Barbara Metzger Read Online Free Page A

on his regimental jacket. Most telling of all, he sat like a sack in the saddle. George would never have slouched that way, nor would he have held Diablo on such a loose rein, not that horse, not if he wished to arrive home intact.
    Horse and rider made a weaving course up the garden path, trampling one of the budding primroses along the way.
    Heavens, Delia thought, the man was foxed! She was glad she’d called for Mindle, for they’d all heard frightening stories of returning soldiers turning to crime. Dover, the new boy she’d recently hired, also came from around the side of the house at her shout, a water bucket in his hand. Her allies might be barely seven and pushing seventy, but they were better than nothing.
    * * * *
    Ty knew it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen out of the saddle long since. If the horse had not seemed to know the way, they’d never have arrived. As it was, every step Diablo took drove spikes of pain through his head. His hands were trembling, and he could barely see the ground ahead. But he was close, and he was going to pay his debt to George Croft if it killed him.
    Thank God he did not have to call out to the house, for his lips were parched and his tongue was thick, and he’d been clenching his teeth so tightly against the pain that he doubted he could have opened his mouth, A woman was waiting for him, though. The right woman. Unless he was hallucinating again, George Croft’s sister was waiting for him, in some mysterious way he’d have to think about later. That had to be she, standing in front of the door like a vixen defending her den. A red curl trailed down the shoulder of her mourning gown. She seemed to have Croft’s same slender build. No, that could not be right, unless he was too late. He could not be too late. He would not be too late.
    “M-m’Crof?” Ty croaked as the horse came to a halt a few feet from the woman.
    She nodded.
    He dismounted. What he actually did was take his feet out of the stirrups, swing one leg over, and slide, holding onto the saddle with his good hand, praying Diablo would not pick now to get up to his old tricks.
    No one moved. Even in his fevered state, Ty’s soldier’s instincts told him two men were approaching from an outbuilding, one with a pitchfork, and two others were taking positions at Miss Croft’s sides. Zeus, they must think him a footpad.
    He tried a bow, with one hand still on Diablo’s saddle for balance. “Ty. T-tyverne,” he mumbled.
    “No, this is not a tavern,” Miss Croft stated. “There is an inn in the village. Now, get back on your horse and leave us be.”
    The man with the pitchfork waved it, in threat. Diablo hopped away, ears laid back, nostrils flaring.
    Left with no support, Ty took a wavering step forward. Miss Croft’s minions closed ranks. The elderly servant brandished a silver teapot and polishing cloth. The boy raised a heavy wooden bucket.
    “No harm,” Ty managed to say. “George Croft ... a debt.”
    Miss Croft did not unbend an iota. “Whatever was between you and George shall have to stay that way. I refuse to be held responsible for George’s gaming debts, on top of everything else.”
    “Not ... a game. My life.” Tyverne had to bite back a moan as he stumbled one step closer. He raised his arms to prove he came in peace, which was a fatal mistake for his precarious balance. Falling to his knees, just before he fell unconscious, the viscount finally delivered his message: “And I have come to marry you.”
     

Chapter 4
     
    As far as proposals went, this one went beyond the pale, which just went to prove that when things were at their most dismal, they could always get worse.
    Fusty old Lord Dallsworth had made Delia three awkward and embarrassing offers in form, but he never made a May game of her in front of half her staff. Nor had he required courage from a bottle to tender his troth.
    This man, this absolute and absurd stranger, was undeniably foxed. Why, he positively reeked of