Chapter 9 #2
His Rose mattered.
When Bull went through the ice, grappling with their masked robber, Rosie didn’t scream. Not because she wasn’t terrified, but because it had all happened too quickly.
And then, once he’d disappeared beneath the water, there hadn’t seemed a need for it.
Instead, clutching his briefcase to her chest—the briefcase Bull hadn’t taken back from her after they’d left Lord Tittle-Tattle’s home, the briefcase which held their most important piece of evidence—she stumbled toward the river’s edge.
The hole through which he’d tumbled was jagged and raw, the water below lapping at the edges of the ice as if looking for a way out. The ice was thin—too thin to bear her weight, definitely too thin to bear the weight of two men.
She leaned closer, as close as she dared, holding her breath.
Praying.
Bull did not emerge, victorious.
Another prayer.
He still did not come bursting from the water like some glorious Poseidon, toga and all.
With a shaky inhale, Rosie murmured, “Bull?” as if that would help. To no surprise, it did not. She slid one foot out onto the ice and leaned again. “Bull? Oh, God, Bull—”
Beneath her, the ice creaked ominously, and she jerked back onto solid ground.
Her father’s curses, usually such a comfort, hovered just out of reach as her terror took over, and all she could do was pray.
“Oh God,” she whispered, panic starting to rise.
Then, for good measure, she did it again.
“Oh God, oh God. Please…” Her heart was beginning to beat too frantically, her breathing too desperate.
She glanced over her shoulder at Lord Tittle-Tattle’s house, already too dim in the dusk.
“Oh God.” What was she supposed to do? “Oh God, Bull!”
The river.
The road.
The river.
Rosie glanced back and forth.
There was no one on the road, no one on the river, but the river—it went downstream, yes? All water went downstream, sooner or later. It had to. The river. The river was flowing, underneath the ice.
She took a hesitant step to the side, still clutching the suitcase to her chest…then another.
A sudden crack jerked her attention to the left, downstream, and in the distance, in the dim light…the snow-covered ice gave a heave, as if something had been slammed into it from beneath.
Bull.
She gathered up the skirts of her traveling gown and began to run.
Bull!
“Bull!” Rosie called stupidly, as if he could hear her. “Oh God, oh blistering shitenuggets, where are you?”
He was alive, she told herself. He’d been alive a mere moment before, when he—or the masked man—had crashed upward against the ice. He would survive. He would come back to her. He would—
When the ice cracked again, she had just finished sucking in a big breath of air. With nothing else to do, she screamed—unhelpfully, it turned out.
Because farther down the riverbank, farther than she could have run in the time since he’d gone under, her Bull had broken through the ice. His dark shape scrambled, then flopped for the bank, pulling himself out of the icy water as he steamed.
Alive.
Not bothering to waste breath on yet another useless instinct, Rosie threw all her energy into reaching him.
She did so just as he finished pulling his shoulders and torso across the bank, slumping there, sucking in great gasping heaves. Was there ever a more beautiful sound? Rosie fell to her knees beside him, reaching for his shoulders, pulling, tugging him out of the cold water.
He was safe. She could breathe again.
“Thank God. Thank God,” she kept repeating as she did her best to pull him the rest of the way to safety. “Thank God you are alive. Did he get stuck under—no, do not answer that. You are alive! Thank God. Are you hurt?”
It was no surprise he didn’t speak, the way his jaw was clenched so tightly as he did his best to help her lift him. Once Bull had staggered upright, she began to pat him as though checking he was still all there, and realized she’d dropped the briefcase at his feet.
“We have to heat you up, Bull.”
Rosie was pulling his gloves from his near frozen fingers—one hand crushed a sodden bill, and she shoved the wad of paper into her pocket. Then she lifted his knuckles to her lips to press warm kisses to them, pouring her relief onto his fingers.
“Can you walk? Oh, please say you can walk—I can help you.” The road was close—they could find a tavern, a hotel, someplace to take care of him.
He didn’t answer, but when Bull threw his arm around her shoulder, she could feel how hard he was shaking.
“I have you,” she whispered, stooping to grab the briefcase. “Come on, I have you.”
As they stumbled back toward the road, Bull muttered something. She glanced up at his pale jawline—his hat was long lost, his auburn hair plastered and frozen to his temples and cheeks. “What?”
“Came back,” he managed passed chattering teeth. “To ye.”
Rosie’s arm tightened around him, although she wasn’t sure how much help she was actually being. “You did,” she choked, stumbling onward, legs burning at his almost dead weight. “You came back to me. Thank you, Bull.”
“…m-m-matter. M-My Rose.”
She wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, so she merely shook her head, swallowed down her sob, and did her best to increase their speed.
Alnwick was a sleepy little village, but Lord Tittle-Tattle lived far enough from the center that she was panting with exertion by the time they reached it. She remembered seeing a few hotels near the train station, with restaurants and shops. But that was miles away—out here…
An inn! Rosie directed their shambling steps toward the building, back aching but determination propelling her, and when they pushed through the front door she felt the stares of the locals who were sitting around the tap room.
“A room,” she gasped to the proprietor, as Bull’s fingers—shaking as they warmed—reached for the edge of the counter. “Please. He has—my betrothed has fallen into the river.”
She was frightened enough for Bull that she was having trouble remembering her role. Betrothed? Yes, yes, she had his ring. They were supposed to be engaged, but then they wouldn’t be able to share a room.
And she was most definitely sharing a room with him. If she didn’t help him get warm, he could very well die.
No. No, she would not allow that to happen.
Thank God, the proprietor was a no-nonsense sort of man. He took one look at Bull, dripping all over his floor and shaking violently, and nodded once. “Upstairs, third door on the left.” He handed Rosie a key. “I’ll bring up hot water and food.”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully, pushing her shoulder under Bull’s arm once more and tightening her hold on the briefcase. “Our luggage is at the station under the name Lindsay. I would be most grateful if you could send someone to fetch it.”
He nodded again, and was already moving toward the back of the taproom—hopefully to fetch the hot water—as Rosie led Bull toward the stairs.
“’ank ye,” he managed, gripping the railing and trying his best to help lift himself. “C-C-Cold—”
“Hush,” she warned him. “I have you.”
And she did.
Somehow, she got him up the stairs and into the room. The briefcase went beside the key on the bureau and she began to strip Bull of his overcoat. He was shaking so violently, she wasn’t sure how he could stay upright.
A knock on the door heralded two maids who entered with steaming hot water, towels, and a tray with some sort of soup and bread and cheese. A young man followed, heaving Rosie and Bull’s luggage. As he stacked it in the corner, she breathed a sigh of relief.
But he was still in danger—she had to warm Bull somehow.
As the others filed out of the room, offering her advice she didn’t hear, Rosie’s attention was focused on the man she—the only man she’d come to care about. The man who’d said all those incredibly sweet things to her. The man who had helped so many for so long.
It was her turn to save him.