Only a Hero Will Do Read online

  Only A Hero Will Do

  Susan Lodge

  Copyright © 2015 by Susan Lodge

  Cover Design: artiomp, Novel Expression

  Editor: Christine McPherson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Publishing except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Crooked Cat Publishing at Smashwords

  First Crooked Love Cats Edition, Crooked Cat Publishing Ltd. 2015

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  Acknowledgments

  Thanks as always to my patient family, who, from pen to publication, are always on hand, lending support and reassurance. My thanks to my lovely Monday night writers’ group, who for years have provided comradeship, feedback and a constructive ear to my first drafts.

  And finally, many thanks to Crooked Cat Publishing for their encouragement, expertise and support in publishing my novels.

  About the Author

  Susan Lodge’s first publication was a story purchased by a national woman’s magazine. Heady with this breakthrough she went on to write and secure a publisher for her historical novels.

  Susan has a science degree and always wanted to be an astronaut, but instead spent most of her career in the Civil Service working in various cities in the South of England including London.

  She loves spell checks, chocolate, musical theatre and tinkering on her piano and still harbours the idea of taking a space flight, but needs to write a best seller first.

  Susan is married, has two children and now lives in Hampshire.

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  Website: www.susanlodge.com

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  Also by Susan Lodge:

  Rebellious Cargo

  Only A Hero Will Do

  Chapter One

  April 1810 – Hampshire, England

  Creak – The branch swayed, and Hetty Avebury tried not to panic as she sat on the untrustworthy perch. From her vantage point, she peered toward the sound of the approaching rider, holding her breath as he came into view. It took a few seconds for her to be sure, and then her heart started to beat again.

  Thank goodness. It was not the Honourable Jonathan Kempford. The rider did not possess the plump stature of the man she had fleeced at the card tables earlier. Kempford had been ungracious in defeat, and she had fled from the back room of the Four Feathers Inn when he had threatened to deliver a fist to her face. She was rather fond of her nose the way it was. Besides, she could not take the risk that he might reveal her true identity. How she despised men who could not lose graciously.

  Creak – She glared at the branch and wrapped her arms as far as they would go around the tree trunk. It may not be Kempford approaching, but she had no wish to be discovered by anyone. She would keep still and hope whoever it was would just pass by.

  The rider was almost below her now. She frowned, remembering the valise that she had tossed into the bushes before her hasty ascent. Hopefully, like her, it was sufficiently hidden from view. She sat like a stone and prayed.

  CRACK – The treacherous branch fell away from beneath her, and Hetty dangled for a few seconds before her hands slid away from the trunk, and she careened downwards to land in a jumbled heap on the dewy ground. Groaning, she pushed into a sitting position and watched her bonnet float down by her side, looking as battered as she felt. A sharp pain flashed through her shoulders as she leaned forward to smooth down her tangled skirts.

  The sound of crunching twigs confirmed her fears. The rider had not passed by.

  “Keep still, if you please. I need to examine you.”

  Hetty brushed foliage off her clothes and blinked at the tall stranger. Good Lord! She had fallen out of trees before, but she had never landed at the feet of anyone issuing such scandalous instructions.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” She glared at the man who had knelt beside her and now assessed her with a look of disapproval.

  Hetty desperately tried to categorise him. He had the look of a gentleman, but not a well-heeled one. His clothes fitted him well enough, despite their sombre colour, and were made from well-spun merino. But his black coat and breeches looked as if he had worn them for far too long, and his neckcloth was tied in an unfashionable way.

  Uncomfortable with his proximity, she shuffled backwards on all fours.

  “Ouch! Damnation!” She retrieved her hand from a patch of nettles and sucked the side of it.

  Blast it, did I really manage to curse out loud? She glanced up. She obviously had because the stranger’s eyes now bristled with distaste.

  “If you will just stay still for a moment, I can attend to that wound on your shoulder.” He sighed as she shifted away a little further, careful to avoid the nettles. “I am a physician, madam. Now please remove your spencer and loosen your stays.”

  “Stays?” She wasn’t wearing stays – due to her evening exploits – so she could not oblige even if she felt inclined to do so, which she certainly did not.

  She needed to distract him from pursuing this examination. “I assure you, I do not need assistance, sir. You need not concern yourself.” The stranger made no bid to move away.

  “What were you doing up that tree?” His eyes glinted in the dawn light. They were green. She had never encountered this shade before – vivid and clear like shiny ivy.

  “I was hiding, of course,” she replied with a frown. “It is a strange time for honest folk to be riding. I thought you were a highwayman.” She snaked a hand down to her thigh to check that her winnings from the card game were still secured in the breeches she wore under her skirt. She had no intention of giving this man the opportunity to discover either item. “You do not look much like a physician.”

