Chapter 13 #2
The world had become a blur of snow and motion.
The horse’s hooves struck hard and fast against the frozen road, throwing up clods of ice.
The wind tore at Merry’s skirts, and the raw rope cut deep into her wrists.
She had long since stopped feeling her fingers; they hung useless and frozen by the icy chill.
Her body ached from the awkward way she was pinned against Tremaine, every jolt of the saddle sending pain through her spine.
She was not dressed for riding—not in thin half-boots and a gown better suited for morning calls than gallops through winter fields.
Her bonnet had flown off miles ago. Her hair, loosened by the wind, streamed against her face like a whip.
The horse stumbled once. The poor beast was breathing hard, its coat dark with sweat despite the cold. “Barnaby, for pity’s sake!” she cried, her voice hoarse from the cold air. “You will kill us and the horse if you keep this pace!”
He said nothing at first, his jaw clenched and his hands white on the reins. Then, with a curse, he pulled up sharply. Trembling, the animal stopped in a storm of snow.
“Very well,” he said, panting. “We should have enough of a start to stop—but not for long, mind you.”
Merry sagged in the saddle, her legs shaking with relief. She could barely feel them. The cold had gone beyond biting—it had become dull and steady, the kind that crept inward. She flexed her hands, trying to bring back sensation.
Barnaby turned in the saddle to scan the road behind them. The pale fields stretched on forever, empty and still. “No one yet,” he muttered. “Good.”
Merry wanted to speak, to reason with him, but her voice came out faint. “Where are you taking me?”
He glanced down at her, a flash of impatience in his eyes. “You know perfectly well. To be married. Where else?”
“I thought—” She swallowed hard. “I thought you meant Gretna Green.”
He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “A fool’s journey, that. Scotland is several days’ hard ride, and I’ve no wish to freeze my bones on the road. London will do. There are parsons enough there willing to overlook the niceties.”
London. The word struck her like a blow. London meant hiding places, crowds, and her family’s pursuit delayed by distance.
Her mind raced even as her limbs refused to move. She must delay him—somehow, any way she could.
The horse shifted uneasily, blowing steam from its nostrils. Merry touched her lips to speak again, but the sound that came out was little more than a whisper. “I am frozen.”
“You will survive,” he said shortly, swinging down to the ground. “We will change to a carriage. You can warm yourself then.”
She nearly slid from the saddle, her body too stiff to obey her.
When her feet touched the ground, they buckled.
Tremaine caught her by the arm—not gently—and half dragged her toward a low-roofed inn where light flickered through shuttered windows.
She could see little else around, and had no idea where she was.
He untied the ropes with a warning. “Do not try anything or I will tie your feet as well.”
Inside, warmth hit her like a slap, painful after the frost. The landlord hurried forward, blinking at the sight of her tangled hair and pale face.
Tremaine’s look was enough to silence any question.
“A private carriage,” he said, tossing down coins.
“Now. Hitched and ready within the quarter-hour.”
The landlord bowed and disappeared. Merry stood swaying, numb from cold and fear, her mind working furiously.
“Sit down,” Tremaine ordered, gesturing toward a chair by the fire. “You look ready to swoon.”
She obeyed, more from weakness than compliance. The heat stung her frozen fingers until she nearly cried out. She rubbed them together, hiding the returning pain behind her sleeve.
“I told you that you had no business defying me.”
“I did not defy you,” she managed to say, looking up at him. “I refused you. That is not the same thing.”
His eyes darkened, but before he could speak, the landlord returned. “The carriage is ready, sir.”
Tremaine nodded curtly.
Merry tried one last approach. “I need something warm,” she said faintly, “and perhaps—perhaps I could rest a moment longer?”
He studied her for a beat, then smiled thinly. “You miss the mark, my love. You are as cunning as a fox, but I know every trick you might play.” He seized her wrist again. “Come.”
She flinched at his touch, but he only tightened his grip, steering her through along the passage and out into the yard where the carriage waited, dark and square against the snow. The driver sat hunched on the box, muffled to the chin.
The moment she stepped inside, she knew escape would be near impossible. There was little space to manouevre, and the single lamp threw light over the front seat only. Tremaine followed, slammed the door, pulled out a flask and drank heavily. The night only wanted him heavy with drink.
“Now,” he said, tucking the flask inside his coat before beginning to loop another length of rope through the door handle and around her wrists. “No foolishness. I cannot have you throwing yourself out like some romantic heroine.”
The humiliation burned almost hotter than the fire had. “You are making a fine mess of yourself, Barnaby,” she said quietly. “You will regret this before the day is out.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I am far beyond regrets. By the time they find us, you will be my wife, and all of this will have become quite respectable.”
Her throat tightened. “Is that what you told Lady Lydia, too? The lady in the sleigh? Was she part of your plan?”
He froze, then shot her a look so cold it startled her. “Watch your tongue, Merry.”
She stared at him, the last fragile thread of hope fraying. “How much do you owe, Barnaby?”
He gave a short, ugly laugh. “Enough to make my name worth nothing in London. Enough that marriage is the only credit left to me.” He took the flask back out and drained it.
“Then there is no hope for love at all,” she said softly.
He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with something close to madness. “It is what love becomes when one is desperate. You will learn to forgive it—or not, as you choose.”
And then, as if the words—or drink—had exhausted him, he shut his eyes and leaned against the seat. Within minutes, the rattling rhythm of the wheels and swaying coach deepened into a coarse snore.
Merry sat motionless, every muscle poised. The rope at her wrists rubbed raw against her skin, but she began to work at it anyway—tiny, careful movements; twisting, easing the knots loose a fraction at a time. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared it would wake him.
The carriage rocked over a rut; the jolt loosened one knot further. She felt the first trace of air on her skin as the rope slipped half an inch.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees. She could see nothing but the faint gleam of moonlight through the small window.
Another jolt—another inch. She kept her breathing shallow, every fibre intent on the slow, secret motion of her hands.
At last, the rope gave way. She sat still, scarcely daring to believe it. Tremaine stirred, muttered something incoherent, then settled again.
Merry waited for a count of ten, then twenty. Slowly, silently, she slid her hands free.
Then she got to work. Once she was satisfied that Barnaby could not easily give chase, she glanced towards the door.
It was now or never.
Merry drew a deep breath, gathered what was left of her strength, and reached for the door latch.
The cold rushed in, sharp and bright. Barnaby did not stir that time, the drink having made him insensate.
Thankfully, the pace was slow, and the jump would be softened by the snow.
She looked once at Tremaine, slumped and snoring, then eased herself forward, her pulse hammering in her ears.
“God help me,” she whispered, and slipped her hands through the opening, feeling for the edge to grasp. The wind tore at her hair, but she didn’t stop. Inch by inch, hanging on to the rim of the roof, she forced herself through the door and shut it behind her.
The wheels hit a rut. The carriage swayed. She took her chance, drew in one breath, and threw herself out into the snow.
The world went white, spinning around her. Then came the shock of cold, the hard slap of ground, and the roaring silence of the night.
She rolled once, twice, until a snow drift stopped her. For a moment she could not move, only lie where she was, gasping. Then she heard the carriage rolling on, unaware, the sound fading into the wind.
Merry pushed herself up onto her knees. Her cloak was gone, her hands were frozen with slush and her whole body was trembling from the fall—but she was free.
And somewhere behind her, help would be coming. She need only find safety for now.
She turned her face toward the way home and began to walk.