Page 8 of A Lady by Chance

Chapter Three

“I will get you, you wee bugger!” a woman shrieked.

The cry and leaf rustling came from a yew grove to the right of Gledstone estate’s bridle path. Patrick urged his horse toward the noise.

“Be still, you fool beastie!” the woman screeched again, sounding younger than the spectral washer-woman she screamed like. “I will get you!”

A hiss answered her this time, then followed more thrashing of leaves and snapping of twigs. The afflicted yew came into view. It was a gorgeous and huge specimen, though just now, the branches trembled and creaked as if possessed by demons.

“Gah! You bit me!” the lass cried, then much to Patrick’s surprise, she laughed. “Come here, you. I only want what’s best for you. I will take good care of you,” she finished, her tone soft and soothing now. “I love you already.”

Love? Patrick brought his horse to a halt. He had arrived at the ducal home early with the intention of convening with the duke before he and his betrothed met in front of the vicar. But upon arriving an hour ago, he’d felt a ferocious need for air before he met his fate. He had no intention of being caught by a banshee deep in the woodland of his soon-to-be-father-in-law’s property at a time he should be sipping morning tea and making polite conversation with the man—a duke, by all that was holy.

Any other time he would have laughed. After all, Baldain House had its green lady. Why shouldn’t Gledstone have a banshee? Patrick considered leaving, but the opportunity to at least glimpse the Gledstone banshee won over. He dismounted and entered the shadows of the yew grove. Did a man’s wedding day somehow evoke a strange magic? For he’d felt only a slight twinge in his injured leg. Perhaps, as his grandmother always said, the Scottish Highlands were a magical place.

Even the yew seemed enchanted, the needle-like leaves no longer rattling. Patrick ducked beneath the low hanging branches and looked up. Then he froze at sight of two shapely legs straddling a branch. Patrick broke from his stare, realizing the impropriety, and yanked his gaze upward to the righteous mass of auburn hair that framed a dirt stained face. Wild green eyes stared at the gray-striped kitten she clutched.

Patrick scrunched his eyes, then looked again. She was still there. He hadn’t imagined her. He also hadn’t been mistaken about her legs. Her feet were covered by muddied half-boots, but those legs— young—and beautiful. She was the last soul he would call a banshee. Hoyden, was a better description for this lass—beauty or no.

“Pardon me,” he called.

Her head snapped in his direction and the pale morning sunlight briefly lit her face. The dark smudges he’d taken for dirt were bruises. Shock reverberated through him. Some ruffian had mishandled her. The knowledge slammed into him harder than anything he’d felt in a long time.

He reined in his anger and stepped closer to the yew’s thick, red-shining trunk. “Can I help you down?” He opened his arms. “Let yourself drop and I’ll catch you.”

“I do not need help.” She eyed him suspiciously. “This wee kitten is the one who required rescuing.”

“Come down.” Patrick reverted to the stern tone he used with unruly sailors. He wanted her firmly on the ground and then he’d see her safely to Gledstone’s kitchens, the wash-house, brewery, or wherever she worked. “Drop her first,” he ordered. “Then jump into my arms.”

“It’s a him.”

“What?” he said, before realizing what she meant. Patrick stretched his arms higher, wriggled his fingers. “Does it matter?”

She looked past him and frowned. “Of course it matters. Ask your wife.”

He blinked. “What? I have no wife.” Not yet, anyway.

“What do you mean, you have no wife?”

Was the girl addled? “Come down and we will discuss the matter further,” he said.

In answer, her eyes flew wide and she screamed. A loud crack resounded. She flailed, then she and the kitten fell. Patrick leapt forward, narrowly missing the branch as he caught her. He stumbled and twisted so that she landed on top of him. They hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind from him. The cat yowled and dug his claws into Patrick’s neck, then leapt from her grasp. Patrick sucked in a sharp breath and blinked. The beauty’s face hovered inches from his. She stared, eyes wide. Fear flashed across her face and he realized he still held her tight. He released her and she scrambled off—her hip bumping his cock, which took the contact as an invitation and began to harden.

Patrick jumped to his feet and took an unsteady step backwards, his hip aching. “I am—”

“You are haunted!” she cried, then whirled and raced toward the kitten, which darted deeper into the trees.

Patrick started after her, then halted. What the devil was wrong with her? What the devil was wrong with him? With his luck, she’d think he meant to set upon her. He released a slow breath. He hadn’t come to Gledstone to catch milkmaids falling from trees. Today was his wedding day.

The crunch of leaves faded, heralding the girl’s departure from his life. Patrick placed a hand over his face, shook his head, then returned to his horse and urged the animal into a canter. He still had time to reach the house, refresh himself, meet the duke, then attend his duties as groom.

Groom.

The very word tightened his gut. But he owed it to Baldain to do whatever he could to save his ancestral home. He’d even come to good terms with the matter over the past sennight. Seven full days and nights in which he’d persuaded himself that a decorous, well-mannered, and soft-spoken wife would prove a tremendous asset to his admittedly quiet life.

How odd, now that he neared Gledstone Hall’s imposing façade —and the willing bride waiting within—he recalled the pretty, bruise-stained face of a serving wench with remarkably appealing legs.

Was he mad? He suspected so. But there was nothing to be done about it now. At least, the lass had struck him as equally daft, calling him haunted. Patrick thought of the green lady appearing to him at Baldain Hall and wondered if her appearance had anything to do with the lass.