“Daughter? Oh! God be praised!”
It was her father. She heard the horse’s hoofs stirring up the gravel as he drew to a swift halt and then he was leaping from the saddle and running to her horse. Rosalyn reached down as he reached up to embrace her. Her horse, thankfully, was not spooked by his sudden motion and stood still, allowing him to embrace Rosalyn.
“I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead,” her father repeated. He was almost crying. She could hear it in his voice. She let him lift her down from the saddle and hugged him tightly, as much for him to feel assured as for herself. She breathed in the familiar scent of his greatcoat—sawdust and horses. She allowed the reassuring smell to soothe her heart.
“I am not dead, Papa,” she said gently. “I am sorry I scared you so.”
“Don’t be. I am just so grateful you are alive. My sweet daughter.” He hugged her a moment longer. “You must be freezing. Can you still ride?”
“I can,” Rosalyn assured him, mounting up onto her horse again. She looked around for the duke. He had ridden forward a few paces—she could see his dark outline against the velvet blue of the night sky. Her heart ached. She loved her father for riding so recklessly to find her, but part of her longed to be alone with the duke. She turned her horse and rode up beside him.
“We need to get you home,” the duke said shortly. Rosalyn bridled at his tight, formal tone.
Rosalyn heard her father turn his horse on the path and the duke rode up to lead the way. She rode up behind him and her father fell into step behind her. The duke, it seemed, could follow a stony path in pitch darkness where none of the rest of them could.
They rode in silence. Rosalyn was aware of the duke as he rode up ahead, his silhouette sometimes visible as they rode out from under the trees. She could not help but be sad that he had turned away so swiftly, returning without warning to the former coldness they had shared. They rode without speaking back to the gate that led to the manor.
“The duke bade the others return to the manor,” her father explained from behind her. “Lady Harriet led them. She knows the way.”
Rosalyn let out a relieved sigh. At least Sebastian and the others were safe. The duke dismounted and opened the gate, and she kept Rainstorm halted until they were ready to move again.
The lights of the manor shone out over the garden, seeming impossibly bright and warm after the moonlit, starlit dark. Rosalyn swallowed hard. She dismounted at the stable, allowing one of the stable hands to lead her horse into the stall. She gave the animal an appreciative pat on the brow.
Afterwards, she walked out and found the duke there, instructing the stable hands to rub down the horses and feed them bran mash. He saw her, and for a moment, his gaze held hers before sliding away. “And give them plenty of fresh water. Warm it slightly, if possible,” the duke was instructing.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Rosalyn swallowed hard and looked away.
“Come,” the duke said as she and her father approached him. “We must return to the manor. You must be cold,” he saidlevelly. He turned away, leading the way down the path.
Rosalyn said nothing. She could not think of anything to say. She was cold—that was certainly true. Now that she was dismounted and standing still, the cold seemed to overwhelm her. She drew in a breath, every part of her aching.
“Come, daughter,” her father said gently. “You have to get inside. You’re barely dressed.”
“I have...have a cloak...” Rosalyn stammered. She felt an overwhelming weariness, the effort of walking up to the house almost more than she could bear. She tried to walk, but she was shaking.
“Come, daughter,” her father repeated softly. “You need to get inside. You have to get warm.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as he would have when she was a small child, weary after a long ride, and they walked slowly, her weight supported against him, into the manor.
“Ask Mr Morton for whatever you need,” the duke said to her and Papa in the entranceway, and then he was walking briskly up the stairs.
“You need a hot bath,” Papa said, and when the butler approached, he gave him orders for a bath to be drawn. Rosalyn leaned against the wall. Her heart was sore from the duke’s sudden indifference, but she was freezing cold, barely able to stand, she was shaking so hard. Her hands and fingers ached, and she tried not to cry out from the pain. She was impossibly tired all of a sudden, her head throbbing.
“Easy, there,” her father said gently, as though she was a flighty horse. He wrapped his arm around her again and helped her slowly up the stairs.
“Sister? Sister!” Sebastian was on the stairs, running down towards them. His eyes were wide and round, his hair wild. “Papa! Sister! There you are. Heaven be thanked.”
Sebastian wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. Rosalyn leaned against him, utterly exhausted. She shut her eyes, unable to move a step further. Papa took her one arm and Sebastian took the other and they half-carried her into the hallway. The next thing she knew, she was in her bedroom.
“Rosalyn! Rosalyn!”
Her sisters were there at the door—she could hear their concerned voices. Papa was also there, and she heard him explaining in a quiet voice that they should not disturb.
Rosalyn lay down on her bed and shut her eyes. She drifted, half-awake, and the last thing she thought of before her maidservant came in with the wooden bathtub was the duke’s face, hovering before hers, his eyes wide with care as he gazed at her.
Chapter 14
