A Baron in Her Bed Read Online Free

to bang against the window frames. She had to move quickly but was caught by the sight of him lying there and was unable to drag her gaze away. She gave herself a mental shake. “We need wood, and I must tend to my horse. Would you like me to help you onto the bed?”
    “ No, merci . See to your horse.”
    Horatia hurried outside. The General tore at a patch of grass while the trees whipped around him. Under the slope of the roof, she removed the saddle and threw the blankets over his back then secured them around his neck. A trough nearby was almost full of rainwater but iced over. She picked up a branch and broke the top of it, aware it would form again and she would have to check it later.
    She patted the horse’s neck. “I hope you’ll be all right here, boy. If anything happened to you, it would be more than my life is worth.”
    Anxiety filled her throat, and swallowing failed to remove it. Already, the spreading boughs of the oaks were dusted white like sugar on a confection, and the ground had disappeared under a blanket of snow. She tried not to dwell on how long she would have to stay here and continue her pretense. Alone with the stranger, she had no choice. Her disguise was her only protection.
    Horatia shivered as she left the shelter of the hut, and a fierce icy wind numbed her face. She took the opportunity to answer the call of nature and darted behind one of the broad oaks. The wind slapped at her naked derrière like an unwelcome hand. She did up her breeches and gathered up an armful of timber and kindling, thankful most of it was still reasonably dry. Hurrying back inside the hut, she levered the door shut against the force of the wind with her foot.
    The man had managed to reach the cot and had pulled off his gloves. He perched on the edge with his head in his hands. He looked up as she entered. “Wood. Bravo .”
    At least she could light a fire. After living in the hot Indian climate, Horatia’s father believed the cold to be healthy; it thickened the blood. He instructed servants not to light fires unless it was mid-winter. Horatia didn’t enjoy a frigid chamber and had learned to light the fire herself. She’d become quite adept at it. The taper alight, she knelt at the fireplace. The kindling caught with a small hopeful flame. It spread, a comfortable sight that would soon take the chill off the small, low-ceilinged room.
    Horatia sat back on her heels and turned to him. His long fingers raked through his dark hair. It fell back into a neat wave. She suffered a surprising desire to muss it. “Are you feeling better?”
    “I am a little. My head aches, though.”
    “Can you tell me what happened?”
    He shuffled as if about to rise and then had thought better of it. “I forget myself.” He bowed his head then winced. “My name is Guy Trusedale.”
    Horatia recognized the name and frowned. “You are a relative of the baron?”
    “ Oui. I amthe sixth Baron Fortescue . ”
    “I have heard of the fifth Baron. He left England years ago.”
    “My papa. I was born in France, but now as the war with England has ended, I am eager to see my ancestral home.”
    “You are a few miles from it, my lord. Your relative, Mr. Fennimore, is in residence.”
    “You know him?”
    “I know of him.” Horatia swallowed. How many lies must she tell? “A groom doesn’t hobnob with such as him.”
    “ Tout à fait .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “On my way from London, I ran across bandits de grand chemin . They shot at me but missed, fortunately. As I congratulated myself at having lost them in the woods, I rode into a branch. Zut! It almost knocked my head off. I must have fallen off my horse.” He gave a rueful grin. “But I digress. What is the name of my savior?”
    Horatia bit her lip. A name hadn’t occurred to her. She plucked her groom’s name from the air. “Simon Rawlings, my lord.”
    He nodded. “My most heartfelt thanks, Simon.” As if the gesture hurt him, he closed his