The Marriage Rescue. Joanna JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
back to the campsite if she didn’t reappear to guide him home herself.
Grandmother Zillah would be beside herself with worry when the horse came back without his rider, but there was nothing Selina could do about that now as she reached the first line of trees and plunged headlong through the rusty carpet of fallen leaves.
‘After her!’
‘Don’t let her get away!’
Selina heard the rough shouts at her back and fought onwards, crashing through the undergrowth. Sharp boughs whipped at her face, drawing blood, but she kept running, searching for a tree whose lower branches would allow her enough purchase to haul herself up.
There! As if by divine providence a huge oak reared up in front of her, its gnarled roots thrust out and wide boughs sweeping down to hold out their arms to her. It was the work of moments to heave herself up, and she lunged upwards, ignoring the scream of her jarred wrist, moving through the leaves just as her pursuers lurched into view, now on foot, with faces flushed red with exertion.
‘Which way did she go?’
‘I didn’t see!’
‘You mean you lost her?’
Selina peered down through the branches at the two gamekeepers standing just metres from her hiding place. Secreted among the boughs, her crimson skirt blending with the autumnal colours of the leaves, she felt her palms prickle with sweat. If they looked up...
Why hadn’t she just pointed the child in the right direction and then left? She hated the landowners for their wealthy arrogance, their hypocrisy, for the way they treated her people and, of course, for their part in Mama’s death. It hardly mattered that the Squire himself—owner of this vast estate and the imposing Blackwell Hall that sat within it—had not been directly responsible for the fate of Diamanda Agres; the upper classes were all cut from the same cloth.
For all Selina knew, Squire Ambrose had aided his brother Charles’s flight to the Continent after the events of twelve years before that had scarred her young life so violently, allowing him to neatly avoid any unsavoury accusations. If only Selina had treated the girl with the disdain she deserved, coming from such a family, and hadn’t tried to return her to the great Hall, less than a mile away...
Damn. Selina sighed to herself. You always were too soft.
The sight of the little thing in her muddy gown, clutching a tow-headed doll, had moved Selina in a way she couldn’t explain. Perhaps having lost her own mother at just eight years old had made her more sympathetic. The child had sobbed as she’d called for her mama, and Selina had had only a moment of hesitation before bundling the mite up in her own shawl and making for Djali.
It wasn’t the child’s fault she’d been born to such a man, she’d reasoned. Not that the girl’s father could do much harm now, Selina had thought grimly as she settled into the saddle. Squire Ambrose Fulbrooke had been six feet under for the best part of a month—a deadly combination of port and rich food had caused his heart to give out in the middle of a poker game, if the rumours that had reached the Romani were to be believed.
Apparently his son was in line to inherit, but no sign of the man had yet been seen, and in the absence of a master the Romani had judged it safe enough to make camp temporarily on Fulbrooke land—a judgement that, given her current situation, Selina now regretted with every fibre of her being.
The third man was approaching, kicking his way through the fallen leaves. One of the gamekeepers groaned, just loudly enough for Selina to hear. ‘I knew he’d follow us. I said so, didn’t I? And now he’s going to see we let her get away...’
‘Harris! Milton! What happened?’
Selina curled her lip instinctively at the sound of the man’s voice. Cut-glass vowels and the confidence of a man born into luxury. He was one of them—she was sure of it.
A peep down through the branches confirmed her suspicions: the tall man standing with his back to her was the epitome of a well-bred English gentleman, dressed in a well-cut blue coat with breeches tucked into immaculate leather riding boots and with hair of a distinctive dark burnished gold. She frowned as a flicker of something stirred in the back of her mind, like a gentle breeze through long grass. That unique hair colour, so different from the Roma darkness...had she seen it somewhere before?
‘Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!’ The voice was deep and edged with humour. ‘I see my sister being carted off in the direction of the house by your wife, Milton, and then you two on horseback in hot pursuit of somebody—I ask again: What happened?’
‘Well, sir,’ began one of the gamekeepers, sounding nervous, ‘we were just doing our rounds when we saw Miss Ophelia being carried off by a gypsy woman—sobbing her heart out, wasn’t she, Harris?’
‘Fit to burst, sir,’ continued the other. ‘So we snatched her back. The girl tried to tell us she came upon Miss Ophelia wandering all on her own, but of course we knew that wasn’t true. Trying to steal her, she was.’
‘So you gave chase, did you? Two of you against one woman and she still gave you the slip?’
The other men shuffled slightly. ‘You know what they’re like, sir, those gypsies. Eels they are. Too tricky by half.’
‘Yes. I can see how she would be difficult quarry.’
Although Selina couldn’t see his face, she was sure the man was smiling. ‘Never mind. All’s well that ends well—my sister is back safely with her governess.’
‘Thank you, sir. But you know...’ The other man’s voice lowered menacingly; the hairs on the back of Selina’s neck stirred in response. ‘If we ever come across her again, or find where those gypsies’ grubby little nest is, well...’
‘We wouldn’t hesitate to teach them a lesson, sir. Be happy to do it.’
‘Yes, Milton. I think I quite catch your drift.’ The educated voice was cool—bordering on cold. ‘Let’s hope for everybody’s sake that the woman in question is far away by now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I think we should all be on our way. Bid you good day, gents.’
‘Good day, sir.’
The men moved off. Selina listened to them go: footsteps on damp earth, then the telltale jingle of their horses’ tack as they rode away, growing fainter and fainter until only the swaying creak of the forest remained.
She exhaled, long and loud. She was safe. She’d ventured into the lion’s den and escaped by the skin of her teeth.
‘You can come down now, miss. It’s quite safe.’
Selina froze. There was still someone down there!
Her heart checked for the briefest of painful moments before slamming back into a pounding rhythm so hard she was sure the man standing below her must be able to hear it.
She drew herself sharply against the oak’s knotted trunk, pressing herself closely to the bark. A quick look down through the leaves allowed her nothing more than a view of the back of the uncannily familiar fair-haired head, its owner resolutely positioned at the base of her tree.
‘I know you’re up there. Don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you.’
Selina swallowed—a quick convulsion of her dry throat. Celebrating too soon. She was trapped. There was only one way down and he was guarding it; there was no way she could pass without being seen.
‘Please, miss. You have nothing to fear from me.’
Selina’s pulse was racing as she registered his words. What kind of simpleton did he think she was? Surely that was exactly the sort of claim he would make.
‘Nothing to fear? You just hunted me for three miles like an animal—please excuse me if I don’t hop down at the click of your fingers.’
There