which met with his unqualified approval; the tiny puffed sleeves, badly crushed, were set off her shoulders. Even in the poor light, her skin glowed translucently pale. She was not yet shivering, but it could only be a question of time. ‘If you’ll forgive my impertinence, why are you gallivanting about without even a cloak?’
Helen frowned, considering. How much was it safe to reveal? Then, unconsciously lifting her chin, she took the plunge. ‘I was at Chatham House, at a ball given for Lady Chatham’s birthday. A footman brought a note asking me to meet…a friend on the portico.’
In retrospect, she should have been more careful. ‘There were…circumstances that made that seem quite reasonable at the time,’ she explained. ‘But there was no one about—at least, that’s what I thought. I waited for a moment or two, then, just as I was about to go back inside, someone—one of those two ruffians, I think—threw a coat over my head.’
Helen shivered slightly, whether from the cold or the memory of her sudden fright she was not sure. ‘They bundled me into a waiting carriage—it was still early and there were no other coaches in the drive.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘So that’s why no cloak.’
‘I see.’ Martin trapped the reins under his boot and reached behind the seat to drag his greatcoat from where it was neatly stowed. He shook it out and flung it about his companion’s distracting shoulders, then calmly picked up the reins. ‘What makes you think it was this Hedley Swayne behind your abduction?’
Helen frowned. In reality, now that she considered the matter more closely, there was no firm evidence to connect Hedley with the kidnap attempt.
Observing her pensive face, Martin’s brows rose. ‘No real reason—just a feeling?’
At the superior tone rippling beneath the raspy surface of his deep voice, Helen drew herself up. ‘If you knew how Hedley’s been behaving recently, you wouldn’t doubt it.’
Martin grinned at her prickly rejoinder and infused a degree of sympathy into his, ‘How has he been behaving?’
‘He’s forever at me to marry him—heaven only knows why.’
Pressing his lips together to suppress the spontaneous retort that had leapt to his tongue, Martin waited until his voice was steady before asking, ‘Not the obvious?’
Absorbed in cogitations on the vagaries of Hedley Swayne, Helen shook her head. ‘Definitely not the obvious.’ Suddenly recalling to whom she was speaking, she blushed. Praying that the poor light would conceal the fact, she hurried on. ‘Hedley’s not the marrying kind, if you know what I mean.’
Martin’s lips twitched but he made no comment.
Helen considered the iniquitous Mr Swayne, a slight frown puckering her delicate brows. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve no idea why he wants to marry me. No idea at all.’
They proceeded in silence, Martin intent on the bad road, Helen lost in thought. The land about was open pastures, separated by occasional hedgerows, with not even a farmhouse to be seen. A stray thought took hold in Martin’s mind. ‘Did you say you were at a ball when they grabbed you? Have you been missing since last night?’
Helen nodded. ‘But I went in my own carriage—not many of my friends have returned to town yet.’
‘So your coachman would have raised the alarm?’
Slowly, Helen shook her head. ‘Not immediately. I might have gone home in some acquaintance’s carriage and my message to John got lost in the fuss. That’s happened before. My people wouldn’t have been certain I was truly missing until this morning.’ Her brows knit, she considered the possibilities. ‘I wonder what they’ll do?’
For his own reasons, Martin also wondered. The possibility of being mistaken for a kidnapper, and the consequent explanations, was not the sort of imbroglio he wished to be landed in just at present—not when he had barely set foot in England and had yet to establish his bona fides. ‘You’ll certainly cause a stir when you reappear.’
‘Mm.’ Helen’s mind had drifted from the shadowy possibilities of happenings in London, drawn to more immediate concerns by the presence beside her. Her rescuer had yet to ask her name, nor had he volunteered his. But her adventurous mood had her firmly in its grip; their state of being mutually incognito seemed perfectly appropriate. She felt comfortably secure; appellations, she was sure, were unnecessary.
Absorbed in the increasingly difficult task of managing his team over the severely rutted track, Martin racked his brains for some acceptable avenue to learn his companion’s name. Their situation was an odd one—not having been formally introduced, he did not expect her to volunteer the information. He balked at simply asking, not wanting her to feel impelled to reveal it out of gratitude for her rescue. Yet, without it, could he be sure of finding her in London? He ought, of course, to introduce himself, but, until he was more certain of her, was reluctant to do so.
Another drop of rain and a low mutter from the west jerked his mind back to practicalities. Skittish, the horses tossed their heads. He settled them, carefully edging them about a sharp corner. The dark shape of a barn loomed on the left, set back in a field and screened on the west by a stand of chesnuts. The mutter turned into a growl; lightning split the sky.
With a grimace, Martin checked the horses for the turn into the rough cart track leading to the barn. He glanced at his companion, still lost in thought. ‘I’m afraid, my dear, that before you you see our abode for the night. We’re miles from the nearest shelter and the horses won’t stand a thunderstorm.’
Startled from her reverie, Helen peered ahead. Seeing the dark structure before her, she considered the proposition of spending the night in a barn with her rescuer and found it strangely attractive. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she replied airily. ‘If I’m to have an adventure then it might as well be complete with a night in a disused barn. Is it disused, do you think?’
‘In this area? Unlikely. Hopefully there’ll be a loft full of fresh straw.’
There was. Martin unharnessed the horses and rubbed them down, then made them as secure as possible in the rude stalls. By now very grateful for the warmth of his thick greatcoat, Helen clutched it about her. She wandered around the outside of the barn and discovered a well, clearly in use, by one side. Before the rain set in, she hurried to draw water, filling all the pails she could find. After supplying the horses, she splashed water over her face, washing away the dust of the day. Refreshed, she belatedly remembered she had no towel. Eyes closed, she all but jumped when a deep chuckle came from behind her, reverberating through her bones, sending peculiar shivers flickering over her skin. Strong fingers caught her hand; a linen square was pushed into it. Hurriedly, Helen mopped her face and turned.
He stood a yard or so behind her, a subtle smile twisting his firm lips. He had found a lantern and hung it from the loft steps. The soft light fell on his black hair, glossing the curls where they formed over his ears and by the side of his neck. Hooded grey eyes—she was sure they were grey— lazily regarded her. Helen’s diaphragm seized; her eyes widened. He was handsome. Disgustingly handsome. Even more handsome than Hazelmere. She felt her throat constrict. Damn it! No man had the right to be so handsome. With an effort, she masked her reactions and swept him an elegant curtsy. ‘Thank you most kindly, sir—for your handkerchief and for rescuing me.’
The subtle smile deepened, infusing the harshly handsome face with a wholly sensual promise. ‘My pleasure, fair Juno.’
This time, his voice sent tingling quivers down her spine. Fair Juno? Shaken, Helen held out the handkerchief, hoping the action would cover her momentary fluster.
Taking back the linen square, Martin let his eyes roam, then abruptly hauled back on the reins. Dammit—he was supposed to be a gentleman and she was very clearly a lady. But if she kept looking at him like that he was apt to forget such niceties.
Smoothly, he turned to a rough bin against one wall. ‘There’s corn here. If we grind some up, we’ll be able to have pancakes for supper.’
Helen eyed the blue-suited