  “Do I not?” He narrowed his eyes. “No, apparently I look like a robber. I really must turn my attention to my appearance more.” He glanced up the tree and then slowly surveyed their surroundings. “As you point out, this is a strange time for travelling, madam. What are you doing here alone? And where is your horse?”

  His hands rested on well-muscled thighs. Hands that were large and a little too rough for a physician. He really was quite intriguing, although his conversation was less than friendly and she was certainly not impressed by his sarcasm.

  The stranger took off his wide-brimmed hat and tossed it aside, revealing short chestnut hair. He then locked disapproving eyes on her as he waited for an explanation. Hetty shivered. Goodness, he had no business looking at her like that.

  Physician, my eye!

  Physicians definitely didn’t look like him; they were short, round, and adorned with wigs and spectacles. Neither were they keen on physical contact with their patients, often diagnosing from the foot of the bed. They then left with a few obvious words of advice and a large bill. This man was definitely an imposter who wanted her clothes off – and quickly. A bolt of fear replaced her intrigue.

  “Do not let me delay you. I am obliged by your concern but warn you most strongly against interfering with my person.” Hetty’s attempt at an imperious voice did not appear to impress the stranger.

  “You ha
ven’t answered my question. What are you doing out alone at this hour?” His voice had taken on a dictatorial note.

  She cobbled together a quick explanation that was not entirely lies. “I lost my groom, you see, and then I heard your horse and panicked.” She nodded toward the tree. “But I am only a few hundred yards from home, so I do not need help⏤”

  She broke off as he leaned forward and peered at her right shoulder. She followed his gaze and noticed the red stain on her clothes.

  “Goodness! Is that blood? I hadn’t realised.” Clutching her left hand over the wound, she attempted to scramble to her feet. She stood for a few seconds then wondered why the far hill was wobbling, just before her limbs turned to liquid and she fell forward into oblivion.

  ***

  Withington was usually a well-mannered man, albeit short-tempered at times. Unfortunately, this was one of those times, as he was somewhat put out by the interruption to his journey.

  Deftly catching the strange fainting female, he carefully laid her back down under the tree.

  “Who the devil are you?” he muttered.

  Talking to the unconscious was an occupational habit of his. The truth was, he often found one-sided conversations much more rewarding than listening to the prattle and groans of pain from his patients. In the case of women, he usually considered silence a positive attribute. But right now, he needed to know her identity. He looked around, scanning the landscape.

  “And what the devil are you doing travelling unescorted?”

  Her hands, clothes, and diction – apart from the expletive – suggested she was a well-bred woman. But well-bred women did not fall out of trees. Carefully removing her spencer, he adjusted the remaining layers of clothing around her shoulder and stanched the blood with his handkerchief. Satisfied the wound was not serious, he tucked her garments back to look for further injuries. Her skirts had been badly torn, and he brushed them out of the way to check for broken bones.

  “Good God!” His eyebrows shot up when he saw the breeches, then he frowned as further examination uncovered the weighty purse of guineas. What had the minx been up to?

  Finding no further injuries, he looked around for her horse, but there was no sign of one. She must have been telling the truth when she said she was not far from her destination. He replaced the money-bag and then studied her face for a moment. Wavy strands of glossy copper hair had escaped their pins and glinted back at him. She had a heart-shaped face with wide, full lips. Her nose, sprinkled with a few freckles, tilted up slightly at the tip – not enough to make her look comical, just interesting. She was no beauty but certainly tolerable.

  She may have sounded like a lady, but she was not conventional. And Robert definitely liked his women conventional. He had no time for females who ran around the countryside before dawn with breeches on under their skirts. He noticed a leather valise lying a few yards away and examined the contents, trying to discover the woman’s identity. He pulled out a shirt, a neckcloth, and a waistcoat. How very odd!

  His irritation increased, and he was now convinced she had been up to some mischief, which had landed him with the inconvenience of returning her to a place of safety. He pulled out his pocket watch and frowned. With several appointments to attend to before he joined his ship, he had planned to be in Portsmouth in two hours. However, as a gentleman, he resigned himself to a delay.

  “Come on, you strange bundle. Let’s get you back to where you belong.” He scooped her up and started out for the nearest residence, hoping the occupants would recognise her. He whistled softly to his horse, who fell in step beside them.

  ***

  Hetty stirred and tried to touch her aching head, but she lowered her arm quickly when a vicious pain surged through her shoulder. She focused on the owner of an intense pair of green eyes and then remembered his outrageous request. She checked her clothing, and her fingers froze as they touched the familiar fine lawn of her nightclothes.

