Anne Barbour Read Free

struggled to a sitting position and became aware with some relief of the presence of a middle-aged man and woman of an undoubtedly respectable mien. She noted, also with relief, that her headache had disappeared. She glanced up at the man who still held her and whose face was disturbingly close to her own. Good heavens, he was dressed in some sort of costume, as were, she realized with a start, the other man and the woman. Oh, dear Lord, had she passed out in the middle of some sort of reenactment?
    “Please,” she whispered. “I—I’m sorry. I seem to—”
    “Amanda!” It was the woman, speaking in accents of severe disapprobation. “Amanda, how could you, you wicked girl?”
    “W-what?” asked Amanda in bewilderment. She hadn’t spoiled their presentation—or whatever they were engaged in—on purpose, after all.... And how did they know her name?
    “It’s no good pretending you know nothing,” growled the older man. “We know what you were up to ... and you deserve a good thrashing for it.”
    “What?” exclaimed Amanda again, in stronger accents. “Who the hell are you people?”
    “Amanda!” cried the woman. “What will his lordship think?”
    His lordship? Amanda turned with a jerk to confront the man who still held her gripped in an embrace. She judged him to be tall, and his eyes were of an unnerving steel gray. He could by no means be called attractive, for his features were harsh and irregular, arranged haphazardly around an imposing nose. Yet he was definitely lordly, she admitted, for he was possessed of a casual elegance and an air of command. He appeared to be about thirty years old, and his costume was composed of a pearl gray coat jacket, a silk vest, and a ruffled shirt, completed with an intricately tied cravat that added to the effect of upper-class arrogance. His hair was a thick black thatch that fell over his forehead in disarray.
    Hastily, she thrust herself away from him. “I’m sorry,” she began again, waving her hands, “if I’ve spoiled your—oh, my God!” she concluded in consternation as she glanced at her hands. They could not be hers! Her hands were squarish and capable, with blunt, clipped nails. These alien appendages were smooth and delicate, the slender fingers tapering to polished nails. She looked down at herself and almost collapsed into unconsciousness once again. A deep trembling began in her, for her gaze encountered an ankle-length gown of some sort of light cloth. It was pale yellow in color and over it she wore a very short, light jacket with a high neck and long sleeves. With the younger man’s assistance, she rose gingerly to her feet. Dizzily she realized that she was moving on legs that were long and straight and strong.
    My God, she must have had some sort of seizure! She had gone completely mad! In a blind panic, she turned to rush from the church, only to be grasped roughly by the older man.
    “Now then, missy, we’ll have no more of your nonsense.”
    “Indeed, Amanda,” said the woman. “You must come home with us. We will—talk about it later.”
    “The devil we will,” snorted the older man. “You’ll be spending the next few weeks in your room. Or, assuming ...” His fleshy lips clamped shut as he shot a glance at “my lord.”
    “Come along then,” he concluded, wrenching her toward the exit doors.
    Amanda glanced wildly around the church. It was still empty except for herself and this collection of maniacs. “No!” she cried. “Please! I don’t understand ...”
    The younger man spoke for the first time. “Let her go, Bridge.” His voice was as harsh as his appearance, but his tone was cool and detached. “She is obviously distraught. I shall convey her home in my curricle. I suggest you save your questions until she has had a chance to recover herself.” Taking her hand, he led her along the aisle.
    Dazed, she followed him unresistingly until they reached the sidewalk outside the church. She stopped abruptly, her