Chapter Fourteen
Marianne held on tightly to Benedict as his horse thundered across the meadow. Her silk skirts whipped up around her thighs, and she squeezed her eyes closed, pushing away any worries of indecency.
What did it matter if she displayed more leg than was proper? She had just escaped the clutches of a madman!
A sob escaped her as the adrenaline that had fueled her escape fused with deep relief that her desperate plan had seemingly worked.
She had hardly dared to hope that Benedict would correctly interpret her hastily concocted code.
When she plunged through the hedge, tearing her skirts on the overgrown branches, the sight of him waiting for her would have been enough to make her weep, were it not for her very real fear of Edgar waking up and pursuing her.
How long would the laudanum keep him asleep for?
More time must have passed than she realized, as light was already seeping from the darkening sky. A chill breeze disturbed her hair, sending a shiver down her spine. After so many days of relentless heat, it seemed the weather was finally breaking.
Benedict pulled his horse to a trot and threw a concerned glance over his shoulder.
“It’s beginning to rain.”
The first drops fell onto her flushed cheeks. Marianne thought the rain was a blessing. She might even dance in it. Recklessness surged through her.
“I don’t care.”
But Benedict’s expression was worried. “It is likely to be a summer storm.” As he spoke, thunder rolled ominously in the distance. “We must get to shelter.”
“We must get away,” she corrected him, wishing she could urge the horse on herself. “I must get home to Toby.” She would run all the way to London if she had to.
They cantered across the lush meadow, the ground sloping gently before them. Soon they would reach the shelter of the wood by the village, but for now they were exposed in the open. The rain fell faster, flattening her skirts against the horse’s hindquarters.
Benedict spoke up again. “Toby is safe. Your aunt realized the danger he was in. She was quicker and smarter than I.” His voice quavered.
A second wave of relief flooded through her. “But you saved me.” Marianne squeezed his waist. “You came and you found me and saved me.”
A strong gust of wind bent the branches of a nearby tree and the horse shied nervously. Benedict held him steady but slowed the pace back to a trot.
“Your aunt has hired the Bow Street Runners.” Benedict raised his voice to stop his words being whipped away. “They would have found you tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait that long.”
Her heart sang. “I’ve never been happier to see anyone.”
Briefly he released the reins with one hand so he could clasp hers. “I am relieved to hear that. When you were so calm and composed in the parlor, I thought for a while that you wanted me to leave.”
“Never.” She pressed her forehead to the space between his shoulder blades, getting as close as she could in the challenging circumstances. “It was all an act. Edgar told me he had people with eyes on Toby.” She shuddered.
“A lie.” His voice was warm and reassuring, despite the brisk wind and persistent rain. “How would anyone gain entry to Fencham House without your aunt’s say so?”
He is right!
Aunt Clementine ruled Fencham House with a rod of iron.
Respite from her fears made her slump forward and a rivulet of water found a path down the back of her neck. Clad only in her silken ballgown, Marianne shivered.
“We must get to shelter,” Benedict declared. “Do you have any friends hereabouts?”
It was too depressing to say no. Marianne sniffed and straightened her back. “We could try at the vicarage.”
Though what would the vicar and his wife say when they found her on their doorstop, wet and disheveled, with a strange man?
Not a strange man, she corrected herself. My fiancé.
Taking courage from the thought, she pushed a damp strand of hair from her face and peered over his shoulder. “It is just along this line of trees. There, you can see the gateposts on the left.”
With their destination in sight, Marianne became increasingly aware of the chafing of her damp skirts and the uncomfortable jolting of the horse’s long stride.
She ached and shivered and longed to put her feet on solid ground.
Unaware of her discomfort, Benedict urged the horse into a canter, and she hung on grimly as they passed along the treelined driveway.
When the horse came to a halt, she all but groaned with relief.
Benedict dismounted and held up his arms for her.
She slid down as gracefully as she could, the brief excitement of their proximity much diminished by their sodden state.
Her knees buckled as she landed on the gravel drive, but Benedict stood still and tall, supporting her until she found her balance.
He was her rock.
“This is not how I would have planned the run-up to our wedding,” he remarked.
