one
Hertfordshire, 1882
ALTHOUGH VIOLANTE HAD never ridden a sledge, she believed she wouldn’t have any problems rushing at high speed down the steep slope of Windy Ridge. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? So many people enjoyed themselves on a sledge. She wanted to be one of them, especially since her papa had finally bought a sledge after years of begging him for one. It wasn’t her fault if the snow had fallen rather inconsistently that autumn; she hadn’t had the opportunity to practise and Papa had strict rules—too-strict rules—about who, when, and where she was allowed to use the sledge.
Too dangerous, too cold, too inexperienced.
But never mind. Now the frosty slope belonged to her. Papa didn’t need to know.
She straightened the sledge, closing one eye to check the trajectory wouldn’t send her against a pine tree. Her thick gloves didn’t make the job of dragging the sledge easy, and her scarf got in the way, but she set the sledge in a steady position. Giggling, she sat on the narrow seat, excitement sizzling, and…nothing happened. The sledge remained there, well-planted in a few inches of snow. She shifted back and forth, her coat brushing thefresh snow, but the contraption didn’t budge, as if agreeing with Papa about how dangerous sledges were.
“Come on.” She pushed with her hands and feet, but the stupid thing was stuck. Perhaps too much snow.
Bother. She stood up to get the sledge unstuck when the treacherous device shot forwards and slid at breakneck speed down the steep slope. Sprays of snow flew at its passage, glittering in the sunlight.
She sprinted after the sledge, but the snow she’d so admired a moment ago now hindered her. Her boots sank into the soft layers, slowing her down. Icy snow froze her stockings and soaked her skirt. A gasp left her when she spotted a lonely man carrying a heavy-looking sack at the bottom of the slope. Whoever the man was, he was right on the wild sledge’s path.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “You. Watch out!” Her voice echoed on the quiet hill.
The man stopped in his tracks. His hood fell back as he turned towards the sledge.
“Move,” she yelled.
He dropped his load and ran, but the snow encumbered his progress while the sledge sped up. Violante pushed her legs forth, but no matter how much energy she put into the run, the sledge’s speed was no match for her. Or for the unfortunate man.
The sledge kept changing trajectory as if it had a mind of its own, seemingly shadowing the man’s movements. She clamped a hand over her mouth as he fell down to his waist into a snow well. The sledge hit a bump in the snow and flew high into the air, its shadow running over the slope. The man scrambled out of the well but stumbled and fell over. Unless he moved, the sledge would crash against him.
“Move, move.” She wheezed and pushed forth, desperate to do something, although reaching the man in time to save him was impossible.
She winced as the sledge hit the man with a loud bang of shattered wood. The man cried out, covering his head with his arms. Wood splinters darted in every direction, ending the sledge’s escapade and likely her future freedom. Heavens. She hadn’t only injured a poor man but destroyed her father’s sledge as well. Not to mention Papa had forbidden her from going to Windy Ridge alone in winter, with or without a sledge.
Her breath turned into mist around her mouth as she ploughed through the snow towards the bottom of the slope. “Are you hurt?”
The man groaned, hunching over.
“I’m so sorry.” She dropped next to him and shoved aside the sad remains of the sledge from the man’s back. “The thing went wild on me.”
The man rubbed his shoulder. Snowflakes rained from his tattered jacket where a hole opened on the elbow. His threadbare gloves missed a finger or two. Not even his youth could assuage the gauntness of his cheeks and his excessive pallor. He raked a hand through his midnight hair. It was so dark it stood out against the snow.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again.
“I’m all right, miss.” He didn’t look up at her.
“But you can’t be. The sledge hit your back.”
He shrugged but grimaced. He had to be around her age, maybe a little bit older. Eighteen or nineteen. It was difficult to tell so thin he was.
She took his arm and tried to haul him up. “My house is over there at the bottom of the valley. It’s Sharpe Manor. My father was an army physician. He’ll take a look at you.”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.”
The tension in his features belied his pain. When she tugged at his arm again, he staggered to his feet and brushed the snow from his clothes.
She steadied him although he towered over her a good foot. “You aren’t well. And it’s my fault. Please come with me.”
He gazed at her. His deep black eyes were a stark contrast to his skinny face. They held a fierce strength and something else that sent a chill down her back. Contempt? Disgust? She had hurt him, after all.
“I can’t come with you. My master will beat me if I don’t return with the chestnuts I purchased for him in the town.” He pointed at the sack he’d dropped.
