Anita Mills (6 page)

“Of a certainty, if there were any. By all accounts, my mother would have. And, by the by, if we are ever called on to continue this ruse, we do not have a mother anymore. Our mother passed away before you were born, if you must know.”

“Well, I could scarce say that, could I? I should sound the veriest fool, my lord, for then how could we account for me? But,” she added philosophically, “I doubt it shall be a problem, anyway, for we are surely not above another day or so from York.”

“I don’t know. It depends on the weather when we get there. We’ll make good time if that storm passes, but since it is coming autumn, Ellen, we may not be so fortunate.” He pessimistically eyed the dark clouds through the carriage window. “That looks like it is going to turn ugly, my dear. I think you are bad luck.”

“I? And how do you know ’tis not your own misfortune?”

“Because I controlled my life until you dropped onto me at Brockhaven’s.”

“Well, I should not be proud of that, my lord,” she retorted, “for no doubt your life to that point had been just one high flyer after another and a dozen gaming hells to squander your money in. Bad luck, indeed! ’Twas you who would come!” She caught herself and regretted her words. “I am sorry, I should not have said that. If the truth were admitted, I truly am beholden to you for your kindness.”

“Since it is not too far from the truth, I’ll let it pass.”

She was silent for a moment and then changed the subject. “When you return to London, will the Mantini be very angry with you? They say she is very beautiful.”

“She is.” He shrugged. “But the world provides beautiful women every day to take a man’s money in exchange for a few favors.” His eyes met hers, and the corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “You know something, Miss Marling? You are beginning to sound more like a jealous wife than a sister.”

“Of all the conceited … I assure you that I have not the least interest in how you spend your life. My intent was to simply keep you from your tedious attempts to place the blame for being here on me. Certainly, I never wanted to stay in that awful inn.”

“I despise females who have to be right.”

“Really? I should have thought the Deveraux women to be infallible.”

“There are no Deveraux women. I have one brother and a couple of wild younger cousins, all male.”

“Thank heavens the world is spared more of you.”

“Ah, but as you pointed out back there, I am accounted quite a prize, my dear. The
ton
is full of mamas trying to make their daughters Marchioness of Trent.” He reached for his hat and leaned back, placing it over his eyes. “I did not get any sleep—unlike you—so if you are quite finished carping, I intend to remedy the situation.”

“Your manners are abominable.”

“Being a marquess, my dear, 1 do not need any.”

T
HE SUN DISAPPEARED
in the dark clouds, and the wind came up, causing the carriage to sway even more as it lumbered northward, but Lord Trent neither cared nor noticed as he slumbered beneath the rakishly tilted-hat. Ellen, on the other hand, stared out her window at the darkening landscape and felt her spirits sink. Try as she might, she could not but think that her unannounced arrival on the Sandbridge doorstep in the company of Alexander Deveraux would scandalize even her Aunt Augusta. And when it became known that she’d spent days and nights in his company, she would very likely be turned out in disgrace.

She glanced over at the dozing Trent and sighed. He was a complicated man, to be sure, an unfathomable mixture of unexpected kindness and insufferable arrogance. It was a pity that such blatantly handsome men always seemed to be self-centered and disagreeable. Even when he was doing a good turn, he could not leave it be, but rather felt it incumbent to lash out in some way before he became too pleasant. But then, perhaps it was just as well, she reflected further, because even she was not immune to such handsomeness and it would not do for a plain Ellen Marling to entertain any romantical notions about a man like Trent.

Apparently he was used enough to traveling on whim in spite of what he’d said, for he at least kept a change of clothing in the boot. Gone were the soiled and wrinkled evening clothes, replaced now by buff-colored superfine pantaloons tucked smoothly into perfectly polished boots that reached almost to his knees, and a tan woolen cloak draped rather than buttoned over a very masculine pair of shoulders. Where the cloak fell back, she could see he wore no coat, only a plain ivory shirt without ruffles or pleats that lay open at the neck. He looked no more like her image of a marquess than her brother Julian.

Shifting his hat back off his eyes, he met her quiet study. “Interested, ma’am?” he asked lazily from his slouch. “Can it be that you are no different from the rest of your sex?”

“No!” She jumped guiltily and her face flushed uncomfortably, but she managed to answer coolly, “ ’Twas not my intent to stare, my lord. I was but wondering why ’tis necessary for one so handsome to behave so unhandsomely.”

“Back to carping, eh? Very well,” he muttered as he readjusted his hat to shade his face. “But pray do not stare so. Unlike you, I am quite a light sleeper and it disconcerts me.”

“You cannot feel a look, sir.”

“Obviously I can.”

Scrupulously avoiding even a glance in his direction, Ellen turned her attention to the carriage interior. It was quite unlike anything she had ever been in before. The walls were lined with glossy mahogany panels trimmed out in brass; the coach lamps were small, square-chimneyed, and diffused with shell; the floor was carpeted with a finely printed Spanish wool and protected by a woven mat; and the seats were covered in a rich claret velvet. The rain began pelting at the windows intermittently at first and then washed like great sheets of water that obscured the outside world. A trickle of water seeped in at the top of her window and began its irregular path down the pane. With a quick, furtive peek at his lordship, she drew out his handkerchief and dabbed at the rivulet before it could reach the wood.

