Through the Smoke (6 page)

“Aye, m’lord. He is asleep in his chambers.”

“Tell him I won’t be able to accompany him to the mine in the morning. I will meet him at the offices midafternoon.”

When Poulson nodded, Lord Druridge shook out a heavy cloak and lifted it to the level of Rachel’s eyes. Obviously, he expected her to turn so he could drape it around her shoulders.

Rachel clung to her own wet cape, which she’d folded over her arms, even though she knew such obstinacy could offer nothing but extreme discomfort.

“Miss McTavish?” The earl cocked an impatient eyebrow and, in the interest of time, Rachel turned. The weight of the garment settled around her, its length falling past her feet to drag on the ground.

Druridge took her cloak and handed it to Poulson. “See that this gets dried.”

Sandalwood and soap, mixed with a subtle, male scent, rose to Rachel’s nostrils. It identified the cloak he’d provided as one of his own and reminded her of the look on his face when he’d taken hold of her.…

Shoving that memory out of her head, she fastened the garment at the throat and gathered handfuls of the expensive fabric to hold so she could walk.

“Shall we go?” Lord Druridge opened the door and motioned her out. “The doctor is waiting in the carriage.”

With a nod, Rachel grabbed the lantern she’d left on the doorstep and hurried out ahead of him.

Dr. Jacobsen was an older gentleman with snowy white hair that also covered most of his jaw. Dressed similarly to the earl, in close-fitting stirrup pants and ankle boots, he wore a double-breasted black cloth coat with velvet collar. A frown lingered on his face but, judging from the many lines around his mouth, Rachel guessed it was no more than his customary expression.

He dipped his head as Lord Druridge handed her into the fancy black coach she had noted so many times on the streets of Creswell—the same conveyance that had so recently waited in front of her own shop.

When the earl introduced them, Rachel returned the doctor’s greeting and slid across the tan leather bench opposite him.

Lord Druridge climbed in last, took a seat next to her and they started off.

“You’re looking fit despite the ungodly hour, my lord.” The doctor had to raise his voice over the storm. Instead of blowing itself out since her arrival at Blackmoor Hall, it had gathered in strength.

“I fear you’ve got a formidable challenge tonight, my friend,” Lord Druridge responded.

Rachel’s lantern had gone out, but in the dim light of the coach’s lamps, the doctor’s frown deepened. “Fever, eh? Fevers can be nasty business. I have seen cholera ravage the strongest of men. This recent outbreak has been growing at an unprecedented rate.” He eyed Rachel. “How long has your mother been ill, my dear?”

“Almost a week.”

The earl disrupted the conversation long enough to retrieve a fur pelt from beneath the seat, which he settled over Rachel’s lap.

Already too conscious of the cloak she wore and his large, manly form seated next to her, she accepted the covering with some reluctance.

Outside, the coachman cracked his whip, drawing Rachel’s attention to the frozen landscape beyond her window. Snowdrifts were piled high on either side of them and more whirling flakes fell to join those on the ground.

The earl’s driver shouted to the horses, urging them on, but the wind swallowed most of his words.

Travel proved slow and arduous. Less than a mile from the estate, the carriage ground to a halt and the coachman appeared at the door.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he shouted above the gale. “The roads are impassable. I am afraid we cannot get through to the village.”

Rachel’s stomach muscles tightened.

“We won’t if you leave us sitting here very long,” the earl responded.

“You want to continue?” His coachman straightened, obviously amazed.

“Take us as far as you can.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The door slammed shut, and the carriage swayed as the driver climbed back on top.

They moved forward, but Rachel could feel a marked difference in their progress as the horses struggled to pull the carriage, seemingly by inches, through the snow. Frightened that they wouldn’t reach her mother after all, she peered at the earl’s face. Would he give up? Turn back?

He stared out at the black night, his expression grim.

“What if we can’t get through?” Rachel asked, her nails curling into her palms.

“Then I will come first thing in the morning,” Dr. Jacobsen replied. “Just as soon as this bloody storm passes.”

The earl glanced at him. “Morning might be too late,” he said. “We will get through.”

The stubborn set of his jaw brought Rachel a degree of comfort. At least the earl was a man of his word. At least he meant to uphold his end of the bargain despite the difficulty of doing so.

Hold on, Mum. We’re coming. We’re coming.…

Twice the carriage became stuck, and Lord Druridge climbed out to help free the wheels. The third time, he told his driver to unharness the horses.

“Are ye certain, m’lord?” Rachel heard the man say from her seat inside the carriage.

“We will take the horses and go on. You take the donkey tethered behind and go back.”

“But m’lord, ye ’aven’t the tack. An’ ye know these ’orses are rarely ridden in such a manner.”

“I believe I can handle my own animals, Timothy. It won’t be the first time I have managed without a saddle.”

Rachel looked out as the liveried servant nodded dumbly.

The doctor, still seated across from her beneath a lap blanket of his own, gaped in surprise. “See here, my lord,” he said as soon as Druridge appeared at the door. “You say we are going on? We will never make it in this—”

“A woman is ill,” the earl interrupted. “And you are a physician. You tell me, where does your duty lie?”

The doctor mumbled something about Lord Druridge being too young and reckless for his own good, but he complied by heaving his considerable bulk out into the storm and trudging through the snow to help the driver free the horses. Rachel followed.

“Let’s go before the drifts are up to our necks,” Jacobsen grumbled, taking hold of the reins of one horse and stepping into the driver’s laced fingertips to climb up.

Rachel’s dress became sodden and heavy in the few minutes it took for the earl to untie Mrs. Tate’s beast and exchange him for the horse the driver held. She felt the weighty fabric pulling her back, making her movements awkward as she hurried to help.