A swell of laughter banished what was left of her self-pity. “It will make married life seem all the more wonderful in comparison.”
His eyes lit up. “Oh, I do hope so.”
She thought he might kiss her, and half longed for the touch of his lips, even though they stood outside the vicarage for all to see.
Thunder rolled around them, breaking the spell.
With a reassuring squeeze of her arm, Benedict climbed the front steps and pulled on the bell rope.
She heard the chimes ringing in the hallway and pictured the vicar pushing his spectacles up his nose while wondering aloud who would disturb them in such weather.
Would he offer a disgraced woman shelter?
Of course he would, Marianne told herself crossly, rubbing her arms to ward off the cold. He was a man of God. Surely, he would have no choice.
But the tall front door remained resolutely closed as rain fell steadily from the dark sky.
Benedict rocked on his heels before pulling the rope once again and leaning forward to peer through the glass panel.
“It looks as if there’s no one home.”
She shook her head, dislodging a fresh trickle of water down her neck. “There must be.”
He walked to the nearest window and looked through it. “I can’t see much of anything, I’m afraid.”
Marianne stifled a sob. She had anticipated shelter, even if the benefactor exuded an air of disapproval.
There was a time when the vicar and his wealthy young bride, Helen, had called upon her regularly at Medstead Hall.
Tea had been drunk, walks had been taken, and one summer, before Toby was born, she and Victor had accepted an invitation to a shoot at Helen’s family home.
She recalled the trip had not been a success. Victor had never learned to shoot as a child, and he did not turn out to be a natural shot.
She sighed deeply as realization set in. “They will be at the grouse shoot. I forgot. They always go at this time of year.”
Benedict turned toward her, shaking his head in dismay. “There really is no one here?”
“No one,” she confirmed. “The shoot is in Norfolk, and the vicar prides himself on allowing the staff time off while they are away.”
“Then the house is all shut up.” Benedict walked slowly down the steps, twisting his head to look back at the stately building.
Marianne put her hand against the horse’s shoulder, trying to take comfort from his steaming warmth. “We must try elsewhere.”
Even as she said the words, a wave of exhaustion sent dots dancing before her eyes. She squared her shoulders against weakness, but dizziness overcame her and she felt herself falling backwards into Benedict’s strong arms.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
She reached out for the sodden lapels of his jacket, her fingers flailing against his broad chest. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m the one who is sorry.” He righted her, holding her tightly so she could lean her weight against his solid body. “What kind of husband will I be? First, I allow you to be kidnapped from under my nose. Then you get a drenching in a storm.”
She breathed him in, already feeling stronger. “Even the son of a duke cannot control the weather.”
“No, but I can control my response to it. Dash it all. We’re taking shelter here. There’s nothing else for it.”
Keeping one arm firmly around Marianne’s waist, Benedict led both her and the horse over to the barn. He unfastened the door, kicked it wide open, and urged them both inside.
It was a blessed relief to get out of the rain.
The barn smelled sweetly of hay. Marianne spied a three-legged wooden stool and sank gratefully onto it whilst Benedict settled the horse in a stall and removed its saddle and bridle.
Cold wrapped long fingers around her, and Marianne hugged herself, knowing there was little else Benedict could do to remedy their situation.
She looked about but could discern little in the weak light.
Outside, the rain lashed down, splashing in puddles that now stretched the length of the driveway.
The sound and spectacle were hypnotic and Marianne startled when Benedict pulled a large iron contraption in front of her.
“I found a brazier and some kindling in the stablemaster’s room,” he grunted. “Once we get this going, you’ll soon be warm and dry.”
Shivering on her unsteady stool, Marianne wondered if she would ever be warm and dry again. Benedict didn’t comment on her silence, but after a few moments she felt a rough and heavy rug being placed over her shoulders.
“I found this too.”
She instinctively pulled it closer. “Thank you.”
“Things will get better.” He placed a hand lightly on her arm and a wave of warmth rippled through her.
“I know.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“Someday, this will be an entertaining story to tell our children.”
Her breath caught in her throat and for a moment she said nothing. Her gaze focused on the dancing flames in the brazier and the shadows flickering across the plastered wall beyond.
“Do you wish for children, Benedict?”