Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-eight

Together, they slid to the end of the bench, slamming against the wall of the post-chaise. Then the wall became the floor, as the whole business tipped on its side.

The coach hit the mud with a thick squelch. They broke apart, and Minerva’s shoulder jarred painfully as she bounced against the side panel.

“Min.” He scrambled to her side. “Minerva, tell me you’re not—”

“I’m fine,” she hastened to say. “Unharmed.”

Mostly.

She wouldn’t tell him so, but her shoulder did ache a bit. Nevertheless, this was hardly a dramatic, deathly carriage accident. The post-chaise hadn’t even been in motion. It was really no more than falling off a fence, or out of a tree.

“Just don’t die.” He clutched her tight. “If you died, I’d beg God to take me, too.”

Lord, what a statement. She forced herself to ignore its implications and keep to the task at hand: reassurance.

“Well, I’m not dying. I’m not even injured.”

He searched her face. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not bleeding anywhere? You can feel all your limbs?”

“Don’t you feel my arms around you?”

She stroked up and down his back, until he released a heavy sigh.

“Yes.” He moved his weight off her chest, laughing a bit. He passed a hand over his face. “Good God. I didn’t realize how unstable these contraptions are without a team hitched to them. I suppose we were too . . .”

“Zealous?” She smiled. “Well, look at it this way. The wheels aren’t stuck in the mud any longer.”

“This is true. Let me help you up.”

They untangled their knot of limbs. Colin rose first, then offered his hand.

As she got her feet under her, Minerva’s boots sloshed. Water was seeping in through the coach’s damaged side panels, puddling at their feet.

“Oh dear.”

Colin had noticed it, too. He tipped the trunk, using his boot to move it away from the growing puddle. Francine was packed so tightly, she’d no doubt survived the fall—but she wouldn’t survive a soaking.

“So it wasn’t our . . . you know . . . that toppled the chaise. At least, not entirely.”

He shook his head. “The road is flooding. That’s why the wheels slid free.”

The muddy water lapped at her hem. “We should get out of here. Right away.”

“I agree.” Colin raised his hands and pushed on the door overhead.

It wouldn’t open.

With a curse, he caught the door latch and rattled it violently. “Open, damn you,” he muttered. “Open.”

“It’s all right,” she said, trying to keep him calm. “We’re not trapped. If you break the window, I can crawl through and open it from the outside.”

“Right. You always were the clever one. Move aside and cover your head.”

When she’d obeyed, he took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wrapped it tight about his knuckles. Then he grabbed the pistol by the barrel and used it to smash at the windowpane. Two good swings, and he had it cracked.

Small bits of glass rained down on Minerva’s bowed head and shoulders. When the shower of glass had ceased and true raindrops made their way inside, it seemed safe to look up. She glimpsed him clearing the few remaining jagged shards from the edges of the window opening.

“Here.” He cupped one hand and held it out. “You put your boot in my hand and your hand on my shoulder. I’ll lift you up.”

She nodded.

As her head and shoulders emerged through the small opening, Minerva braced her hands on either side of the makeshift hatch. She hauled the rest of her body up and through. Rain doused her instantly, plastering her hair to her neck and brow. She swiped it away, impatient.

Once she had her entire body outside the carriage, she knelt on the top—which had recently been the side—and pulled at the door latch with both hands, rattling and cursing the twisted bit of metal.

“Drat. The latch is jammed from this side, too.” She peered down at him. “Just come through the window, like I did. It will be a tight squeeze, but you’ll fit.”

“I’ll fit. But Francine won’t.” He hefted the trunk with both hands, lifting it above the water. It was far too big to fit through the window. “Go on. Take shelter under some trees. I’ll keep her dry until the rain lets up.”

“You want me to leave you here? Alone?”

A flicker of some emotion passed over his features, but he squelched it. “I’ll be fine. We’ll stay within shouting distance. You know our system, M. Tallyho, and all that.”

She shook her head. Impossible man. Not five minutes ago, he’d clutched her in his arms and begged her to never leave him. Pledged to follow her to the grave, if it came to that. He honestly thought she would abandon him now? Leave him trapped in a darkened carriage, alone, on these same roads that had claimed his parents’ lives?

He truly was cracked.

“I’m not leaving you in there.”

“Well, I’m not leaving this trunk.”

She rattled at the door latch again. It still refused to budge. “Perhaps I can break it open. Hand me the pistol, will you?”

Reaching up through the broken window, he handed her the weapon. She unwrapped it, slid her palm around the grip . . .

And then leveled it at him.

“Come out of there, Colin.”

She spoke with cool, unruffled calm, shielding the gun from the rain with her body. Minerva didn’t mean to really threaten his life. She just hoped to shock him out of his stubborn, foolish wish to stay inside that coffin.

Well, he certainly looked surprised.

His incredulous gaze flicked from her face to the pistol in her hand. “Min, have you gone mad?”

“I might ask you the same! It’s over, Colin.” Her voice broke. “It’s over. We’re not going to reach Edinburgh, and this isn’t worth another moment of your distress.”

“To hell with my ‘distress.’ This is your life’s work in this trunk. I’m not leaving it. And we can still make the symposium, Min. As soon as the postilion returns . . .”

Minerva looked up and around. No sign of the postilion or horses anywhere. Muddy runnels swelled in the road, carrying a tide of leaves and sticks coursing past. And the rain only pounded harder, pinging and thundering against the shell of the coach.

She had to raise her voice to call over the din. “The water’s rising, and night is falling. The post-chaise is damaged. Even if the horses arrive, the road will be impassable. It’s over.”

“Blast it, Min. Don’t you give up on this. Don’t you give up on me. I made a promise to you, and I will damn well keep it. I will find a way.”

