Page 16 of John Eyre

“The dratted beast has slipped on the ice.” The lady propped herself up on one elbow, watching her horse scramble to its feet. “He looks no worse for it, thank God.”

“What about you? Are you injured?”

Gathering up the voluminous skirts of her habit, she attempted to regain her feet, only to inhale sharply as she put her weight on her right leg. “Blast it.” She tested her foot again. Her face contorted with pain. “Your arm, if you please.”

John strode to her side. “If you require a doctor, I can fetch the surgeon from Hay.”

“Thank you, no. Your arm will suffice.” She took hold of it, gripping him tightly as she stood.

John placed his hand at her waist to support her. It was a small waist, tightly corseted, though she wasn’t a small woman. When standing, she was nearly of a height with him. “Are you certain?” he asked.

She briefly bent to feel her foot and leg. “I’ll live. Assist me to that stile, would you? I should like to sit down a moment and catch my breath.”

He helped her across the lane and stood at her side as she sank down on the step of the stile. The fall had knocked her riding hat off, and her hair had come partially loose. In the waxing moonlight, he could see her face quite clearly.

His heart gave a queer double thump.

She was beautiful, but not in the usual style. Certainly not in any style that he’d ever encountered before. There was an exotic quality to her countenance—skin that was faintly olive, an aquiline nose, and dark flashing eyes that sparked with flecks of bronze and green. And her hair! It was wild, and curling black, with the most extraordinary streak of white through it—a two-inch bolt of lightning, beginning to the right of her brow and flashing all the way to the ends of her glossy tresses.

Such an odd feature should have put him in mind of an older woman. But this lady wasn’t old. Indeed, he’d be astonished if she was very much older than he was himself.

“You may go,” she said. “I’m quite all right now.”

“I can’t leave you here like this. Not at this time of night.”

“How chivalrous you are. One wonders why you’re not at home yourself. The mists aren’t safe after dark. Every fool knows that. You must be a stranger here.”

“Not at all. I’ve resided here since the autumn.”

“That long?” Her voice held a flicker of mockery. “Where do you live, then? Are you from Hay? Let me guess. You’re the new curate. You have the look of an ascetic about you.”

John bent his head to conceal a smile. “No, ma’am. I’m not from Hay, and I’m not a curate. I don’t believe the vicar has one.”

“No? More’s the pity.” She massaged her ankle. “Well? If not from Hay, then where is it you come from?”

“Just there.” He gestured to the hills behind her. They were cloaked in a heavy mist. “Thornfield Hall. It’s the home of Mrs. Rochester.”

She was quiet a moment, her dark brows knit in a frown. “I see. And do you know Mrs. Rochester?”

“I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting her. She’s presently away from home.”

The lady’s gaze dropped from his face to study his simply clad figure. “You’re not a servant.”

“No, ma’am. I’m tutor to Mrs. Rochester’s wards.”

“Ah. Of course you are.” She brought her eyes back to his. Her frown deepened. “Do you always stand right in the center of the road?”

“No, I—” He broke off. “I thought I saw a wild animal in the mist. A…dog.”

“A wild dog?”

“Something like.” He was reluctant to say what he’d actually seen. A wolf? It defied belief. “Did you happen to see anything?”

“Nothing but a man standing in my way. Has no one at Thornfield warned you not to be out after dark?”

“I expected to be back before nightfall. The time got away from me.” He saw her wince again as she put weight on her foot. “I beg your pardon, but are you quite certain you don’t need me to fetch the surgeon? It would be no trouble.”

“No, no. But you can do me another service, if you please. Catch my horse by the bridle, would you? And bring him here so I can mount.”