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She had never swung from vines, but she could navigate her way through a silly English forest to a village a couple miles away. And if she could find no help in Chapley, then she would have a note delivered to her solicitor in London, the one who had settled her inheritance when she’d first returned from India. She remembered him as a kind man, and he had spoken to her as a person, as the Baroness Maitland, not some English rose to be patted on the head. She’d written to the man once before, but Lord Baxter had refused to send the letter, offering to write on her behalf instead. He meant to be helpful, but he drove her mad. How vexing to have no access to her fortune, and no ability to steer her own fate.
Josephine paused to sit on a fallen tree and drink some water. That was one thing she knew from her travels, that one must take adequate refreshment along the way. How long had she been walking now? Strange, how a mile or two could feel so much longer on these winding paths. It was still early, gray and bleak and misty-cool beneath the forest trees.
With any luck, she could conclude her business in Chapley by mid-morning, and come home before there was any fuss. The maid never came tapping until noon or later, if she thought Josephine was still asleep. Lord Baxter would be unhappy, of course, that she’d taken these matters into her own hands, but her entire life was at stake. She felt the little cottage inside her like a burning flame, a desire so strong she could hardly bear it. Privacy, comfort, and protection from society’s judging eyes.
If only it was not so still in these woods. After plodding along another half hour, she stopped and had a bit of bread. She hadn’t brought very much to eat and was nearly out of water. Now and again, a quiet rustling made the hair rise on the back of her neck. They’re English woods, Josephine. No tigers here. But she ought to have come to the main road by now. Determination warred with anxiety, so her knees gave a little shake before she got them moving again.
She was on the widest path, she’d made sure of it. It must be the path to the main road, although it twisted and turned more than she expected. What a fuss it would be if she didn’t get home before her absence was discovered. Well, if Lord Baxter would only listen to her, rather than make her trod to Chapley on her own. When she arrived there—if she ever arrived there—she must be strong and assertive, the way her parents had been when they dealt with the natives abroad. She must pursue the matter of her portion and her barony, and how she might arrange things to make a marriage unnecessary. She would ask about her rights as a baroness, a title which, until now, had been a vague and indeterminate concept.
Rather like the location of the main road.
After another half hour or so, she stopped at a convergence of paths and looked around. She did not want to face the fact that she might be lost. If one was on a path, how could one be lost? But she was almost certainly lost. The path had curved back and forth so regularly, she couldn’t tell if she’d been going in a straight line. Should she take a different path? That path might curve even more, and take her farther off course. She couldn’t see Chapley’s church spire from her location, or the house, or anything but thick woods and dense treetops.
After taking thorough stock of her situation, she slumped in defeat. What folly this had been. She had to find her way back to the house before she was discovered, or the Baxters would never trust her again. She must find some other way to contact her solicitor in London. She must communicate her dire circumstances, that a betrothal was imminent. Or perhaps she would try to speak to Lord Baxter again, and weep this time, and make such a scene that he would relent on this marriage nonsense. Yes, she would sob until the rafters shook. Men in England seemed to respond to that sort of thing more than reasonable letters. But which way was back? She had turned about so much in her confusion, she couldn’t remember from whence she’d come. “Oh my mercy,” she whispered. “What a coil.”
She was lost in Lord Baxter’s woods without the slightest sense of her direction. For all she knew, she wasn’t even in Lord Baxter’s woods anymore. She could be in any woods, with any sort of forest creatures making those intermittent rustling sounds. She began to walk again, only to have something to do besides utterly panicking. As the sky lightened, as morning dawned bright, the forest seemed to wake in a disquieting way. Now and again she heard crackling leaves or snapping twigs, and her heart stopped in terror. What else was roaming around in these woods? Deer? Boar? If she screamed, would anyone hear her?
“Oh, help me,” she said out loud. “Help me, help me, what shall I do?” Behind her, she could hear a louder rustling, such as a larger creature might make. She was too afraid to turn around and face the threat. Instead, she ran in the other direction with all her speed and strength, like she did in her tiger dreams. The sound came closer and louder behind her, no matter how fast she ran. She imagined the scrape of claws, and hot teeth sinking into her throat. She cried in a frantic, choking way, without tears, without breath, and still ran until the pursuing creature caught her.