  “Hetty! Are you all right, girl?” Her aunt’s austere tones pierced her thoughts, and she realised she was no longer alone with the stranger. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. The man appeared even larger in the confines of her bedchamber. He must have been telling the truth about being a doctor, or her aunt would never have admitted him. His eyes were still stern, and the frown he wore etched a deep line down the middle of his forehead. She wondered if the line would disappear when he smiled – if he ever did.

  His hand engulfed her wrist to check her pulse. The firm warmth of his fingers made her pulse race even more. He released her hand with a satisfied nod.

  “You have a few bruises, but fortunately nothing is broken. The gash on your shoulder is shallow and should heal well enough in a day or two. You were lucky not to have incurred more serious injuries.” His voice was deep, cultured, and held more than a hint of rebuke.

  She bristled. What right had he to adopt such a superior attitude?

  “Thank you for your help. I am sorry to have troubled you, Doctor?” Hetty raised an enquiring eyebrow, which she had always thought gave her a rather haughty look.

  “Robert Withington, Miss Avebury.” He bowed slightly and then turned from her bed, dismissing her to address her aunt. “I will be on my way now, madam. The bandage will need to be changed tomorrow and the wound kept clean. You may wish to have your own physician examine her in a day or two.” He turned back to Hetty and frowned even harder than before, his eyes slits of disapproval. “Please try to refrain from climbing trees in the future. It is a reckless and nonsensical pastime for a lady of your years.”

  Hetty flushed at the memory of her ungainly exit from the tree. “As I told you at the time, I thought you might be a highwayman. I was attempting to avoid you, sir.”

  “If that was your strategy for avoiding me, I shudder to think what you would do to attract attention.” He stared at her thoughtfully then added, “Or perhaps not.”

  The remark was not very gentlemanly, and what did he mean by “perhaps not”? Granted, a normal woman of two-and-twenty did not climb many trees, but even so, it was not for him to decide what she should or should not do.

  Her interest in the stranger began to wane, although she could not quite dismiss him entirely. He had mysterious looks and a good physique.

  Her eyes darted to her discarded clothes, and she groaned as she caught sight of the breeches. The small sound caused the doctor and Aunt Amelia to glance her way. Had he seen them? Of course he had. After all, he had hardly been able to wait to get her clothes off! Her flesh tingled at the thought of those hands examining her body. She glanced back toward the clothes piled on the chair and prayed that her winnings were still secure. Her aunt would have an apoplexy if she even suspected the way Hetty had won forty guineas. Thankfully, her maid, Annie, had not whisked the garments away. If she could manage to retain her winnings, her escape from a future with Lord Stark might become possible.

  Hetty’s attention returned to the frosty medical man as he accepted her aunt’s invitation to breakfast before they both departed her bedchamber. She should have prolonged the conversation with some interrogation of her own, but she felt weak and insipid – both conditions completely alien to her – and she gratefully sank back on her pillows.

  ***

  Robert checked his pocket watch and then the sky through the drawing room window. The promising sunrise had been a false indicator of the day, and a blanket of grey rain now hammered the curved driveway in front of Avebury Hall. He had been there an hour or so, waiting until his patient had recovered enough for him to be certain she was not seriously injured. Damn girl! He would have been safely at his destination by now if she had not delayed him. It would be foolish to venture out in such weather and as he was exceedingly hungry, he was grateful for the invitation to breakfast.

  Miss Amelia Avebury was a stout lady, but taller than average and straight-backed, she held the excess weight with dignity. Her voice had softened somewhat from their initial introduction when the woman ha
d appeared ready to box his ears at the sight of her niece in his arms.

  Miss Hetty Avebury seemed to be a bit of a problem to the poor woman. Her aunt, although angry, hadn’t seemed unduly surprised when he had relayed the incident. He might have wondered if the girl was mentally sound if he hadn’t seen the intelligent gleam in those blue eyes. They were the exact colour of the bluebells on the ground where she had fallen.

  He settled down to breakfast with Miss Avebury’s aunt in a dining room tastefully furnished in emerald and cream. They exchanged small talk for a good five minutes.

  Robert, as he demolished his plate of kippers, couldn’t help thinking about the copper-headed female upstairs. Her aunt must have read his mind.

  “Hetty is somewhat impetuous. I do apologise for her behaviour.”

  Robert gave a brief smile. “Her behaviour was not offensive; she simply fell out of a tree at my feet, although it was fortunate that I came along.”

  “Ah, yes. Indeed.” She cleared her throat delicately, as though still searching for some adequate explanation. “She is somewhat headstrong, but she is to be married to Lord Stark soon.”

  What connection did Miss Avebury’s impending marriage have to her falling out of a tree?

  “Does your niece often climb trees just after dawn?”

  Amelia Avebury sighed heavily as she spread gooseberry preserves on her toast. “I think her new husband will surely curtail that activity. In fact, I believe he will curtail a great deal of her activities.”