Chapter 6
Margo surveyed the wreckage of their post-chaise and experienced several conflicting emotions at once.
One was definitely worry. The postilion and horses, thank the Lord, were perfectly well, but their speedy progress toward Scotland had abruptly halted.
She’d hoped they were well ahead of Matilda and Ashford after two full cycles of day and night riding, but she didn’t know for certain, and the delay made her anxious.
She felt a vague sense of alarm when she considered where they were—somewhere in Derbyshire, according to the postilion, but certainly not in any apparent vicinity of a town, a coaching inn, or any other humans.
She’d heard of highwaymen and brigands in the remoter parts of the Great North Road, but—
Well, Henry was here, and she found she couldn’t muster much real fear.
Which brought her to the third emotion: immense relief.
She’d been dreaming about him, and not the casual kind of dream one had about one’s brother’s best friend. She’d been dreaming that Henry was naked and beneath her, his eyes black with lust, his hands on her hips as she sank down onto—
Curse her unmanageable body! Surely it was because she had been pressed into his chest, her nose full of his familiar scent. That was the only explanation she was willing to entertain.
But then she’d woken, and his hand had been at her waist, his thumb a bare inch from the side of her breast. The coach had been nearly as wild and raucous as the desire coursing through her, her body hot and sensitive from her dream. She’d looked at him, and something had caught fire inside her.
He’d looked ravenous. He’d looked like he wanted to inhale her, and his thigh had ground against her sex, and Margo had been quite, quite certain that she was about to get tupped straight into the post-chaise’s worn black cushions.
Which would have been a terrible idea. This was Henry. He might desire her—Margo tested out this new idea and found that it pleased her extremely—but he would never act upon it. He was the most proper, virtuous man she’d ever known, and she was one of the Halifax Hellions.
Henry was not the sort of man who fucked scandalous ladies in moving carriages. He was the sort of man who settled down with a well-bred wife and produced a houseful of little Henrys, which meant that if they committed a carnal act in the post-chaise, he was sure to regret it.
And that, Margo felt, would be unbearable.
So—relief. She was definitely relieved the post-chaise had crashed before anything irrevocable had happened.
At least, she was trying to feel relieved, which was almost the same.
The postilion was still begging their pardons and reliving the experience by turns. “A most dangerous stretch of road, sir, and the horses growing tired—my fault, to be sure, all my fault—nearly swallowed my tongue when I felt the chaise tip, I swear I did!”
“That’s all right,” Henry said. “We’re all safe. Can we ride to the nearest posting inn? The lady and I can share one of the horses, and you can take the other.” He glanced briefly at Margo and then away so quickly she might have imagined the blush that settled on his cheekbones.
“We-ell,” said the postilion doubtfully, “perhaps you could. I’m not sure the horses are fresh enough to carry two—if you wanted to wait here, I could be back in four or five hours—”
“Four or five hours?” Margo tried to hold back the horror in her voice, but couldn’t manage it. God, Matilda and Ashford could be riding ahead of them even as they sat here on the side of the road.
“I’m not certain we have another choice,” Henry said to her in a low voice. “The horses look exhausted. We can’t go alone—I’ve no idea where we are, and I worry we’d end up riding in circles. And I’d not send you alone with the postboy, as respectable as he seems.”
Margo fisted her fingers in her skirts. She hated waiting—it went against her very nature, which even now was urging her to go, to do. But she nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course.”
“Go on ahead,” Henry told the postilion, and Margo fished some coins out of her reticule for the man. One of the pleasures of the immense Halifax fortune was that she could tip everyone who worked for her extravagantly.
The postilion blinked at the coins and then nodded eagerly at them both.
“I’ll have a new post-chaise sent round for you two as quick as lightning.
” He made to mount one of the horses, but then turned back.
“Oh! And you should know—if you’ve need of it, there’s a crofter’s cottage about three miles down the road.
” He gestured vaguely back the way they’d come.