Poor Dobbs, Emmett, and Timms! It could not be a very good life for those on the box at any time, but in weather like this they must be soaked and freezing. And unlike their wealthy master, it was highly unlikely that they carried a change of clothes with them.

It seemed like hours that they careened through the blinding storm, with Ellen’s face turned to avoid the marquess while he slept like a babe in spite of his avowed inability to do so. There appeared to be no lessening of the intensity of the storm, and no brightening of the sky ahead. A bolt of lightning struck precariously close by, and either it or its attendant thunderclap caused the horses to rear in fright. She could hear Timms yelling above the din of the storm at the team.

Suddenly they were no longer upright, and Ellen felt herself slammed across the seat against Trent and then they were both falling into one of the doors. The coach turned on its side and slid in the mud while glass shattered and showered them from above. Ellen tried to right herself only to be pinned down by the marquess’s body.

“Lie still!” he shouted over her, “And let it come to rest.” He flung a protective arm across her face to take the glass and buried his head in her breasts. It was over as quickly as it had begun, and an eerie feeling descended over them. For several seconds, the only sound they heard was the steady pelting of the rain.

Cautiously, Trent lifted his head and tried to get his bearings. Someone climbed over the side of the carriage and tugged at the door above them. The marquess pushed up in concert and finally it opened. Cold rain drenched them immediately.

“Thanks be,” Dobbs muttered as he peered anxiously down at Trent. “Miss Smith—she all right?”

“I think so. Lend me a hand and we’ll get out.”

The coachey leaned over and pulled as the marquess braced himself against the side-turned roof with his boots and heaved his body upward. Clearing the doorway, he perched on the side and leaned down to Ellen. “Here, take my hand and try to swing upward when I pull. Come on … Good girl!” he encouraged as he lifted her through the door. “Are you hurt?” He pushed her hair back from a cut above her eyebrow that was already being cleansed by the rain. “ ’Tis not too bad, my dear. You can be thankful it wasn’t a shade lower.”

“I am grateful to be alive, I assure you,” she breathed shakily. “And I am quite all right.” She looked up to where blood trickled down the side of his face. “ ’Tis you who are hurt, my lord.”

“A scratch from the glass merely.”

Dobbs slid off the overturned coach and went to look after the others while Trent lifted Ellen down. A few moments later, the coachey came back shaking his head in disbelief. “Emmett’s dead, mi’lor’—broke ’is neck—and Timm’s hurt bad—’is leg.”

“You’d best not look,” Trent told Ellen as he stepped to shield her with his shoulder. “Death is not a pretty sight.”

“No.” She shook her head purposefully. “While there’s naught to be done for poor Mr. Emmett, I can at least assist with Mr. Timms. You will find that I am not the least queasy in the stomach at the sight of blood.” She pushed past him to slog through the mud toward the fallen driver, asking him, “Can you tell what you have done to it?”

“Dunno. Broke it, mebbe.”

She bent over the outstretched leg and nodded. “Mr. Dobbs,” she told the coachey, “we shall have to get his boot off before the leg swells. Can you cut it?”

“Aye, miss.” Dobbs knelt and slit the driver’s boot with his knife, then looked up for further guidance.

“Go on. It has to come off.”

Timms winced and then went pasty white from the pain as Dobbs removed the boot.

“Let me see.” Heedless of her wet gown, Ellen sat in the mud beside the driver and, with a total lack of fashionable modesty, began feeling along the bony ridge of the man’s shin. “You are right—’tis broken and will have to be set.” She looked up at Trent, who stood above her watching in fascination. “I think I can do it, my lord, but I shall require your assistance.” She measured the driver’s legs against each other and then tried to force the bone into place. The bulge under the skin moved but would not snap into position when she pushed. She shoved her wet hair back out of her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. “I know how ’tis done, my lord, but I have not the strength required. See if you can pull it into line by grasping his foot, and I’ll push. Dobbs, if you will but get some of the wood from the coach for a splint …”

“Aye, miss,” Dobbs answered promptly. “I think ’er’s got th’ gift,” he muttered to Trent as he passed. “Niver seen th’ like fer a female!”

“You are supposed to be swooning helplessly, Ellen,” Trent murmured as he knelt down next to her.

“Pooh. And what would that accomplish, my lord? Then you should have to tend to two people. Here—pull down like this …” She looked up and noted his reluctance. Mistaking the reason, she snapped, “Very well, if you are too exalted a personage for this, I’ll ask Dobbs.”

“You know, you are deuced cross, my dear,” he complained. “And I know what has to be done, but ‘twill hurt like the very devil.”

“It will hurt less now than later.”

“All right.” He grasped Timms’ foot, pulled it sharply while she pushed at the protuberant bone, and was rewarded by the sight of the leg moving back into line.

