Chapter 4
“Broke a wheel.” Jasper called frantically.
Neda forced the door and slid easily to the ground. While Martin and Jasper struggled with the carriage horses, Lindhorst brought his well-trained mount closer in an effort to help soothe the distraught animals.
Mere feet ahead of them she saw the problem, and it sent her heart clacking and pounding. The loud crack had not been just the wheel. A tree, a huge elm laced with heavy ice, had fallen, obstructing most of the road.
Praise God that they’d been picking their way so slowly up the slick lane. A few moments faster and they would have been under that tree. She and her servants might have been crushed. Lindhorst might have been crushed.
She caught him glancing back at her and dismounting.
“Neda.”
He hurried to her, and her heart lurched. Water streamed from the brim of his hat, his face rugged and grim, and as handsome as ever.
“Are you well?”
Sudden tears threatened—of relief, of gratitude. She swallowed them down. “It’s a miracle we weren’t under that…” She pointed at the felled elm. “Are the horses injured?”
“Not that I see. We’ll know better when we get them unhitched.”
“Martin and Jasper?”
“They did well, considering. No one took a tumble. Let’s get you out of this rain and cold. Will you wait in the coach?”
“For how long? Will you go for help?”
He tucked her hand over his arm and nudged her along. “Wait here a few moments while I help them. Gather what you want to bring with you.”
“You mean for us to walk in this weather?” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be missish.”
* * *
Lindhorst helped her into the coach, resisting the urge to kiss her.
He’d found another reason why he so admired this lady. She might have a wild hair that made her chase after her son foolishly, but she had the grace to apologize for getting them into this predicament.
“No apology needed. You’ve had a shock on top of all your worries and are entitled to be tetchy. Right now, we need to get ourselves and the horses out of this freezing rain, and quickly. I’m going to talk to your men and make a plan.”
Pressing her lips together, she nodded.
She was putting herself into his hands reluctantly, he could tell. Ultimately, she wouldn’t like where they were going, but it was better than any other alternatives.
Despite their frozen fingers, the two servants worked quickly and led the horses away from the downed carriage.
“Where to, milord,” the coachman asked. “Got to get these fellows somewhere warm.”
“We’re halfway between the George and a manor house I know of. Take them back to the George. Have their feet looked at.” He passed over some coins. “They’ll make room for you in the stables. Lady Loughton and I will go on to Pheasant Run and find safer shelter for her there.”
“We’re meant to go with her,” the coachman said.
“Commendable of you to mention it. I know this place, and they’re not going to have much feed, nor a farrier handy. And The George is no shelter for a lady right now.”
The stubborn man chewed on the thought and watched the horses stamping, one of them favoring a leg.
“Lord Loughton won’t like it.”
“I know. I’ll square it with him when we meet. And I’ll see that she’s safe.”
He nodded. “Known the lady all me life. You’d best do that, milord.”
Lindhorst blinked. He wouldn’t normally take such cheek from a servant, but he had to respect the fellow’s loyalty.
On the other hand, perhaps if the coachman had been a little more insolent, a little less loyal, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
The man beckoned the other servant. “We’ll see to these cattle and find our way to Pheasant Run later.”
Lindhorst nodded. “And get that wheel fixed once the weather clears. Don’t you bloody freeze to death, or her ladyship will skin me alive.”
* * *
Neda slung her reticule on her wrist, passed Lindhorst her valise and the basket, and then slid from the coach to the icy ground—and kept sliding until Lindhorst caught her neatly and pulled her close, wrapped in his free arm and his greatcoat.
She was too cold and too grateful for warmth to object.
His horse stood nearby, and they picked their way to it carefully. She’d watched Martin and Jasper lead the carriage horses away, back toward that hideous inn. Perhaps the innkeeper and his wife would let her shelter in their own parlor, if they had one in their quarters.
In moments she was settled—awkwardly sidewise upon Lindhorst’s mount. While she clung to the saddle, he secured their belongings and flung himself up behind her. His arms came around her with more intimacy than was proper—though she supposed it was better than falling off. And warmer. Much warmer.
Tucking one leg up as if she rode side saddle, she faced forward, held her breath, and ducked her head against the turmoil brewing inside her.