“Follow the track, go left at the blasted oak. You can’t miss it. ”
“I don’t anticipate going anywhere,” Henry said. “We’ll stay here with the other horse until a new post-chaise arrives.”
“Just in case,” said the postilion, and he slung himself up onto the horse. “Just in case.”
Of course, it started bloody raining.
What had he expected? That he could sit sedately beside Margo and await the arrival of fresh horses and a well-sprung carriage?
Of course not. He was with Margo, which meant that whenever he made a rational plan, it promptly exploded in his face. He could not tell if he was glad the carriage accident had interrupted his lust-addled assault on Margo’s person or if he was heartbroken.
“I’m sure it will stop soon.” Margo had to half-shout to be heard over the downpour. “Perhaps we can shelter under the remains of the post-chaise!”
Henry gave a groan that he was fairly certain was muffled by the rain. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s find the crofter’s cottage.”
Margo tipped her head back to stare up at him, her hair already dark with damp. “You mean—go out to the road? In the weather?”
“Better than sitting here in the weather, don’t you think?”
Her lips quirked in a smile—only Margo would smile as they froze to death in northern Derbyshire—and she nodded, hooking her reticule strap over her shoulder.
He wanted to laugh. At least they’d have cheese.
Some indefinite amount of time later, Henry no longer felt like laughing. He felt like locating the postilion and murdering him in cold blood.
Where the fuck was the cottage? They’d been walking for—well, Henry didn’t know how long they’d been walking for, because his pocket watch had been smashed in the carriage accident and no longer kept proper time. It felt like hours, though it had probably only been ninety minutes or so.
Margo was struggling. She’d started to limp about twenty minutes in, and when he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d tipped her chin up like a queen and admitted that she had a blister.
A blister. That wasn’t so bad. He tried to tamp down his worry.
But it was growing abruptly dark, and Henry felt cold, which meant that Margo—though she was wrapped in his greatcoat—was probably much colder. A blasted tree—the postilion had told them to look for a blasted tree. Henry wanted to shove a blasted tree right up the man’s blasted arse.
“Henry?” Margo’s voice sounded a little strained, and he looked down. Christ, she was pale. Her freckles stood out against her skin like tiny bruises. “Do you think we can stop?”
He froze. “Is it your foot? I’m so bloody sorry—we’ll stay warmer if we keep moving. I’m sure we’re almost there.”
They had to be almost there. Surely the postilion could not have been so far off in his estimate of the distance.
“I’m only—short of breath,” Margo said. Raindrops clung to her hair, clustered at the corners of her mouth. “Sorry. I suppose I should take more exercise.” She gave him a ghost of a wry grin. “Poor timing for that revelation.”
“How’s your blister?”
Her expression went slightly bemused. “Fine, in fact. I don’t seem to be able to feel my feet.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. He did not like that at all.
He put his hand at the nape of her neck, meaning to draw her closer, though he was wary as always of touching her too intimately. But when his palm closed on her bare skin, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
She was cold. Her skin was frigid. And she was shivering.
“Goddamnit, Margo.”
Her teeth had started to chatter. “W-what’s wrong?”
He pulled her into his body, then bent down and scooped her up beneath her knees. She squeaked, but didn’t resist, only turned in to him, pressing her icy face into the curve of his neck.
Which only made him more worried. When he’d last done this, six years ago, she’d shrieked and laughed and pretended to struggle. Now she was stiff and silent in his arms.
Panic settled into his body, and he walked faster along the rutted track, cold rain snaking down his back. He had to find the cottage. He had to get her warm. If he did not—
He could not think about what could happen if he did not. Even now, shivers racked her body so hard that it was difficult to keep his hold on her.
“A bit longer now,” he murmured into her ear. “You’re doing so well.”
Should he have forced her to keep walking? Carrying her had seemed the right decision in the moment—to hold her close to his body, to share some of his warmth—but perhaps it was all wrong. Perhaps he was making the situation worse. Perhaps—
The tree. He knew it immediately for the tree the postilion had meant. It was an enormous gnarled oak, its top half blackened and burned by what must have been a direct lightning strike. And on the left side of the road, as the postboy had told them, was a small dirt path.
