Carola Dunn

Carola Dunn Read Free

Book: Carola Dunn Read Free
Author: Lady in the Briars
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the bridge there. Here, Buttercup. Here, girl.”
    “Buttercup!” Bev snorted in disgust. “What a name for an inoffensive creature.”
    The dog darted towards them, barking furiously, then backed away, refusing to leave the bridge. This one crossed not a drainage channel but a river, a raging torrent sweeping branches and other flotsam along in its rush towards the sea.
    John saw half the sunken remains of a rowboat caught in a willow on the far side. Surely no one would have gone boating on a flood like that, yet the dog was behaving oddly. Frowning, he spurred forward. Buttercup raced to the middle of the bridge and stopped, yapping at something in the water.
    With a gesture to Bev to halt behind him, John drew rein. As soon as the sound of hoof-beats died away, he heard a weak cry.
    “Help!”
    He swung down and knelt beside the little dog. Two white faces gazed up at him.
    Tossing his hat aside and ripping off his greatcoat, he issued rapid orders to Bev. His boots followed his hat and he lowered himself over the side of the bridge. His feet found a cross-brace. He swivelled to sit astride it, half under the span, and saw with satisfaction that the unfortunate pair were within reach.
    A girl and a freckle-faced child. She was holding fast to a post, the other arm about the boy so that he would not be swept away if he lost his grasp. The lad raised his arms. John leaned down and gripped his wrists. Muscles long strengthened in Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and in wild curricle races tautened. He was in an awkward position, with little leverage, but inch by slow inch the river unwilling yielded its prey.
    Lying flat on the bridge above, Bev stretched down and took over the burden as soon as he could reach. As the lad rose above his head, John thanked heaven that he was travelling with his favourite sparring partner.
    He looked down at the girl. He could not possibly lift her in the same way. He had reluctantly reached the conclusion that he would have to join her to help her when he saw that the derelict rowboat had broken free of the willow branches and was racing downstream towards her. Without hesitation he slithered down beside her, pressing her to the post.
    The shock of the frigid water was instantly succeeded by the shock of the boat hitting his back broadside. It hurt, but the pain was numbed by the coldness. “A spectacular bruise, no doubt,” he muttered, then shouted in her ear above the roar of the river, “Soon have you out of here!”
    His feet were on firm silt, the cross-brace was within easy reach of his six foot plus. Moments later he was sitting on the planks beside the huddled figure of the rescued girl, shivering as he ruefully contemplated the duckweed that decorated one of Weston’s best efforts.
    He shrugged out of the ruined coat, his gaze moving to the girl. She lay very still, eyes closed, her lips bluish. He glanced at Bev. “Be a good fellow and take the tyke home,” he half requested, half commanded.
    “My coat will never be the same again,” Mr. Bevan mourned, but he picked up the dripping child, set him on his horse’s withers and mounted behind him. “Sure you can manage?”
    “I’ll manage.” John was already struggling with the fastenings of the girl’s cloak.
    Her eyes opened, filled with terror, and she made a feeble motion towards his hands.
    “Keep still. I shan’t harm you but you’ll freeze to death if I don’t get these wet things off you quickly.”
    Though she obeyed, he felt her frightened gaze on his face as he stripped off the cloak. It worried him that she was not shivering. He had to tear her dress to remove it, and as he did so he talked to her soothingly, as he would to a nervous horse. Her wet shift clung to her skin. She was skinny, her ribs showing clearly, the dark nipples of her small breasts visible through the thin linen.
    “Where are you from?” he asked abruptly. He had nothing to dry her with, so he might as well leave her the minimal

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