“I know, girl. Might as well head back,” she said, stroking the horse’s neck. She’d turned Meribelle back toward her grandmother’s manor house when she caught a glimpse of a speck of black out of the corner of her eye.
Could it be him?
Her breath caught.
She watched the speck grow larger, and soon there was no doubt it was the Earl of Hartley. He leaned over the horse’s neck, and the stallion’s gallop ate up the ground between them. She knew the minute he spotted her. He straightened in the saddle, and she could imagine his indecision. Should he approach her or not?
Have courage, my lord, and come to me. You do intrigue me so. Do I intrigue you as you do me?
When he was almost upon her, his horse skidded to a stop. “I told you never to come onto my land again. Now leave immediately,” he said.
She merely smiled at him and ignored his command. “Well, you’ll be relieved to know that I’m not trespassing on your land. And I do have permission from Lady Dalling to ride on her land.” That stopped whatever tirade he was going to launch into and she welcomed the opportunity to continue speaking to him. “I never got a chance to thank you for the dance last week.”
She watched his eyes widen at her remark. His hair was a wild mess from the wind and the gallop across the meadow. She could brave a little wind if he’d only converse with her. Meribelle continued to prance back and forth, and Harriet held tight to the reins, keeping her in place.
Just when it looked like he might speak, a loud clap of thunder rumbled overhead, spooking both man and horse. The earl’s eyes went wild, and he dug his heels into the horse’s sideand took off across the meadow. Harriet watched until he was out of sight.
What had happened? It was only a clap of thunder, although she had to admit it’d definitely been a loud boom.
Meribelle whinnied in protest, clearly not liking being out in a thunderstorm.
The moment to speak with him was lost.
Harriet sighed and patted her horse’s neck. “Come on, Meribelle. No sense getting wet now. He’s gone.”
Hartley raced across themeadow as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. The boom of thunder had totally unnerved him, sending him back into the chaos of the battlefield, with cannons booming all around him on the day he was injured. His logical mind knew he was safe in Bath, but the unthinking creature inside him suffered relentlessly from loud noises, which sent him spiraling out of control. He’d never told anyone of his affliction, thinking this unpredictable terror would eventually subside on its own. It hadn’t, and neither had the nightmares gone away.
The worst part was that he never knew when the panic would descend upon him and reduce him to a quivering shadow of his former self. He hated feeling so helpless but was powerless to stop it. During the war, he’d been cited several times for his bravery on the battlefield, but now, a clap of thunder undid him. He despised his cowardice.
How could he ever entertain the thought of getting to know someone when this affliction was ever-present for him? What could he say? Sorry, I cannot take you to the theatre or a ball this evening because there may be thunder? He’d become a laughingstock.
It would be better if he kept to his solitary life so he could manage any future panic in private.
But...
For the first time in two years, he’d wanted to talk to someone other than his butler, cook, or valet. The young woman with the glossy black hair had seemingly broken through his barrier of solitude. The last thing he’d ever expected when he saw her in the field today was for her to thank him for their shared waltz.
No one had thanked him for anything in a very long time and his panic had made it impossible for him to respond to her.
He’d heard people talk about the fog of war, but those were mere words for those who’d never experienced the vulgar reality. The memory of his last day in battle came on swiftly as he raced home.
He was riding Zeus up and down the line in the middle of the battlefield, directing the men under his command to close ranks and repel the French soldiers. And it seemed the gods of chaos chose his very spot upon which to direct their fury. An explosion rocked the ground near his position, the sound and shock of it causing him to become momentarily disoriented. He knew what was coming next. It was always the same, a bombardment followed by an enemy charge. Jon tried to prepare, but his body was exhausted to the point that he could barely lift his sword. He hurt in more places than he could ever have imagined. The only thing that kept him going was the men to either side of him, who looked to him for his leadership and courage. His world shrank to the few feet around him that he could see through the smoke and haze. The enemy was everywhere, and their position was about to be overrun. He saw a few of his men drop their weapons and run, but those few wouldn’t have made a difference. They were in the fight of their lives, and they all knew it. If his friend, Major Wolfgang Sterling, hadn’t charged into the melee to save him when he fell, Jon would be dead.
So he could live without the platitudes of the ton. As far as he was concerned, the young miss in the meadow had more courage than the lot of them. She didn’t cower before him. No, she’d boldly walked to him in front of Bath society, consequences be damned.
But his courage had failed him today. With the unexpected clap of thunder directly overhead, the familiar panic clawed up his throat, and his eyesight had shuttered down to a pinpoint. It brought him back to the battlefield. He’d had to escape, and it took everything he had to be able to kick Zeus’s sides and point the horse toward his manor.
What was he going to do?
There wasn’t much he could do at the moment except race back to the solitude of his home. He had to be in the darkness of his bedchamber—it was the only thing that calmed his riotous thoughts. He hated that even after all this time, loud noises still held such power over him.
By the time he got to the barn, he could barely see. He jumped off Zeus, throwing the reins to the groom before rushing into the manor. Greenfield had the door open before he stepped on the first stair and stood aside to let Jon rush in. Hartley raced up the stairs, relieved, knowing he was almost in the solitude of his bedchamber. He burst through the door to find that the drapes had been closed tight and the bed linens turned down.
Seaford was there. “Sit on the bed while I remove your boots.”
The man was a treasure. Jon didn’t have to explain what was happening to him. Seaford knew the signs and had probably seen him race across the field to the barn. He thanked God every day that Seaford had followed him here. The man knew what to do without being told.
Jon could feel his blood pounding, his heart racing, and a bad megrim coming on. The only thing that helped these attacks subside was darkness and solitude.
