Chapter 13 #2
Almost weeping with relief to be stationary, Rosamunde struggled to focus and saw a ramshackle wooden building in a field. It stood open on one side, showing it held only the remnants of last year’s hay. She wanted to protest that it wasn’t good enough, but made herself be silent.
It would serve.
It seemed very isolated, though. He could lie there forever.
She heard Diana giving instructions and moved her feet so he could be pulled out. She closed her eyes to stop herself from fussing. Then he was gone, and her feet settled on the empty floor.
She tried to keep her eyes closed, to leave it to the others, but it was impossible.
She looked, and saw him being carried across the hummocky field by the two young grooms, Diana following with his boots.
Even though they were strong young men, they couldn’t help the fact that one arm dragged almost on the ground and his head lolled.
Rosamunde grabbed the blankets and struggled out of the coach.
Once down the steps, she had to pause to let the whirling world settle, praying her stomach would not embarrass her.
The thought of how sick he’d been the last time heaped burning guilt on her head.
If she had the choice again, she’d not have done this to him, not even for Wenscote.
As soon as she could, she set off doggedly across the field, determined to make sure he was as comfortable as possible.
She saw the men toss him on the remnants of hay, and broke into a run. “Stop it!”
Diana turned. “Rosa …” but then she shook her head and grabbed the blankets. “Look, I’m going to tuck him in as snug as a babe.”
Rosamunde ignored her cousin’s disgruntled tone and watched, hand braced against a weathered post. Then she stared. “Diana! The crests.”
“Bother.” Diana pulled a corner loose and glared at the embroidered crest that was probably on every item she owned. She looked up at the two stoical servants. “Do something, Culver.”
Without expression, her groom knelt to slice off the crested corner of each blanket, tucking them into his pocket.
“There,” she said, standing and brushing straw off herself. “Can we go now?”
Rosamunde wanted to say no, wanted to tuck him in herself, wanted to give him one last kiss.
In truth, she wanted to lie by him, ready to care for him when he awoke.
He seemed comfortable enough at the moment, but she knew the kind of hell that awaited him.
She’d witnessed it last time, and now was experiencing it herself to some degree.
It had never been about her own needs, however, except for the wicked night that she had stolen from fate. As she deserved, it had only made things worse. She allowed herself one last look, then turned and walked to the coach without a backward glance.
After settling herself in her seat, she pointedly looked away from the field as Diana sat down beside her, and the coach moved off.
It was done.
It was over.
No looking back.
“Apparently we can’t turn on this road,” Diana said, as the coach heaved up, then fell into another dip with a bone-shaking jar. A moan escaped Rosamunde.
“Oh, love. Is it that bad?”
“It’s only what I deserve. He’ll be worse—Ah!” Another lurch sent agony through her.
Diana stuck her head out and commanded Garforth to stop.
But after a brief exchange, she said, “We can’t possibly turn the coach, dearest. But it’s under a mile to the next place, and we’ll go as slowly as possible. Surely at New-whatever, we must join a better road.”
As the coach began to inch forward, Rosamunde tried to keep her head as still as possible and not complain.
“I can never understand these things,” Diana muttered.
Rosamunde opened her eyes a chink and saw that Diana was struggling with a book of coaching maps. “What was the last place we passed? I can’t find New-anything near Thirsk…. Oh, Rosa.”
Rosamunde knew from the tone that it had nothing to do with the map. She realized she had tears on her cheeks.
“It’s just the drug. And the pain.”
“Pain over what?” Diana demanded, dabbing at the tears with her handkerchief. “He’s just a handsome charmer, but there’s nothing there for you, love.”
“I mean the pain in my head.” It wasn’t the whole truth. She hadn’t known grief could cause such physical agony.
A wheel caught in a particularly deep rut, jarring the whole coach. She groaned.
“Devil take it!” Diana exclaimed. “And there’s nothing we can do other than stop still for eternity.”
“We could walk,” said Rosamunde, and then, “Yes!” She started to fumble for the door.
Diana restrained her with one hand while shouting at Garforth to stop so they could get down. Soon Rosamunde was standing on the road, her head swimming, pain beating at her, but pain under her own control. “This is better,” she said. “Better.”
Diana put her arm around her waist. “Come on, then, love. On to the New-place.”
Rosamunde accepted her help and trudged forward, tussling with tangled thoughts. She was suffering in mild form what Brand Malloren had after she’d found him. He’d been drugged before. By whom? And why?
Could he be in danger?
She stopped. “It’s not right to leave him there.”
Diana forced her onward. “Rosa, stop this! What do you think we should do? Deposit him tenderly at an inn with the whole world knowing who left him there?”
“We’re in disguise.”
“Not a good enough one for that!”
“But what if the wrong people find him?”
“Wrong people? What wrong people?”
Rosamunde tried to explain, though she feared she wasn’t making herself very clear.
“Enemies,” scoffed Diana, sounding distinctly grumpy—walking was not her favorite occupation and she doubtless wasn’t wearing sensible shoes. “If so, it was by a chance thief. Why think of enemies and plots?”
“I don’t know. I just am!” Rosamunde’s head was pounding with each step. “Why would a chance thief move his victim to the middle of nowhere?”
“Perhaps the thief came upon him in the middle of nowhere.”
“He said his last memories were at Northallerton. He was moved into the hills so he’d die.”
“Then why,” demanded Diana in something close to a snarl, “would this enemy who wanted him dead not simply slit his throat?”
Lacking an answer, Rosamunde sank into silence. She knew one thing, however. She couldn’t leave this area until she was sure Brand was safe.
