Page 3 of Barbarous

When he was secure on his mount, if not in his pride, he swept the small group with hate-filled eyes, his glare lingering longest on Daphne. She read the threat in them clearly: he was not finished with her, nor would he forgive or forget what had transpired between them today. He kicked his horse with unnecessary viciousness and thundered away. An awkward silence hovered in the small clearing as the sound of horse hooves faded.

“Quite an appalling seat, I’d say,” Lucien observed.

Her son’s coolly damning indictment of Malcolm’s equestrian skills drew a bellow of laughter from the one-eyed stranger.

Not a stranger; he is the Earl of Davenport.

Daphne shivered, and not because it was cold. For a moment she was paralyzed by the enormity of what was happening—by the overwhelming impossibility of it all. She took a deep breath and held it until her lungs burned, the sensation bringing her back to herself. She was a woman of science and reason, not a frightened schoolgirl. Submitting to hysteria in the face of facts was not her way—at least not for long. She exhaled, expelling the mindless terror along with the air. She did that several more times, until her heartbeat slowed, and then she stared at the very-much-alive man before her.

His return from the dead was . . . well, Daphne had no words to describe the unexpected event. But she did not need to find the correct words right now; she could find them later—when Hugh Redvers was not standing right in front of her.

“I’m famished, Mama. May we eat?”

Lucien’s question was so mundane it added to the sense of unreality. The whole affair was like some kind of farce—a three-act play lampooning English manners, the first act having taken place offstage over a decade earlier.

An uncharacteristic bubble of hysterical laughter tickled the back of her throat like an unpleasant vintage of champagne, and it took her several attempts to swallow it down. Daphne told herself a bit of hysteria was justified—first Malcolm and his threats and now this—this—well, whatever this was.

Still, collapsing into a quivering heap would not help anyone, least of all her sons. Daphne glanced from Lucien and Richard’s expectant expressions to Ramsay’s interested one. Food? At a time like this? When a man had returned from the dead? When—

“What happened to the hamper, Mama?” Lucien’s brown and gold eyes, so like his father’s, flickered over the rumpled blanket and scattered contents.

Ramsay looked every bit as curious as her son, but, she suspected, for entirely different reasons.

Daphne forced her mouth into a smile. “Eating our luncheon sounds like an excellent idea, Lucien.” Why shouldn’t they eat? Indeed, what else should she do? Blurt out the truth to Ramsay in front of her sons and servant? Yes, food first. Explanations and confessions later—much later.

And about Ramsay . . .

“You must join us, Lord Ramsay.”

He inclined his head, clearly willing to play his part in the farce. “It would be my pleasure.” He gestured to the trampled food and crockery. “May I be of assistance?”

Before Daphne could answer, Lucien made a noise of shocked delight and pointed to Ramsay’s gloved left hand—a hand missing its third finger.

“I say! What happened to your finger?” Lucien had to tilt his head so far back to meet the giant’s gaze he was in danger of tipping over backwards. “And your eye?” he added for good measure.

Heat flooded Daphne’s face. “Lucien!”

His head whipped around. “Yes, Mama?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

“Any more questions like that and you will ride back to Lessing Hall inside that empty hamper.”

Lucien shot a worried glance at the picnic basket, his shoulders sagging with relief when he realized his mother’s threat was a physical impossibility. He gave the towering lord a sheepish look. “I’m sorry I was rude, sir.”

Ramsay smiled. “I’m sure there will be ample time later to regale you with tales of all my missing parts. But for now, perhaps we might give your mama a few moments while Pasha demonstrates some of his other tricks?” He turned his back to give Daphne some much-needed privacy and she almost wept at the small show of kindness.

She turned to Caswell—who’d been watching and cataloguing the incident, no doubt to regale the servants’ hall with the story over dinner. “Please see what can be salvaged, Caswell.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Daphne located her flattened hat beneath a large earthenware flagon of tea and used a hat pin to fasten her jacket closed. Her spectacles were not far from her hat, their lenses intact but the delicate nosepiece twisted. She carefully unbent the soft gold until the glasses rested on her nose, albeit unevenly. Next she went to work on her hair, which had come unmoored during the struggle and now spiraled in all directions. She finger-combed the waist-length wheat-colored tangle, twisted it into a knot, and secured it with her few remaining hairpins. Once she had done all she could, she went to assist Caswell.

Cook had included enough bread, fruit, roast fowl, Scotch eggs, cured ham, biscuits, tarts, and cream cakes to feed a dozen hungry men, and only a few items had been ruined during the struggle.

Daphne took a plate, piled it high with food and handed it to her groom, who hesitated.

“Don’t be foolish, Caswell, there is plenty of food for all of us.”

His face reddened but he took the plate and bobbed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”