Relaxing his speed, he steered off the highway and onto a lesser road. Jennet picked her way around the potholes, but suddenly she lifted her nose to the wind. Will tilted his head and heard it too—the chattering of a brook. God be thanked—the horse could be watered while he and Isobel rested.
Reining in, he lowered the drowsy woman to the ground, then jumped down beside her, gritting his teeth at the pain in his injured thigh.
She followed him meekly about as he led the horse to drink, and knelt to splash some cool water over his face. Her expression was blank, her mind trapped in her own private world. What was she really like? Hot-headed, courageous, and noble like her brother? If she ever regained her full senses, and recovered her personality, would he like her? Not that it should matter. He owed her his loyalty, whether he liked her or not.
There was a costrel attached to his saddle. He drained the remaining drops of Malmsey from it, rinsed and filled it, and brought it for her to drink.
“How do you feel?”
She took a few gulps from the costrel. “Well enough. Only weary and jogged and jostled. It is a long time since I’ve been out for a ride in the country. Edward used to take me often. I wonder who will take me now.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You remember? I wasn’t sure you’d understood—you seemed so distrait. I am sorry.”
Her face betrayed no emotion. “Sometimes, I remember he is gone. But ’tis hard to picture his face, and my memories are so scant, I find it difficult to grieve. When I am myself again, I shall mourn him properly. When my mind has returned—if it ever does.”
Unable to lament her dead brother? How cold-blooded that sounded. Mayhap madness killed off the finer feelings first—mayhap insanity drained the emotions. But what if she weren’t mad? What if the poppy juice they’d been giving her was the cause of her sickness, not the cure? When she came to her full senses again, her suffering would be great indeed.
He would be strong for her when that moment came—he had enough strength for both of them. But for now, practical considerations were of the greatest import.
“Isobel, listen to me. I must find us a place we may rest and refresh ourselves where we can’t be seen. Do you understand?”
She nodded and handed him the costrel.
“Nay, keep it. Sit ye down and stay here with Jennet.” He indicated the mare, and Isobel nodded again. “Speak to no one—I shall be back directly.”
She sat, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rested her chin on her hands, quiet and trusting as a child. But he felt in his gut he couldn’t expect this situation to last for long. A storm would come—he’d seen her start to fall apart without her medicine.
And as he had no intention of ever allowing her near poppy juice again, he knew that storm would break over him.
Chapter Eight
When the man was gone, Isobel rose and went to stroke the horse’s rough nose. She hoped it might bring back memories of days when she’d been out riding with her brother and friends. What had become of those friends? Had Hubert kept them away because she was ill?
She stopped struggling with her untrustworthy memory. Her mind was closing down again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Not knowing what to do with herself, she sank to the ground and started plucking long grass stems, plaiting them together until her fingers ached. When she tired of that, she looked around her, wondering how long she’d waited, and trying to recall what exactly she was waiting for.
She was sitting by a shallow stream in the middle of the countryside. Did that make her a naiad? If so, she ought to be dancing to the pipes. But there were no pipes. Didn’t naiads wear garlands? She must make one forthwith. Ivy would bend and twine easily, but hadn’t she been told not to leave the horse? What if she were to take the horse with her? That would serve, surely—they couldn’t punish her then.
“Isobel! Where are you going?”
The man had returned, flushed and out of breath, limping a little. A truly handsome fellow, with hair the color of ripe straw. She flogged her memory to life again, knowing this was important. He was important.
“Orpheus. I mean, Will. I was going to look for ivy to make a garland.”
“I told you to stay here.” He sounded annoyed, but there was pity in his blue eyes. It bewildered her.
“Forgive me.”
“No matter. Here.” He flung off his short cloak and drew it around her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and she clutched it to her neck, relishing the softness of the fine wool.
“Won’t you be cold?”
His mouth quirked up. “I’m a soldier. I’ll survive the light breeze of a July day, I imagine. But your clothes are poor and worn—we’ll find you something better. Until then, pray, keep the cloak.”
She looked down and picked at the skirts of her kirtle. He was right—why was she dressed like a servant? She flushed, ashamed.
Will tipped her chin up with his finger. “Don’t despair. Lady Fortune has favored us. We are hard by a large estate. The gates are shut, and I can neither see, nor smell, smoke. There’s a cottage in the grounds, the windows of which are all shuttered. ’Tis well screened from the house and the view of any servants who might be looking after the place, so we could lie low there for some time to come. I’ve found an old dew pond with bushes around it in a neighboring field, thick enough to keep Jennet hidden for the time being. We must climb a wall to reach the cottage unseen, however. Could you manage a climb?”
His excitement conveyed itself to her. Or was it his proximity? Something was making her heart perform a gavotte in her chest. Flustered, she took a step back.
“If we must climb, we must. But I may need help.”
He smiled. “You’re doing very well, Mistress Marston. Just don’t forget what you’re doing halfway up. Come.”
He led her to a spot where a thick-trunked maple tree overhung a mossy brick wall. Taking her about the waist, he hoisted her onto the lowest branch. “Shuffle along until you come to the wall, then grasp the top of it. You should be able to find some footholds where bricks have weathered away. I’ll stay below to catch you if you slip.”
She hid her grin as she hitched up her skirts and tucked them into her belt. He might think her a pale, delicate creature, but Edward had taught her to climb trees as a girl. If only there’d been one tall enough for her to escape the walled garden at Marston House! But where would she have gone? She hadn’t had Will to help her before. Now, everything was changed.
Will had chosen the spot well. Below the point where she sat atop the wall was a springy-looking evergreen shrub, a laurel, mayhap. She hung for a moment from her fingertips, then slid down into the bush.
As she let her skirts down, Will joined her, wincing as he landed. There was something wrong with him, wasn’t there? But her mind had blurred again, curse it! She really must try harder—she’d remembered about Edward and tree climbing. A small start, but a start nonetheless.
As Will brushed bits of bark and twig from his hose, she saw bloodied scratches on his hands. “Oh, you’re hurt!”
“Shh!” He raised a finger to his lips. “It’s nothing. Prickles from the hawthorn bushes where I hid Jennet.”