Page 42 of Their Wildest Dreams

Whatever Selby intended, Harriet would have fought him. She would have fought until she could not do so any longer, and the thought of what might be required to render her helpless made Benedict urge his horse faster.

He had known fear before. He had feared for his father that morning while waiting for the physician to say whether the fall had caused some hidden injury. He had feared for Alderley when he first understood the extent of its debts and the danger Selby posed to both estates. Neither had prepared him for this.

He could not imagine returning to Everton without Harriet. He could not imagine walking into the breakfast room and finding her chair empty or passing her chamber each night knowing she would never again be on the other side of the door. The idea that he might never hear her voice again—not even raised in argument—was unbearable.

Benedict had told himself that he desired her. That much had been impossible to deny. He had admitted that he admired her, trusted her and had begun to look forward to the quiet hours they spent together each evening. He had not examined what any of it meant because there had been no need to do so. Faced with the prospect of losing her, there was no longer any point in avoiding the truth. He loved her.

The realization did not surprise him nearly as much as it ought to have. It simply gathered every feeling he had refused to name and made sense of them. He had probably loved Harriet long before their fathers forced them to marry. He had simply been too accustomed to having her in his life to understand what her absence would cost him.

If he found her, he would tell her. He did not care if she laughed, argued or informed him that marriage had finally addled his wits. If she did not love him in return, he would spend the remainder of their lives attempting to change her mind.

The lanterns of the search party appeared behind him as he reached the narrow lane. Benedict sent his horse over the low wall and into the field.

“Harriet!” he shouted, raising the lantern to search the uneven ground. “Harriet, answer me!”

Only the wind moved through the grass. Benedict turned toward the woods and continued calling her name.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Harriet awakened because she was cold. The chill had seeped through every layer of her clothing. Her gown and petticoats were wet where they pressed against the ground, and the damp earth beneath her seemed to draw what little warmth remained from her body.

She attempted to move. Pain burst through her head with such force that her stomach rolled. Harriet closed her eyes again and lay still until the nausea passed.

Something sticky had dried along the side of her face. When she raised one hand to her temple, her fingers encountered blood crusted in her hair and a swelling so tender that the lightest touch made her flinch.

For several moments, she could not remember how she had come to be lying in a field. Then Selby’s face appeared in her mind. She remembered the carriage stopping, the coachman being thrust inside and the groom upon the road. Selby had chased her across the field. He had caught her. They had struggled, and then she had fallen.

Harriet opened her eyes. Little daylight remained. The woods were a dark mass beyond the edge of the field, and she could not see the road from where she lay. She had to get up, though deciding to do so and accomplishing it were entirely different matters. Harriet pressed both hands to the ground and pushed herself upright. At once, the field tilted beneath her. She remained braced upon one arm, breathing carefully while she waited for the earth to become still again.

Her wet clothing had grown painfully cold. If she remained where she was much longer, she would die there. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew standing might cause her to lose consciousness again.

A man shouted somewhere beyond the trees. Harriet froze. Selby might have returned after discovering that she had not reached the road. The men with him might be searching the woods. If she answered, she would tell them precisely where to find her.

Another voice called from farther away. Lights moved between the trees, vanishing and reappearing as the searchers passed behind the trunks. Harriet drew her skirts around her and listened, though the effort of remaining upright made her tremble.

The first man shouted again. This time, the wind carried the sound clearly. He was calling her name, and she knew the voice. Harriet drew a breath and called, “Benedict!”

The sound of her own voice sent another sharp pain through her skull. She covered her head with both hands, fighting the urge to be sick. For several seconds, she could hear nothing beyond the pounding of her own blood.

The hoofbeats altered direction and came rapidly nearer. Harriet forced herself to lift her head. A lantern swung above the grass as a rider crossed the field. Benedict bent low over the horse’s neck, scanning the ground ahead of him.

She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

During her flight from Selby, she had thought only of reaching the trees and finding some place to hide. But beneath the terror had been the certainty that she had to reach Benedict. If she could get back to Everton, he would know what to do. He would stop Selby. He would keep her safe.

He had been doing so all along. Benedict had saved Alderley without making her father feel the full humiliation of accepting such aid. He had ceded to Harriet’s demand for a marriage in name only, even when honoring that request caused him discomfort she had been too ignorant to recognize. He had given her a home and then allowed her to determine what sort of marriage they would make within it.

She had trusted him with all of those things without admitting that she trusted him at all.

Now, cold and injured and more frightened than she had ever been, Harriet wanted nothing except to be in his arms. She needed him. And the realization that she might love him was almost as alarming as finding Selby at the carriage door.

Benedict reined in so abruptly that the horse tossed its head in protest. He was out of the saddle before the animal had fully stopped, dropping the lantern into the grass and crossing the remaining distance at a run.

He fell to his knees beside her, saying her name as his hands hovered uncertainly over her. Harriet had never seen such fear in his face. Even now, with her sitting before him and plainly alive, it remained.

“You took your time,” she said. Her voice was weak enough to ruin the effect, but Benedict made a sound which was very nearly a laugh.