A Winter's Knight: A Regency Romance by Elizabeth Cole

England, 1806
    “Oh, no,” were the first words Phoebe Hartridge muttered when she came to. She remembered Dasher sliding on the ice, and then panicking, rearing, throwing her clear. Then she remembered nothing at all.
    As she looked around the snow-laden forest, it was obvious that hours had passed. The sun hung low in the sky, and she was chilled to the bone, despite her riding habit and heavy cloak. Nan, her housekeeper and surrogate mother, would have her head for ruining the fine woolen cloth of the habit. She had sewn much of it herself, and she did not relish repeating the work. Phoebe chanced a look at her skirts and winced. A long tear in the cloth reinforced her memory of the brutal fall. When she shifted her weight, an icy puddle splintered beneath her foot, soaking her shoes. “Bother,” she muttered.
    Winter had come early this year, though it was not yet Christmas. A recent snowfall had blanketed the wood with white, and Phoebe, riding home from an errand, had decided that a shortcut through the trees would be beautiful and also get her home in time for luncheon.
    Now she was paying for that foolish decision. From the hoofprints on the ground, it was clear that Dasher had bolted. Homeward, she hoped. Although if the horse came home without a rider, her father would be beside himself.
    Phoebe struggled to stand, shaking her head dizzily. Her dark blond hair tumbled down around her, pulled loose in the fall. She tugged it back and tied it with a ribbon, hoping it would hold till she got home. She must look a fright.
    She was far from home still, but with luck she could find the road and hail someone down. Taking a few tentative steps, she hoped that she would reach the road quickly. Her weak leg, a plague since a carriage accident in early childhood, hurt worse than usual. No doubt the cold had seeped in. Phoebe began to walk, reaching out to trees for additional support. Her limping gait sounded a peculiar rhythm in the woods, echoing in the cold wind.
    Phoebe had a good sense of direction, using the setting sun to point her toward the main post road. She started to shiver as she walked, the wet wool of the cloak providing only the barest protection. She wanted to sit down and rest, but it would be better by far to reach civilization by nightfall. Spending the night in these woods would be idiocy.
    She had just sighted the road in the distance when she noticed two figures in the late afternoon light. “Excuse me!” Phoebe called out. “Can you help me?”
    The figures turned, and began to walk toward her. As they got closer, Phoebe saw that both were men, poorly dressed and unshaven. She began to doubt her wisdom in calling attention to herself, but she wasn’t actually scared until the first of them reached her.
    “Well, now, if it isn’t a little lost lamb.” The voice was anything but friendly.
    “A fallen angel,” the other agreed, standing to block her way forward.
    Phoebe looked at one, then the other. “I need to get to the village—” She backed away, but the man shadowed her, forcing her to turn aside, losing sight of the post road.
    “We all need something, pretty miss,” the first one, a blockily built man, said. “See, I need your money and whatever baubles you got.”
    “And I need to get a piece of what’s left.” The other man reached out and flipped her cloak aside. He looked her up and down, grinning. “When I’m done, you’ll find the road—or at least they’ll find you on it.”
    “Get your hand off me,” Phoebe warned, her heart beating wildly. “Or I shall scream.”
    “And who’ll hear it? No knights in shinin’ armor in these parts.” He grabbed her roughly.
    Phoebe batted his hand away. “I said don’t touch me!” She threw her dignity out to the winds and screamed as loudly as she could.
    He growled and made to cover her mouth with his hand, but Phoebe bit his finger. He yowled in rage. “Minx!”
    Phoebe felt him grab her with both hands this time.