He’d nestled her closer and brought the capes of his greatcoat around both of them.
It was gentlemanly, and lovely, and so far, innocent.
Though the promise of more was certainly there. All she had to do was say yes.
She shivered, and he drew her tighter against him.
Must. Not. Shiver. The closeness was intimate and tempting. She tried to remember if Henry had ever held her thusly. No—he’d preferred to travel in a carriage when they were together.
Henry had been thorough and prudent in everything. The only exception, the only impulsive deviation, had led to their hurriedly called banns. That was a secret kept carefully from the children.
The unexpected touch, and warmth, and strength of a man—she remembered, and she missed it. How bad was Lindhorst, truly? Had he dispensed with his earlier wildness, as Fitz had?
Lindhorst tipped his head and water sluiced down on her from his hat brim, jarring her back to her senses and bringing forth an apology.
“I suppose my bonnet has completely deflated,” she replied, shivering.
A cashmere scarf, warm from his body, redolent with his scent, settled over her head and she grabbed the ends of it with one hand, astonishment tying her tongue.
He was a scoundrel, wasn’t he? If he wasn’t, if he had reformed… Oh, she was in deep trouble.
“Thank you,” she said, mustering speech. “If only we had an umbrella.”
“It’s all above ice on this road,” he murmured, the deep baritone sending waves of heat through her.
The statement had been a non-sequitur if ever there was one; was he worried, or just ignoring her? Or perhaps, he was just as unsettled as she was.
“And we can’t gallop,” he mused. “It’s not far though.”
The murmur, the increased intimacy stirred her nerves to new heights of buzzing.
Pride made her shove down the tingles, straighten her spine and curve it into a bow away from his chest…
pride and a healthy dose of caution. She must remember his past reputation.
Lindhorst would attempt to muddle her senses.
To try her on as if she were… some opera dancer, or wicked widow, or…
Heavens. The scent he wore she remembered from their dances in London—bergamot and perhaps a hint of cinnamon—now mixed with a faint and not unpleasant musk.
Under the fine clothes he was muscle and brawn.
He was fitter than Henry, who’d grown a bit portly and slack in later years.
But portly Henry had been older. His little paunch had not begun expanding until his late forties.
A muscled arm tucked her tighter, sending another, more intense wriggle of desire through her.
Oh, oh, oh.
Guilt stabbed her, as if she was being adulterous. She felt… unfaithful.
And flat-out silly. No matter how desirous he was, she wasn’t going to dally with a younger man. She was old. More than a little shriveled. Though she was not quite dried up yet, her best years were certainly behind her.
He would be happy to amuse himself with her, but she didn’t wish to be toyed with. In fact, it was downright offensive for him to do so as if there really was some wager in the betting books at White’s.
Yes, certainly, that must be it. When they reached the inn…
She lifted her head, looked around, and panic rose, almost choking her. “This is not the way back to The George. Where are you taking me?”
* * *
Lindhorst swallowed an ungentlemanly chuckle. She was so petite, and fit so well in his arms, and she had no idea how alluring she was.
“Pheasant Run. It is a manor house just up this lane.”
“Whose manor house?”
“As it happens, it is mine.”
He couldn’t tell whether the tremor that ran through her was excitement or worry.
“And who resides there?”
“The recently hired steward, who is supervising renovations, and his sister who serves as housekeeper and cook for now. Along with a couple of grooms. Though at present the only horses there are the steward’s mount, a couple of draft horses, and a donkey or two.
There is not an abundance of feed, nor is there a farrier there to see to that carriage horse’s limp. ”
Her long angry huff did nothing to ease her stiff posture.
“Yes, it’s true,” he said. “We will be unchaperoned. At our ages, who will care?”
Her continued silence simmered between them.
“Do not worry, my dear. I’ll get you there safely. There’ll be a fire and warm drinks for us and more food than what we have in the basket, though I can’t say the fare will match what is served up by The George.” It might be better.
Farley, his new steward, had been an ambitious and reliable man at his main estate in Bedfordshire before being promoted to this new position.
On Lindhorst’s last visit to Pheasant Run, he’d brought Gordon, and they’d stayed at the nearby inn, visiting Farley to discuss the work underway and review the bills coming in for building materials, coal, and other necessities.