Love Alters Not by Patricia Veryan Page A

head down and legs stiff, shot straight into the air and spun around twice. Farrar, caught off-balance and unprepared, was hurled from the saddle. He landed hard, as his mount thundered in the direction of the house.
    Watching, astonished, Dimity waited for her antagonist to get up, but he continued to lie sprawled and motionless. She thought without great satisfaction, ‘The horrid creature has broke his neck!’ and wrenched at the door.
    As she struggled to let down the steps, she heard a man shout a frantic, “Captain!” and then she was out and running to kneel beside Farrar.
    The coachman flung himself down beside her. “My Gawd! My Gawd! Is he dead?”
    With the experience gained from watching the twins somehow survive numerous brushes with an early grave, Dimity pressed her fingers below the strong jaw. “The heartbeat is steady. He is likely just stunned. Have you water anywhere on the coach?”
    â€œNot water, ma’am.” He turned to the carriage and shouted, “Jim! Fetch the brandy!”
    The footman jumped down, pulling a flask from the pocket of his wide-skirted dark red coat.
    The coachman glanced obliquely at Dimity. “Had a long wait last night,” he grunted, by way of explanation. He slid an arm under his employer’s shoulders. “I’ll hold him up, ma’am. P’raps you can get some of this into him.”
    Farrar’s powdered head rolled limply. Dimity thought that he looked dead, but she tilted the flask carefully. For a moment the amber liquor trickled from the sides of his mouth. Then he coughed, the long lashes blinked and the green eyes peered dazedly at her. He was perfectly white, but a smile of singular sweetness curved his lips.
    He murmured faintly, “It’s all right, dearest … only…” Comprehension seemed to dawn. The words trailed off. He narrowed his eyes, frowningly, then reached up to thrust her hand away. “What … the deuce?”
    â€œPolly had a tantrum, sir,” offered the coachman.
    â€œLike hell,” snarled Farrar, and clambered to his feet, leaning on the coachman for a second and swaying unsteadily. He staggered towards the chariot, swearing under his breath, fury in every line of him. “You young … makebait! I’ll break your damned neck!”
    â€œOh, no you will not!” Dimity ran to grip his arm.
    A sudden sharp crack. A yell from the coachman. From the corner of her eye Dimity saw the open carriage door whipping at her. She was seized in an iron grip and thrown aside. Falling headlong, she gasped as something knocked the breath from her lungs, and, terrifyingly close, she heard the pound of hooves, the rattle of wheels, the creak of springs and leather.
    â€œHey!” roared the coachman, waving his arms madly and sprinting in pursuit of his purloined vehicle, followed by the footman.
    â€œGet off!” wheezed Dimity.
    Dragging himself to all fours, Farrar knelt above her. His splendid riding coat was ripped at the shoulder; his hair, having escaped its riband, hung untidily about his face; mud smeared one cheek and blood from a small cut on his forehead crept down the other. “That damnable little bastard!” he gritted between his teeth. “I’ll murder him!”
    A distant corner of Dimity’s mind registered the awareness that this cowardly yellow dog was extremely good to look at. He had, however, lost considerable of his consequence. In fact, the elegant lord of the manor was now a muddy mess. Suddenly, it seemed enormously funny. She tried to restrain herself, but failed utterly.
    Looking down with incredulity at the girl beneath him, Farrar saw a pale oval face, delicate features, a pair of laughing hazel eyes that had a slight and very fetching slant to them, all set off by a mass of tumbled rich brown ringlets. “I trust,” he snarled, coming painfully to his feet and helping her up, “you will