To do otherwise would carry betrayal to intolerable levels.
New-place—since it didn’t have a sign they had no way of knowing its proper name—turned out to be a sorry collection of abandoned cottages on a half-decent road. To Rosamunde’s fuzzy mind, it symbolized the disastrous state of her life.
“This hamlet was new back in the days of Bad King John!” Diana complained as she picked her way to the listing signpost which had arms pointing up and down the road. “Ah-ha! Only one mile to Thirsk. We can pick up the Ripon road there and head home.”
Garforth steered the team in that direction, then halted and got down to poke worriedly at his wheels and axles while Diana hoisted Rosamunde back into the coach. Then Diana settled with a sigh of relief, taking off a high-heeled shoe to inspect her foot.
“I’m sorry,” Rosamunde said, not particularly surprised to find that her nausea was building. Perhaps, since she’d drunk so little of the potion, she could fight it off.
As the coach creaked into motion again, Diana eased her shoe back onto her foot and pulled her gold watch out of her pocket. “That took nearly an hour. We’re going to be late getting back home, especially as we’ll have to stop soon and rest the horses again.”
Was this the time to say she wasn’t going?
Then Rosamunde turned cunning. Any suggestion that she wanted to linger to watch over Brand might lead to a quarrel.
The autocratic Countess of Arradale was quite capable of carrying her home by brute force, especially if she realized Rosamunde’s other plan—to let someone know where Brand was so he’d be taken care of.
However, she had a perfect, even honest, excuse not to leave the area. “I really don’t feel well.”
She must have looked the part, for after a quick glance, Diana didn’t put up a fight.
Perhaps she, too, quailed at the thought of many more hours in the coach.
“Very well, we’ll stop in Thirsk for the night.
After all, we’re in disguise. No one will see any connection between us and Brand Malloren. ”
Having achieved the first part of her plan, Rosamunde tried to make her crippled mind come up with a way to inform someone of Brand’s whereabouts. A cunning way that wouldn’t reveal her part in it.
She had to admit that it wouldn’t be easy.
Diana had opened her guide again, and was flicking through pages. “Thirsk. Thirsk. Thirsk. Let’s see…. The only coaching inn seems to be the Three Tuns.”
Oh dear.
Rosamunde had wanted Brand brought here because he’d said he had a party waiting for him and an appointment to keep. If there was only one decent hostelry, however, then his party could be waiting there.
She hadn’t told Diana any of this, but she wasn’t about to do so now or they’d push on to Ripon. With their clever disguises, she told herself, all would be well.
Diana called up to Garforth that they would stop at the Three Tuns, then turned to Rosamunde. “Now, all we need is a title for you.” With a twinkle of mischief, she said, “What about Lady Gillsett?”
“No!” Rosamunde almost shrieked it, and her head went wild. After a moment, she added, “We don’t want the slightest connection, remember? We need something ordinary. Unmemorable. Lady … Richardson.”
“Very well. Lady Richardson, wife of Sir John Richardson of Lincolnshire. So, why don’t we have any baggage … ?”
“Lost it.” Rosamunde closed her eyes and tried to plan, but her mind felt shredded by pain and guilt.
“A mislaid baggage coach!” Diana agreed with almost unbearable enthusiasm. “Yes. How clever.” Then she squeezed Rosamunde’s hand and said in a whisper, “Poor Rosa. Not long now. See, we’re entering the town.”
Rosamunde raised leaden eyelids. Indeed, the coach was winding its way along a narrow, bustling street. Oh mercy, could she bear it? The rattle of hooves and wheels, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, a wave of acrid-smelling roasting meat …
Nausea almost won; then, blessedly, they rattled into the large market square. It wasn’t market day, so it was empty and relatively peaceful. In moments, they halted before the noble portico of the tall, square inn.
Rosamunde shuddered with relief. A bed. Soon she could lie in a bed.
Servants swarmed out to attend the noble guests.
Rosamunde let Diana handle everything, but she was impressed and amused by the way her cousin managed to sound exactly like the uppity maid of a minor gentlewoman.
Diana’s tone became particularly sharp when the plump innkeeper insisted that though he could give the lady a private sitting room, he had absolutely no bedchambers for the night.
“No room at the inn,” Rosamunde thought, the large reception hall swaying sickly around her.
She couldn’t possibly go any farther. Bracing herself against a solid white pillar at the base of dark stairs, she knew she couldn’t even climb back into the coach.
Faint kitchen smells were turning her stomach.
Voices buzzed—Diana’s sharp. The innkeeper’s oily. Another voice. Male. Soothing.
Settle it, she thought desperately. Take a private sitting room if that is all they have. She was going to be sick. She remembered Brand fighting it. He’d lost. She’d lose. She’d much rather lose the battle in private.
Then Diana touched her arm. “Milady?”
She sounded a little peculiar. Not her accent. Her tone. Or would anyone sound peculiar to Rosamunde at this moment? “There’s a gentleman here offering to carry you up to your bed, milady, if you will permit it.”
“Bed?”
“He’s given over his bedchamber to you, too.”
Rosamunde turned her head painfully and saw a tall, dark-haired man bowing. A veritable knight errant!
He was a handsome man, but that had nothing to do with his status as hero in her eyes. He had given her a room, and would carry her up the stairs.
“If you will permit me, Lady Richardson?”
Rosamunde eased away from the support of the pillar and let him lift her into his arms.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said as he began to climb the stairs. “My name is Rothgar.”