Lord Druridge jumped astride the second animal, a chestnut-colored gelding. The horse snorted and tossed its head, its huge body steaming from the exertion of having pulled the carriage. Obviously, it wasn’t happy about this latest change, but Druridge brought the animal under control and turned it so he could say farewell to his coachman. “Safe journey, Timothy.”

The donkey brayed pitiably and Timothy sent them a forlorn glance. “Aye, m’lord. The same to you.”

Rachel wondered how
she
would travel. She was perfectly willing to ride Mrs. Tate’s donkey, but the earl had just given Gilly to the coachman.

“Are you coming?” Lord Druridge asked.

She blinked against the snow clinging to her eyelashes as he extended his hand to her. She hesitated, but she seemed to have little choice in traveling companions—unless she wanted to ride with the corpulent doctor, who was having a devil of a time controlling his mount.

Raising a tentative hand, she allowed the earl to pull her up in front of him.

“Don’t worry about Timothy,” he said, following her backward glance. “He’ll manage.”

“I am more worried about us,” she admitted and leaned to one side to stare at the ground, which seemed too far away for comfort. “I have never ridden such a large horse and certainly not one that is more accustomed to pulling a carriage than bearing riders.”

The earl’s voice came as a low rumble in her ear. “It is far more comfortable than riding astride a donkey. You have nothing to fear.”

Except, possibly, the man behind me.

Rachel tucked her face into the thickness of her borrowed cloak as they started out. Progress was slow even without the carriage. In places, they had to plow through drifts up to their thighs, and although the earl’s horses were fine animals, they had minds of their own. The stable was the other way, and well they knew it.

Fortunately, Druridge wasn’t a man to have his actions dictated to him by man or beast. Rachel could feel the muscles of his thighs bunch as he squeezed the gelding’s heaving sides and spoke to it in a low but firm voice.

The doctor didn’t fare quite as well. Jacobsen followed in their wake, his journey a bit less difficult because of the path they forged, except that his own mount tried to bolt several times.

“Damn this animal!” he cursed when it lowered its head as though it would buck.

The earl turned back and shouted out instructions to the doctor on how to control his mount. Then they had only the storm to delay them.

The wind played havoc with their clothes, pressing against them like an invisible hand until Rachel began to wonder why the earl
didn’t
give up and turn back. Grudgingly she had to admit that she had, in some ways, misjudged him. He was honest, so far as keeping his commitment to her, and, obviously, capable and confident, especially when it came to pursuing his goals.

She studied his gloved hands as they worked the reins in front of her.
He will never give in to the miners’ demands, not if they are contrary to his own will
. In that moment, Rachel knew it as surely as she felt the heat of the earl behind her. Mr. Cutberth and the other unionizers didn’t fully realize what they were contending with. They thought, if they could only unite, they could press Druridge to their advantage. But Rachel finally understood just how much the earl would resist any type of coercion. He wouldn’t allow himself to be overpowered by anyone.

The minutes passed with Druridge’s hard, unyielding chest brushing against Rachel’s back and one sinewy arm encircling her waist. He was touching her for a very practical purpose—if he didn’t hold her she might fall—but he was also making her inescapably aware of him.

Despite her misgivings about that intoxicating moment in his drawing room, it wasn’t long before she was tempted to sink against the support of his body. She’d gotten little sleep since her mother’s illness and so was incredibly tired.

But Lord Druridge was her enemy, and not an enemy to esteem lightly. She held her body rigid until his arm tightened, and he murmured, “Relax.”

Much too cold to fight him, she allowed herself to lean back, a little, and immediately felt the added warmth and comfort his body could provide.

The snow stopped falling about a mile outside the village, but the wind kept up, plastering their clothes against them and making Rachel’s ears ache. Even the earl’s cloak couldn’t ward off the chill that had invaded every part of her body.

“Have you survived the journey?” he asked when they emerged from the moors and could see the rooftops in the valley not far below.

Rachel managed to mumble a reply, but she had never been so exhausted in her life, physically or emotionally. Only the thought of her mother, waiting for them, kept her heavy eyelids from closing.

Dr. Jacobsen had long since fallen silent. He sat as rigid as a statue, a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, until they began the gradual descent into town. Then the colorful grumbling and cursing that had punctuated the beginning of their venture from the carriage started up again.

“Damn winters. I don’t know why I traipse so far north. I won’t do it again.”

Lord Druridge twisted around to look at him. The earl had turned up the collar of his coat to keep his neck warm, but he wore no scarf, and Rachel could see tiny, frozen crystals clinging to the shadow of a day’s beard growth. “I believe you said that last winter, Clive.”

“I should have listened to myself. If you had any idea what you were missing, you would leave this godforsaken place and come to London with me, lands or not. But look who I am preaching to! You haven’t the slightest inclination to visit the city these days. Forget the Season. You won’t even come for business.” The doctor’s scarf muffled his words, but the wind had changed course and was now at their backs, easily carrying his voice to them.

“It’s my good sense that keeps me away,” the earl shouted.

Rachel listened to their banter, feeling the shift in their moods, the gradual lessening of the tension that had stifled their progress as surely as the blizzard. The worst was over. She would soon be back with her mother. But… what would she find?

As if sensing the cause of her reticence, the earl covered her frozen hands with one of his, surprising her with his gentleness. “Just a few minutes more,” he said.

At last, dawn began to streak across the sky. The storm was now little more than a few drops of rain, but the McTavish cottage remained shuttered and dark. For a moment, Rachel squeezed her eyes closed. She was almost afraid to look for fear she would see some sign of her mother’s death.

Eventually, she opened her eyes to find all as it normally was—not that “normal” gave anything away.
I won’t last long
. Had Jillian lasted long enough for Rachel’s efforts to make any difference?