Page 12 of To Dance with a Devil

Jerome cursed and muttered. Though he knew the fellow was right—Bonnie was a fine horsewoman, as she’d proven to him before now—it didn’t mean she ought to be riding out alone, reckless creature that she was. So, he demanded someone bring him a fresh horse at once, before discovering what direction Bonnie had taken and setting out after her.

***

Bonnie drew her mount to a halt and took a moment to admire the scenery. It was a fine afternoon, not as warm as it had been, with the faint scent of autumn and a cooler edge to the day than the past weeks had held. The sun shone, however, though it disappeared from time to time as fluffy white clouds obscured it before drifting on their way. The horse shifted beneath her and she patted his powerful neck. He was a lovely beast and very well-mannered, after an initial set to about who was in charge. Having proved her worth, he’d settled down, and she felt they’d come to an accord.

The big animal turned his head and took a half-hearted nip at her toe and Bonnie laughed. “You big fraud, you’re not half so scary as you make out.”

She drew in a deep breath, feeling a small part of the tension she carried ease a little. This had always been her escape, to ride out far from anyone and be on her own. Better that way. Better to be by yourself than surrounded by people to whom you were a burden and a bother.

Bonnie’s mother had died when she was five, following two older sisters and a newborn son to the grave in a matter of days. Her father had no notion of what to do with a grieving child and Bonnie had been passed back and forth among various relatives, none of whom had been cruel, but none of whom had wanted her much either. Once her father died, three years later, she’d gone to the Earl of Morven’s estate, as the earl wanted to keep the promise he’d made her father, who’d been a close friend. Morven had promised to keep her safe and see her wed, even providing the dowry her feckless father had not been able to supply.

Bonnie had been well fed, well dressed, and utterly alone. Morven was a fierce and uncompromising mountain of a man, with a ferocious temper that could even reduce a rugged Highlander to a trembling morass of nerves. He was not a cruel man by any means, however, and had done his best to be kind to Bonnie, but he had no time for her, and she’d been lost among the myriad of responsibilities by which such a man was burdened. His own children were grown and long gone and the nanny he’d employed to look after Bonnie was not unkind, but lackadaisical at best. Not that Bonnie was complaining. She’d enjoyed a great deal of freedom, more than any young lady ought to be allowed, that was for certain. By the time Morven had realised that perhaps his ward ought to have been given a bit more attention and guidance, Bonnie had become wild and ungovernable, and very used to the idea that nobody wanted her.

Her boldness had shocked Morven, who was used to grown men cowering at his feet. It had also impressed him. Over the next years he’d spent a little more time with Bonnie and come to like and respect her, as much as she made him want to tear his hair out and lock her in her one of the farthest dungeons. Her rows with him over the subject of Gordon Anderson were legend. He’d relented and allowed her two seasons to catch herself a husband, sending her off to London with the grim reminder that no sensible man would marry a hoyden, and that good old Gordy would be waiting for her on her return.

Well, her two seasons were well and truly over, and Morven had been proved right. No one wanted Bonnie. It wasn’t as if it was a surprise, only a confirmation of everything she’d always known. After her mother had died, she’d tried so hard to be a good girl so that her father wouldn’t send her away from him. She’d tried to be quiet and well behaved and not to cry for her mama and sisters, but it was hard. How could she help the fact that she looked so like her mama and the sight of her made her father sick with guilt? For it was his fault his wife had died and, young though she was, Bonnie knew it.

If Mama hadn’t been so weak from so many lost pregnancies, trying and failing to deliver the boy that her father longed for, she might have been strong enough to care for Bonnie’s sisters. If they’d had her care they might not have died, and Mama might have been strong enough to fight the disease herself, rather than following them to the grave with the sickly son she’d just delivered in her arms.

Well, she had, and they had, and Bonnie had been a bother and a nuisance and always in the way ever since. She swallowed hard, forcing back the sorrow and burying it down deep. Perhaps she should just marry Gordon Anderson and have done with it. At least she’d have children to love, and perhaps they’d love her too. Children had to love their mamas, didn’t they? If she wasn’t too stern and cross—which she never was with children—perhaps they’d like her and want her around them.

Blinking away tears, she put a hand to her belly and wondered if Jerome’s seed had taken root there. There was a wicked, selfish part of her that hoped it had, for then she’d always have a part of him for herself. Oh, what a horrid creature she was, wishing for a child that would have no name, but surely Morven would protect them? She knew he thought her a blessed nuisance—who didn’t? —but he’d not leave them to make their way alone.

Scolding herself for wallowing in self-pity, Bonnie dismounted and led the horse to the stream she’d discovered, letting him drink his fill before tethering him and leaving him to crop the grass whilst she unpacked the picnic she’d brought with her. She sat beneath the heavily laden boughs of an apple tree and tried to find some enthusiasm for the slice of pie and other tasty morsels cook had given her, but everything tasted like sawdust and stuck in her throat. At least she’d lost a bit of weight. She supposed she ought to be glad of that. All the other girls were always fretting about their waistlines, and Bonnie’s proportions were far more generous than any of them. With a sigh, she packed the food away again, curled up under the apple tree, and went to sleep.

Chapter 5

My Lord Montagu,

It is the strangest thing, but this parcel seems to have been delivered to Holbrooke House by mistake. I return it to you now in the hopes it can be given safely to its rightful owner.

― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, the Marquess of Montagu.

30th September 1814. Holbrooke House, Sussex.

Jerome watched the huge horse lumber towards him, tugging at its tether. It huffed and tossed its head, for all the world as if it were standing guard over the sleeping girl.

“It’s all right,” he said, tugging an apple from the tree and holding it out to him. “I don’t mean her any harm.” Any more harm, he amended silently as Magnar took the apple from him and crunched it with enthusiasm before giving Jerome a warning push with his head that made him take a few steps backward. “All right, point taken,” Jerome grumbled.

Good Lord, even the bloody horse knew he was a worthless scoundrel.

He turned back to Bonnie and felt his chest grow tight. She might have been some manner of fae creature, curled up asleep under the old apple tree, the afternoon sun dappling her face. He knelt beside her and reached out a hand, tracing the curve of her jaw as her skin slid like warm silk beneath his touch. He frowned as a surprising thought filtered through his stubborn brain. She really was lovely. Not blonde, no—not slender and fragile as a reed either—but no less beautiful for all that. He remembered the mad joy of that night in the stables and the heat of desire so fierce he’d thought it might burn him up. The moment he’d touched her he’d been lost, out of control. Being with her was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The idea that nothing would ever match it gave him pause as that same burst of heat surged through him again. His breath caught as he stared down at her. It would be no hardship to wake to such a vision every morning.

As if she’d heard his thoughts, her eyes flickered open, blinking in disorientation before they focused on him. For just a moment he saw a burst of happiness, and then it was snuffed out and she sat up, moving away from him. Jerome felt the rejection as a stab to the heart, though he knew he deserved far worse. What damage he’d done by being an unthinking cad.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, one hand reaching up to touch her hair, a self-conscious movement that made his throat ache.

“Looking for you,” he said. “You had everyone worried, disappearing like that.”

“Well, here I am,” she said, giving him a forced smile with none of her usual joy showing in it. “So you can report back that I’m safe and well.”

“Bonnie,” he said, exasperated that she’d brush him off again and so quickly.

“There’s nothing to say, Jerome. There’s no need to fuss. I’ve had my monthly courses so you’re off the hook. There’s no need to keep fretting yourself to death about me.”

He stared at her, an odd, hollow sensation in his chest he couldn’t quite identify.

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for what he ought to say, let alone feel. “Well, that’s… that’s good news, then.”