Slowly, Helen shook her head. ‘Not immediately. I might have gone home in some acquaintance’s carriage and m
y message to John got lost in the fuss. That’s happened before. My people wouldn’t have been certain I was truly missing until this morning.’ Her brows knit, she considered the possibilities. ‘I wonder what they’ll do?’
For his own reasons, Martin also wondered. The possibility of being mistaken for a kidnapper, and the consequent explanations, was not the sort of imbroglio he wished to be landed in just at present—not when he had barely set foot in England and had yet to establish his bona fides. ‘You’ll certainly cause a stir when you reappear.’
‘Mm.’ Helen’s mind had drifted from the shadowy possibilities of happenings in London, drawn to more immediate concerns by the presence beside her. Her rescuer had yet to ask her name, nor had he volunteered his. But her adventurous mood had her firmly in its grip; their state of being mutually incognito seemed perfectly appropriate. She felt comfortably secure; appellations, she was sure, were unnecessary.
Absorbed in the increasingly difficult task of managing his team over the severely rutted track, Martin racked his brains for some acceptable avenue to learn his companion’s name. Their situation was an odd one—not having been formally introduced, he did not expect her to volunteer the information. He balked at simply asking, not wanting her to feel impelled to reveal it out of gratitude for her rescue. Yet, without it, could he be sure of finding her in London? He ought, of course, to introduce himself, but, until he was more certain of her, was reluctant to do so.
Another drop of rain and a low mutter from the west jerked his mind back to practicalities. Skittish, the horses tossed their heads. He settled them, carefully edging them about a sharp corner. The dark shape of a barn loomed on the left, set back in a field and screened on the west by a stand of chesnuts. The mutter turned into a growl; lightning split the sky.
With a grimace, Martin checked the horses for the turn into the rough cart track leading to the barn. He glanced at his companion, still lost in thought. ‘I’m afraid, my dear, that before you you see our abode for the night. We’re miles from the nearest shelter and the horses won’t stand a thunderstorm.’
Startled from her reverie, Helen peered ahead. Seeing the dark structure before her, she considered the proposition of spending the night in a barn with her rescuer and found it strangely attractive. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she replied airily. ‘If I’m to have an adventure then it might as well be complete with a night in a disused barn. Is it disused, do you think?’
‘In this area? Unlikely. Hopefully there’ll be a loft full of fresh straw.’
There was. Martin unharnessed the horses and rubbed them down, then made them as secure as possible in the rude stalls. By now very grateful for the warmth of his thick greatcoat, Helen clutched it about her. She wandered around the outside of the barn and discovered a well, clearly in use, by one side. Before the rain set in, she hurried to draw water, filling all the pails she could find. After supplying the horses, she splashed water over her face, washing away the dust of the day. Refreshed, she belatedly remembered she had no towel. Eyes closed, she all but jumped when a deep chuckle came from behind her, reverberating through her bones, sending peculiar shivers flickering over her skin. Strong fingers caught her hand; a linen square was pushed into it. Hurriedly, Helen mopped her face and turned.
He stood a yard or so behind her, a subtle smile twisting his firm lips. He had found a lantern and hung it from the loft steps. The soft light fell on his black hair, glossing the curls where they formed over his ears and by the side of his neck. Hooded grey eyes—she was sure they were grey— lazily regarded her. Helen’s diaphragm seized; her eyes widened. He was handsome. Disgustingly handsome. Even more handsome than Hazelmere. She felt her throat constrict. Damn it! No man had the right to be so handsome. With an effort, she masked her reactions and swept him an elegant curtsy. ‘Thank you most kindly, sir—for your handkerchief and for rescuing me.’
The subtle smile deepened, infusing the harshly handsome face with a wholly sensual promise. ‘My pleasure, fair Juno.’
This time, his voice sent tingling quivers down her spine. Fair Juno? Shaken, Helen held out the handkerchief, hoping the action would cover her momentary fluster.
Taking back the linen square, Martin let his eyes roam, then abruptly hauled back on the reins. Dammit—he was supposed to be a gentleman and she was very clearly a lady. But if she kept looking at him like that he was apt to forget such niceties.
Smoothly, he turned to a rough bin against one wall. ‘There’s corn here. If we grind some up, we’ll be able to have pancakes for supper.’
Helen eyed the blue-suited back a touch nervously, then turned her gaze, even more dubiously, on the corn bin. Were pancakes made of corn? ‘I’m afraid…’ she began, forced to admit to ignorance.
Her rescuer threw her a dazzling smile. ‘Don’t worry. I know how. Come and help.’
Thus adjured, Helen willingly went forward to render what assistance she could. They hunted about and found two suitable rocks, a large flat one for the grinding base and a smaller, round one to crush the corn. After a demonstration of the accepted technique, Helen settled to the task of producing the cornmeal, while her mentor started a small fire, just outside the barn door, where the lee of the barn gave protection from the steady rain.
Every now and then, a crack of lightning presaged a heavy roll of thunder. The horses shifted restively, but they settled. Inside the barn, all was snug and dry.
‘That should be sufficient.’
Seated on a pile of straw, Helen looked up to find her mentor towering beside her, a pail of water in one hand.
‘Now we add water to make a paste.’
Struggling to keep his eyes on his task, Martin knelt opposite his assistant and, dipping his fingers in the water, sprinkled the pile of meal. Helen caught the idea. Soon, a satisfyingly large mound of soft dough had been formed. Helen carried the dough to the fire in her hands, while Martin brought up the heavy rock.
She had seen him wash an old piece of iron and scrub it down with straw. He had placed it across the fire. She watched as he brought up the water pail and let a drop fall to the heated surface. Critically, he watched it sizzle into steam.
Martin smiled. ‘Just right. The trick is not to let it get too hot.’
Confidently, he set two pieces of dough on to the metal surface and quickly flattened them with his palm.
Helen pulled an old crate closer to the fire. ‘How do you know all this?’
A slow grin twisted Martin’s lips. ‘Among my many and varied past lives, I was a soldier.’
‘In the Peninsula?’
Martin nodded. While they cooked and ate their pancakes, he entertained her with a colourful if censored account of his campaigning days. These had necessarily culminated with Waterloo. ‘After that, I returned to…my business affairs.’