He tightened his grip on Margo’s shivering body and turned left. “Almost there. We’re at the tree now.”
“Is it blasted?” she mumbled, her voice a trifle slurred.
Fuck, he hated this. He hated rain and autumn and Derbyshire. He hated that Margo was cold.
“Yes. Entirely blasted. I think it’s been cursed.”
She breathed out, and he thought it might be a laugh. “Whole trip—is cursed.”
“Don’t say that. This could be a very nice cottage.” He could see it now, thank Christ, up ahead through the trees. “Just a bit farther, darling, I promise.”
He could feel her breath in his ear, jagged with her shaking, and he wanted to run, but he made himself be careful with her.
In another minute or two, they were there, and he tugged open the front door to the small building.
Relief speared him at finding the door unlocked and the interior snug and dry.
There was a table, one chair, a narrow bed. A grate with no coal, but a small stack of dry wood and a tinderbox.
He didn’t want Margo’s wet clothes to soak the sheets, so he deposited her trembling body on the chair instead. Her eyes were half-closed, but she made an effort to rouse herself when he set her down. She tried to smile. Her lips were blue.
Fucking hell. He slid his travel bag from his shoulder—the waxed leather had kept the rain mostly out—and pulled out his remaining dry shirts. His hands were shaking too, he noticed vaguely, though he thought it was fear rather than cold.
“Going to start a fire,” he said, “then get you warm, all right? You’re going to be fine.”
“Have any ch-chocolate?”
He thought for a moment she was delirious, and then he realized she was joking. “Left it in the carriage,” he said. “With the champagne flutes.”
He made the fire as quickly as he could, talking nonsense to Margo and trying to make sure she stayed awake. It seemed critical for some reason that she remain conscious.
When the fire was roaring, he turned back to Margo, who was huddled inside his greatcoat on the wooden chair.
As gently as he could, he untangled her fingers from where they clutched at the cuffs, then slid the garment off her.
It occurred to him that she was dripping, so he sacrificed one of his precious dry shirts to blot her pale face and wrap round her hair.
He unfastened the five hooks on her gown and tugged at the ribbon that gathered the bodice of her chemise.
She was stiff, liable to hug her limbs into her body, but he persisted, one cautious unfolding of arm or leg at a time.
Soon he had all the freezing wet layers of fabric off of her body and then—finally—he slipped his other dry shirt over her head. She seemed to catch his intention, because she pushed her hands through the sleeves herself.
He didn’t want to touch her—not now, while he was drenched and freezing—but he had to get her wrapped in the bedsheets and in front of the fire.
There seemed nothing to do but divest himself of his own garments as well.
He had no more dry shirts, so once he was down to his smallclothes, he dragged the sheets from the bed, gathered Margo in his arms, and swaddled them both in rough white cotton.
He settled himself on the floor a few feet from the grate, Margo tucked against his front. It was warm—the fire felt like heaven on his cheeks and nose.
“There,” he said idiotically to Margo, “you see? You did it.”
Slowly, her shivers subsided. The stiffness in her limbs that had spiked his alarm eased. She softened against him, huddled in their nest of blankets.
And finally, Henry remembered how to breathe.
“Margo?”
“Hmm?” She was more than half-asleep now, but she opened her eyes. Her lips were slowly flushing back to pink.
He didn’t know what he’d meant to say. Everything had been so bloody cold—the terror spiking his bones, Margo’s hands on his back, the diamond-blue pallor of her mouth. Now relief was shuddering through him, and he pressed his face against her damp hair, willing himself not to shatter.
She was safe. He was the one who trembled.
“You can sleep now,” he said.
She tucked her head under his chin, her cheek pressed against his chest, her mouth at the notch of his collarbone. “You—too,” she whispered.
And he did.