“You can’t—”

A startled cry stole the rest of her argument. The overturned coach lurched a half foot sideways. The rising rainwater had buoyed the hollow, overturned post-chaise, allowing it to slip over the mud.

Minerva’s gut clenched. She had to get him out. His stubborn insistence on remaining in the carriage was now not only foolhardy, but dangerous. If the water kept rising, they could slip right off the road.

She thrust the pistol forward. “Colin, drop the trunk. We both need to leave this coach. No more arguments.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t do it, Min.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

She steadied the pistol, cocked the hammer, aimed—

And fired.

“Holy—”

Bang.

When the pistol went off, Colin’s first thought was: My God. She did it. She actually shot me.

His second thought was: When the hell were my blood and guts replaced with gritty white powder?

As the dust settled, Colin slowly realized that she had not shot him. She’d sent a bullet whizzing straight through her trunk. And the plume of white powder that exploded through the dim interior was not the remnants of his calcified heart.

It was Francine.

Oh God.

God damn it. He wished Minerva had shot him in the guts instead. It would have hurt less. And at least his guts might have a chance of mending. Francine, on the other hand . . .

Francine was gone.

“Wh—?” He choked on the plaster dust. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you left me no choice,” she cried, flinging the pistol away. “Now come out of there. It’s over.”

It’s over.

Yes, it was over. All of it, over. She’d just shot a bullet through all her hopes and dreams. It didn’t matter if the postilion arrived with four fresh horses. It didn’t matter if the clouds suddenly parted and a hot-air balloon descended to whisk them to Scotland. Without Francine, it was over.

He swallowed back the bitter lump in his throat. There was nothing left to do but admit defeat.

He’d failed her. He’d managed to fail her, despite all his best efforts. His good intentions landed like mortar shells, and this time Francine had taken the hit.

He hoisted himself out through the broken window. He jumped from the post-chaise first, landing in calf-deep water. “Jump into my arms,” he directed.

Minerva obeyed. She clung to his neck, just as though he were the hero in her fairy tale and not the villain ruining everything. “Where will we go?”

Colin stared down the road, peering through the tapering rainfall. Could those shadows be . . . ?

Horses. Yes, they were. A fine team of four from his own stables. At last, here came the postilion—accompanied by two of Colin’s own grooms from Riverchase.

He released his breath and told her, “Home. We go home.”

The distance to Riverchase was only a few miles, but the road conditions forced him to take those miles at a painfully slow walk. He held Minerva in front of him on his horse, trying his best to shield her from the cold and wet.

For a while, he thought she’d fallen asleep.

Until she mumbled, “Colin? What is that vast, impressive-looking place in the distance?”

“That’s Riverchase. My estate.”

“I thought it might be. It’s lovely. All that g-granite.”

He laughed inwardly. She would notice that first. “It’s local stone.”

“I’d bet it sparkles in broad daylight.”

“It’s luminous.”

He tightened his arm about her, drawing her close. For the first time, he noticed how violently she shivered against his chest.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Just cold. So c-cold.”

Swearing under his breath, Colin nudged the horse into a trot. The rain was dwindling to a mere trickle, but she’d already been soaked through. He had to get her before a fire, and quickly.

At least the Riverchase staff had been warned by the postilion that their master was in the neighborhood. The entire house had been thrown into readiness. When Colin rode up in the drive, the front door opened and a bevy of servants sallied forth.

Colin slid from the horse first, then helped Minerva drop into his arms. Sliding one arm about her back and lashing the other beneath her thighs, he carried her up the fourteen granite stairs and through the main entry.

The old, familiar housekeeper, Mrs. Hammond, hurried to greet him. It must have been almost two years since he’d seen her, but he cut the salutations short.

“Have you laid a fire?” he asked.

“In the drawing room, my lord.”

Shifting Minerva’s weight in his arms, he strode past the housekeeper and turned directly into the drawing room. He laid Minerva’s sodden, shivering form on a plush divan and pushed the entire thing—furniture and woman—forward, until it sat a few feet from the hearth. The fire was young and blazing. Scorching flames leaped and danced.

“This is a lovely room,” Minerva said weakly. “I’m so gl-glad to—” Her teeth chattered. “To have this chance to see your home.”

“Shush. Don’t try to talk. You can have the grand tour later.”

“All right.”

Her thin, quivering attempt at a smile made him want to howl with anguish. It should not be this way. He slipped the spectacles from her face, wiped them dry, and replaced them on her nose.

Mrs. Hammond stood in the doorway.

“Bring blankets,” he ordered. “A clean shift, I don’t care whose. Hot tea immediately, and other refreshment as you’re able.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once the woman disappeared, Colin set about the work of removing Minerva’s soaked clothing. She tried to help him, but her fingers were shaking too hard.

“Be still, pet. Allow me.”

In the end he gave up on the buttons and hooks and drew the folding knife from his boot, using it to slice her gown at the seams. He peeled the drenched fabric from her body, tossing her garments into a heap by the fire. As he hacked away at the sweet, gauzy muslin, he wanted to weep.

A week ago had he harbored some vague concern that he might ruin this girl? Taint her reputation beyond repair? Or, horrors—steal her virtue?

She should have been so lucky.

Look at her now. Curled up, shivering uncontrollably. Skin pale, lips blue, gown in rags. Dreams left shattered and strewn on a country road, and all her hopes for the future vanished. As he undressed her, he found a horrific bruise swelling on her shoulder.

This went beyond social ruin. This was complete and total devastation he’d wrought upon her.

The deep, eviscerating pain Colin felt at that moment told him two things, both equally tragic.

He loved her, beyond anything.

And she was lost to him, forever.