Its arms came around her, holding her, trapping her. “No,” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut. “No! No!”
“There now,” came a low, soothing voice. “Dear lady, calm yourself.”
Josephine opened one eye, saw a plain collar and a muscular neck, and a tan leather coat and waistcoat. She blinked up into blue eyes wide with concern. “Lady Maitland?” Lord Warren muttered a soft oath. “What on earth are you doing out here?”
She pushed away from him, wiping at her tears, trying to compose herself. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought you were…”
She felt too foolish to say it.
“A wild beast?” He grinned. “I am merely a household beast who couldn’t sleep and went out for a walk.” He looked her over, head to toe. She must look a fright after her wild dash down the path. His gaze fell upon the satchel she clutched at her side. “Are you running away, then? Good God, woman. You’re as daft as they say.”
“I am not running away,” she said, working to catch her breath. “And I am not daft.”
“Like hell you’re not. You gave me a start, I’ll tell you.” He put a hand against his chest. “A chap goes into the woods to find a spot of peace and—”
“Won’t you help me?” she interrupted him. “I seem to have lost my way back to the house.”
“Of course I’ll help you, but you’re a fair distance from the manor. Where were you headed at this hour?”
She looked down at her satchel and felt horribly silly at the plan she’d hatched. “I was not headed…anywhere.”
“You were headed somewhere. Young ladies don’t wander into forests unless they’ve somewhere pressing to go.” He stared at her stubbornly, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “I was headed to Chapley, to take care of some business, but I’ve changed my mind now and decided to go another day.”
He took her bag and looked inside. “Some bread and water, a handful of shillings, and”—he dug deeper—“a pair of velvet slippers. An experienced traveler, I see.”
“I’ve traveled more than you have,” she said in answer to his mocking gaze. “I can certainly walk into Chapley if I wish.”
“No, you can’t, because proper English women don’t do such things. What did you want to do in Chapley?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Humor me then. I would like to know.”
He seemed partly irritated and partly kind. In fact, he seemed in a very odd mood, so Josephine answered him against her better judgment. “I wished to speak to a solicitor about my inheritance, because I’d like to buy a house. But I suppose I must write a letter about it instead.”
“A letter is probably easier than running away.”
“I wasn’t running away,” she protested for the second time.
“If you weren’t running away, why didn’t you go to Chapley with Lord or Lady Baxter in the comfort of a carriage, rather than blundering through the woods? And you have a house, you know. It’s in Oxfordshire. I
t’s called Maitland Glen.”
“I don’t want that house.” She crumpled her skirts up in her palms. “I want a cottage, just big enough for me. I want it to be in some quiet town, with a garden and a…a little fence.”
He stared at her as though she was quite ridiculous. She couldn’t bear it.
“You said you wanted to know,” she snapped, taking back her bag. “And so I told you.”
“If it’s just big enough for you, where will your husband live?”
“I don’t want a husband.” She emphasized this fact most clearly, since he was one of the gentlemen angling after her hand. “I don’t need a husband, in fact. I have my own money, more than a few shillings. I just don’t know how to get my hands on it yet.”
“What of the crown’s interest in you? What of the barony you inherited from your father? It’s not just a title.”
“I don’t want to swan about in society and be some grand baroness. Haven’t you been listening?” One of his brows rose. She supposed she was being very shrill. “I only want to buy a cottage somewhere, you see, and live alone. It’s all I want in the world, and no one seems willing to help me do it.”
“Because you can’t,” he said with air of exasperation. “Perhaps, being raised outside of civilized society, you don’t understand why you must marry. You are very rich, with property and tenants which your title obliges you to manage.”
“And that requires marriage…because…?”
“It requires marriage because you’re young and unprotected, and slightly daft, if you want to know the truth.”
“I am not daft,” she cried. “I wish you would stop saying that.”
He held up a hand as if to calm her, or concede the point. “Daft or no, the king wants you to take a husband to manage your barony. Preferably a man of greater consequence, so his title will take precedence over yours.”
