being covered in cold mud.
Of all the things he could’ve said to this gorgeous woman, what came out of his mouth was a rambling stream of consciousness. “How’d you lift me up like that? I know there’s not much to me, but one hundred and sixty pounds is still one hundred and sixty pounds. Is that even humanly possible?”
“Hmph.”
His cheeks flamed with the force of a thousand suns.
Oh God, did he just insult her?
Not human, Ardruina thought. She kept that little tidbit to herself.
Her companion went beet red. “Sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean to imply that you couldn’t lift me, or anything, that was just a seriously cool move. How’d you do that? Are you a power lifter?”
This shivering, mud-covered slip of a man was rather verbose for someone who just nearly died.
“Momentum.” Ardruina leaned away sharply when he craned his head to meet her eyes, just barely avoiding a streak of mud across her chin. All that straining couldn’t be good for his neck. Or hers.
The look he gave her was cutely skeptical. He was short enough that she could easily rest her chin on top of his head, and if it weren’t for the mud, she might’ve done so, just to feel like she was the hero in one of those romantic fairytales. The kind she’d never star in.
Beneath the mud, she caught glimpses of light brown hair cropped short along the sides, and a longer section combed across the top and parted to the left. Very 1940s in style, if her memory served her. Blue eyes, square jaw. The barest hint of scruff.
“Well, however you did it, thank you for the rescue. Name’s Theodore, by the way. Though you could call me Teddy for short.”
She snorted. “I’m not calling you Teddy.”
“Even though you’re holding me like a …”
“Do not finish that sentence,” she warned, though a smile threatened to overtake her face.
“… Teddy Bear.”
“I can put you back where I found you.”
“Sorry, I talk a lot when I’m nervous, and you’re really pretty, which is no excuse for badly flirting, but I think almost dying is making it worse. Just ignore me. Or better yet, I’ll shut up.”
The words “pretty” and “flirting” danced circles in her head, rendering her speechless. Usually, people ran away from her screaming. They deserved it, but still.
“All my friends call me Theo, no one calls me Teddy, but I always thought it would be a rather cute endearment, you know?”
“Theodore?”
“Yes?”
“You’re still talking.” Dammit. That was meant to sound teasing, but it came out all wrong, even to her own ears.
He shrunk in on himself, cowed like a kicked puppy. While Ardruina wasn’t by nature the benevolent sort, even she drew the line at puppy kicking.
This is why she hid herself away and left him alone all these years. Only watched from afar as he made his daily treks into the bog, a notebook in his breast pocket, a pencil tucked behind his ear. Why she never said a word while he talked to himself, playing out make-believe conversations with an infuriating botany colleague, even though she wanted to tell him he needed to stop being so forgiving and get the man fired.
Or best yet, when he smiled, cheeks made round and rosy from mirth, the day he sketched a little brown bat in a teacup and named it Buttons. She didn’t know how so nonsensical a name could be that cute and charming. After all, what did buttons have to do with bats? But she never approached to ask, too afraid to wipe that smile from his face.
Sometimes, when she dared too close, he’d look up from his drawings to survey the landscape, sensing, squinting, searching, but never finding, before shaking his head and carrying on.
You couldn’t catch something as elusive as mist.
And sometimes, when the ground was especially tricky or a bear and her cubs ventured near, she followed him home, making sure he made it there safely. She watched from afar, hidden amongst the trees, as he stomped up to his front stoop, knocking large chunks of muck from his boots. And she kept watching, much longer than needed, his routine becoming as familiar to her as the back of her hand. How he whisked open his screen door, and through that sheer material, observed him shuck off his waders and his mud splattered shirt, revealing a pale, slight frame.
Time had never helped her figure out what to say to him, prolonged solitude making her socially inept. This sweet, shy man didn’t deserve to feel her conversational snarls, not when he’d been a friend and ally to the bog all his life. He even tried to protect it in his own clumsy way, and it nearly cost him his life.
She had to fix this, somehow.
“My name’s Ardruina.” It wasn’t much of an olive branch, so she wrapped her cloak around him and pulled him closer, shielding him as much as she could from the chill, autumn air. The poor man had very little body fat, and his sodden clothes weren’t doing him any favors. “Just Ardruina, though,” she added, before he could get any clever ideas. “I don’t like nicknames.”
Theodore perked up right away, bringing his back flush with her chest. “Never heard that one before, but it’s beautiful. Wouldn’t dream of shortening it.”
The way he sunk his weight into her arms just then, relaxed and perfectly at ease, seeking comfort— no , stability—she tightened her hold, because after today’s clumsiness, wouldn’t it be just her luck if Theodore fell off the horse, too.
Ardruina meant to leave him at the edge of the forest, where the wilds and his cottage met. Leave him so she could return to her solitude and distance, all secrets intact.
What need did she have for a companion when Dead Man’s Hollow kept her in good company all these years?
Every morning, she watched the rising sun burn off the morning fog with its golden light; listened to the trees’ greeting, their branches creaking and leaves rustling as they swayed with the wind, harmonized by birds and trilling frogs.
What more did she need when she lived in a place that brought her peace?
But then Theodore sniffled again, his body shaking like a leaf, despite her efforts to keep him warm. She couldn’t leave him like this. Not in this state. Just as she’d done all those times before when something threatened his well-being, she had to make sure he was going to be okay.
With an encouraging kick to her mount’s sides, she rode them deeper into the forest.
Kidnapping, but for a good cause.