Page 1 of The Recluse and the Runaway

Chapter One

Nell huddled on the stile at midnight in the rain, waiting for death, ruin, or some as yet unimagined fate, whichever came first.

She was wet through, hungry and cold, and bone-weary after running and running, and then trudging and trudging some more, for at least a dozen miles—which should be far enough for safety from pursuit, at least for now. They wouldn’t immediately realize that she had left home.

The problem would be walking—staggering, more likely—another ten miles tomorrow, whilst remaining unseen and undetected. She couldn’t risk buying food with her few coins, for people would remember her. They always did. Any passing stranger might prove her undoing—and if that stranger were male, he would likely take advantage of her, too.

If she didn’t die from exposure first. Fortunately, as dying would likely be an unpleasant process, a horse and rider plodded up the hill toward her. A dog yapped, and the horse came to a halt.

“What have we here?” The rider spoke in a pleasant drawl from beneath a sloppy, wide-brimmed hat. “What soggy scrap of humanity has taken possession of my stile?”

“Your stile, is it?” she asked, wondering who he might be. He spoke like a gentleman. Theoretically, she was a lady, but she was about to take a step down in the world. One did, when one no longer had a home. “I hope you don’t need it just now, sir, as I’m too tired to stand.”

“My stile it may be, but it’s for the use of all and sundry.” He dismounted and swept off his hat with a flourish. “Rupert Wonderly, at your service.”

Heavens! Was this Sir Rupert, the recluse of Wonderly Manor? She must have taken a wrong turn after avoiding some drunken men, and was therefore not quite as far from her home—former home—as she wished. Which meant, unfortunately, that she was farther from her destination than she’d hoped.

“And who might you be?” he asked, shaking drops of rain off the hat and setting it back on his head. She wished she’d caught a proper glimpse of his face, but it was too dark.

“N-nell.” She shouldn’t have said that. She should have thought of a new name, but it was all she could do to control her shivers. Drops of the endless rain plopped onto her head and dripped off her nose.

“Well, weary Nell, we’d best get you indoors before you catch your death. Come, I’ll take you home.”

Horrors, no! “It c-can’t be done, I’m afraid. I d-don’t have a home.”

“Ah, but I do,” he said. “Come now, up you get.” He hauled her to her feet. “I’ll put you on Samson here, who delights in carrying forlorn maidens—not that he’s ever done so before, mind you—but in turn, you’ll have to hold the dog.”

In the darkness, she hadn’t noticed the tiny nose poking from inside his cloak. He passed her the furry little creature, which promptly licked her nose. “You’ve no choice but to sit astride, I’m sorry to say. Up you go.”

He lifted her easily, and awkwardly she settled herself on Samson’s broad back. Her skirt rode up almost to her knees! Thank heavens it was so dark.

She huffed to herself. A fate supposedly worse than death might involve baring a great deal more—and why else would a gentleman (a reputedly wealthy and eccentric one, with no regard for society) take her in?

“So this is what it’s like,” she muttered. “At least he seems youngish and reasonably pleasant, unlike others I encountered on the road.”

Had she said that aloud? Drat—her unguarded tongue! Was that why Stepmother had suddenly decided to get rid of her? Nell had worked hard. She’d always done her best, despite the unfairness and unkindness of it all.

Maybe Stepmother’s prediction that Nell would come to a bad end was correct after all. She was certainly headed there now.

“Yes, he smells of wet dog and naught worse,” Sir Rupert said. “I found him wandering a mile or so ago. Two homeless waifs in one evening—lucky me!”

Thank the Lord he’d misunderstood her comment. She should probably be frightened—becoming a kept woman was not an everyday occurrence—but all Nell could think of was a house, a fire, maybe something to eat, even a place to sleep…

Hopefully, he would let her sleep before having his way with her.

Sir Rupert shucked his cloak, shook it out, and mounted behind her, then slipped the cloak around her front and his arm around her from behind. He radiated blessed warmth. She hugged the dog close as Samson began slowly to move.

In silence, they plodded forward. The rain lessened to a drizzle, and she stopped shivering enough to think about what to call herself. She’d already confessed to being Nell, so she was stuck with that, but she needed a surname. Not her mother’s maiden name, for that was known in these parts. How about her grandmother’s? She’d come from Ireland, so that would do.

Suddenly, Sir Rupert asked, “Nell, do you by any chance know how to cook?”

What a strange question to ask of one’s prospective mistress. “Er…yes, sir, I’m a tolerable cook, although I’m better at baking.” She loved baking. No one made better cakes than Nell…but evidently Stepmother hadn’t weighed that factor in her decision to get rid of her.

“Splendid!” he said. They reached the top of the hill, the road evened out, and the horse, knowing it was near its stable, increased its pace. A few minutes later, they jolted their way along a drive and into a stable yard. A large, dark house loomed off to the left.

Sir Rupert dismounted and whisked Nell off the horse. Hurriedly, she tried to brush her skirts down while still holding the sleeping dog. Sir Rupert slung the cloak around her shoulders. “This will cover you.” He took the dog and shouted for a groom.

A drowsy lad came out of the stable to take Samson and handed Sir Rupert a lantern. His master thanked him and hustled Nell through a maze of garden paths toward the rear of the house. He opened a door with a key and led her into a kitchen lit dimly by the coals in the hearth. The room smelled heavenly—of warm, mouthwatering food.