Page 4 of My Duke, The Stranger
The simple fact was that her father’s parish was teetering on the edge of damnation. Her intentions were good, the work she did was righteous, but that was not enough. Worse too was that if the parish closed, it would affect not just her family, but those who sought her and her father in comfort. The poor, the homeless, the starving… they would suffer most of all.
So wretched was her state of mind that Isolde did not notice the small group of farmers gathered on the road ahead until she was almost right on top of them.
They stood in a circle; their whispers were hushed and worried. Just down the way, Isolde also noticed a black mare, a beautiful creature that could not possibly belong to a farmer. It wore a saddle on its back, but the saddle was empty…
“What is going on?” Isolde asked as she approached the circle.
“Isolde!” one of the farmers cried when he saw her, a man named Marcus. “Nothing good, I can say that without thinking I misspoke. Oh, no… nothing good at all.”
She frowned at the man’s worry as she pushed her way into the circle to see the cause of his unrest. And when she saw it, she couldn’t help but think…when it rains, it pours, and it is always folk like us who find themselves getting wet.
Lying on the road and passed out cold was a man who, Isolde guessed, had been thrown from the black mare. His hair was dark. His face was sharp and angular. With his eyes closed, and lying as still as he was, he almost looked peaceful… as if he was asleep, having a dream that was pleasant and joyous. Why, if Isolde had not known any better, she would have said this was a kind man, a man who needed help that she was more than willing to give.
However, Isolde knew this man, so she knew just how deceiving such an impression as this was. This man was cruel and unkind. Were the roles reversed, she wondered whether he would help her or simply carry on his way without a care in the world.
The unconscious individual was none other than His Grace, the Duke of Blackthorne—the lord of this estate and ruler of them all—and he who Isolde despised more than anyone else in the entire world.
Two
“This way,” Marcus commanded as he stormed into Isolde’s cottage. With him were another five farmers… as well as the duke. “Gentle, now.”
“What is going on?” Isolde’s father came limping out of his office, and his face took on a pained look of worry and confusion when he saw the men lumbering into his home. “Isolde?”
“Isolde found a man!” Marianne squeaked.
“Man? What man?” Her father limped toward the farmers who gathered in the small common area.
Isolde was the last one through the door in an act of protest, even though she had not tried to stop the farmers. She was still sure to make her complaints known.
“I came across him on my walk, Father.” She went to her father and took him by the arm to help him stand. “And I couldn’t just leave him there.”
“This was the closest home, Vicar,” Marcus explained. “As things go, this is probably the best place we could have brought him.” He then laughed. “Not that he would admit to it, I doubt. Not that he has much of a choice either.”
“Who is he? Will someone speak!”
It was as her father made this plea that the five farmers stepped aside. At their feet, lying on the floor, was the unconscious body of the Duke of Blackthorne. He looked exactly as he had by the side of the road, a little battered, but peaceful.
Isolde’s father’s eyes fell on the duke, and his face paled. “Is that…”
“He fell from his horse, Father,” Isolde explained. “Likely, he hit his head.”
“We sent for a physician,” Marcus said. “Should be here any moment. Not that I need a physician to tell me what’s wrong.” He snorted. “Likely, he’ll wake soon enough. Likely, he’ll be in a bit of pain when he does.”
“The duke!” Marianne’s eyes widened as she edged toward his body. She slowly started to reach out a hand to prod him.
“Marianne!” Isolde hurried to her sister and snatched her hand away. “Where is Thomas?”
“Outside,” Marianne said, still gawking at the duke’s body as if he might suddenly wake up and start shouting at them. “He’s waiting for the rain to start.”
“Go and wait with him,” she said.
“But… but… but…”
“Now, Marianne,” Isolde commanded. “That is not a request.”
The little girl’s face fell. She took a final look at the duke, offered a pleading glance at her sister, and trudged from the cottage.
“Sorry to do this to you, Vicar,” Marcus said. “But we didn’t know where else to bring him. If Isolde hadn’t been there, we likely would have taken him someplace different. But…” He shrugged. “This is better than nothing.”