Dobbs returned with two shafts of wood taken from the coach’s shattered body, looked down at the ashen driver, and shook his head. “ ’E’s fainted, miss.”

“All the better. He won’t feel it when we tie these on for support.” She cast about for something to use for a wrapping and wished that fashion had not changed to where ladies no longer wore voluminous petticoats. “Can you use your knife to cut the traces, do you think? We’ll have-to bind these in place.”

“Aye, miss.”

They worked quickly, with Dobbs sawing the reins apart and she and Trent tying them around the broken leg.

In a short time, Timms was sitting upright in the mud and mire looking at her handiwork. He gave her a weak smile of approval. “All right an’ tight it is, miss, but ‘ow’d a lady like yersel’ know it?”

“I used to help the doctor in our village”—she smiled— “until my papa found out. Alas, he felt it not an accomplishment for a female, and forbade me to continue.”

“Can you ride, Timms?” Trent asked abruptly. “We’ll have to boost you up on one of the team without a saddle.”

“Yer lor’ship’ll ‘ave ter shoot one,” Dobbs reminded him grimly.

“That still leaves three. You and Timms can ride back the way we came and seek help. Ellen—Miss Smith—and I will take the one left and try to find shelter. I’ve got to get her inside before she contracts an inflammation of the lungs.” He turned back briefly to Ellen and asked, “Can you ride pillion, ma’am? You’ll have to sit astride because I cannot hold you on.”

“I won’t have any modesty left, will I?” She sighed. “But then, I don’t suppose it makes any difference now.”

“That’s the girl,” Trent approved. “Now, turn your back and cover your ears. No, don’t argue with me.” He waited until he was sure her head was averted, and then he walked to where one of the horses still lay tangled in the shaft and harness, its eyes wide and dilated with fright. Resolutely he raised his pistol and fired a ball into its head. Then he closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the upended carriage. At least his powder had been dry enough still for the task and he hadn’t had to slit its neck.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, mi’lor,” Dobbs interrupted diffidently, “but what’s ter do ‘bout Emmett?”

Trent exhaled slowly and straightened his shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do for the moment. You’ll have to get help and come back.”

Dobbs nodded and went to fetch the horses he’d cut loose. When he led one back, he and Trent boosted the injured driver up on its back and then threaded a makeshift bridle around its nose and through its mouth.

“Can you make it, Timms?” Trent asked again.

“Aye, I think so.”

Dobbs got another horse and pulled himself up by hanging on its mane. Leaning over to take Timms’ rein, he decided, “Mebbe I better ’ave it. Yer looks queasy ter me.”

“And you are chilled to the bone,” Trent observed as he prepared to throw Ellen up on the last mount. “Here— take my cloak and wrap it around you. I’ll get behind you and hold you on as best I can.”

“No, you keep your cloak, my lord.” The thought of his hands around her waist and under her breasts gave her pause. “And I think it would be better if I rode behind you.”

“There’s no time for argument, my dear. If you think you can hang on better that way, I’ve no objection, but you will take the cloak.” He gave her a boost up on the big black’s back before removing the heavy woolen cape and handing it up to her. As soon as she had pulled it around her shoulders, he ordered her, “Hold him steady until I get up.” And then he swung up in front of her. “Are you sure you’ve got your seat?” he asked as he reached for the makeshift rein.

“Can you handle him like this?” she asked anxiously.

“Aye, Deveraux are noted horsemen,” he flung over his shoulder.

She arranged his cloak about her back and drew her exposed legs up against his, pulling the rest of the cloak to cover as much as possible of both of them. Leaning against his soaked back, she sought to give and get warmth.

Even as he nudged the horse forward, the rain came down harder again, forming sheets rather than droplets, and the wind increased until it howled. The temperature was falling from the early-autumn storm, and Ellen could not afford even a semblance of modesty. She hugged the marquess tightly and burrowed her face against his shoulder blades to protect it from the biting wind.

“Can you see anything?” she shouted against his shoulder.

“Nothing!” he shouted back.

They plodded along the sodden road until both Ellen and Trent thought they would surely freeze before finding any shelter at all. Her whole body ached from the chills that racked it, and her teeth chattered so hard that they clicked against one another. Then, as she straightened to ease the cramp in her shoulders, she saw it. She pounded his shoulder excitedly as the horse rounded a bend in the lane they’d turned into.

“Th-there’s a b-barn or s-something ahead.”

When they drew closer, they could see it was someone’s hunting box, and it was apparently unoccupied. Ellen slid to the ground and held the horse while Trent dismounted and tried the door. It was securely locked. In desperation, he threw his weight against it several times in hopes of breaking the lock, but without success. Finally he walked around the box, testing each window until he found one that gave several inches.

“Here,” he called out to her. “The ropes are frayed on this one. If I can but get it up a little higher, I’ll push you through.”

She looked at it in dismay. “I cannot squeeze through there.”

He worked until he had it open about seven inches before turning back to her. “Aye, you can,” he encouraged. “I’ll put you up.”