Chapter 5
The horse stumbled again, and Megan tightened her grip on the stranger’s coat, her fingers numb from cold and fear because her mittens were soaked. Dawn was breaking over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of grey that matched the exhaustion dragging at her bones.
They’d ridden through the rest of the night with only his body warmth keeping her from expiring from the cold.
Her body ached from being pressed against the man who’d broken into her room.
Oliver, he’d said his name was. She didn’t know his family name.
Didn’t know anything about him except that he’d pulled her from Penharrow’s lodge and now they were fleeing through the Welsh wilderness with pursuit somewhere behind them.
What have I done?
The question had been circling through her mind since they’d crossed that swollen river in the dark. She’d chosen this. Chosen to flee with a complete stranger rather than stay in her gilded cage. At the time, it had seemed like the only option. Anything was better than Penharrow.
But now, cold and wet and terrified, she wasn’t so sure.
“There,” Oliver called out, his voice rough with exhaustion. He pointed toward a stone structure ahead. “Shelter.”
Megan’s heart leapt with desperate hope. The shepherd’s hut appeared solid. Four stone walls, a slate roof that looked intact. No smoke, so hopefully it was empty. It should be at this time of year. The sheep would have been taken to lower pastures.
“We can get dry,” she tried to say, but Oliver had already urged his exhausted horse forward.
The hut was larger than she’d expected and empty. Oliver dismounted first, then reached up to help her down. Megan’s legs buckled when her feet touched the ground. She would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
“Easy,” he said. “You’re all right.”
But she wasn’t all right. She shook, from cold, from exhaustion, from the delayed terror of everything that had happened in the past few hours. The river crossing. The gunshots. The desperate flight through darkness.
And now, she was alone with two strange men in an isolated hut, miles from anywhere.
The other man, Webb, she remembered, was already leading the horses around to the back of the hut where she could see a small shelter. The horse who’d fallen in the water had followed behind them, so at least they had three mounts again.
At least the animals would have protection too. They were her means of escape should she need it. That was laughable. She couldn’t ride either of those beasts by herself. As usual she was trapped.
“Inside,” Oliver said, his hand on her elbow, guiding her toward the door.
The interior made Megan’s chest tighten with unexpected relief. A fireplace with a small, stacked fire ready to be lit. Stacks of dry firewood against one wall. Clean blankets folded on rough wooden cots. Even the floor was stone rather than dirt, swept clean.
She’d only ever known the hunting lodge, with its silk sheets, fine wool blankets and soft down duvets. This was nothing like that. This was better. This had no memory in it.
“I’ll get the fire lit,” Oliver said, already moving to add more wood. It soon began to crackle and flame. “Sit here and get warm.”
Megan sank onto the stone hearth and held her hands toward the heat. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, heavy and cold. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
Oliver knelt beside her, and she flinched before she could stop herself.
He froze, hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I’m won’t hurt you.”
“That’s what all men say.” The words came out before Megan could stop them, bitter and sharp.
Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Fair enough, but it’s still true.” He stood, moved to a pack she hadn’t noticed before. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death.”
Panic spiked through her chest. “No.”
“Megan—”
“No.” She wrapped her arms around herself, pressing back against the stone wall. “I won’t. I won’t—”
“I’m not asking you to undress for my benefit,” Oliver interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind.
“I’m telling you that if you don’t get out of those wet clothes, you’ll die of cold.
And we didn’t rescue you and pull you out of a freezing river to have you expire from exposure in a shepherd’s hut. ”
He pulled items from the pack. A shirt, breeches, even stockings. All far too large for her, but dry.
“These are mine. Your saddlebag got wet when the horse fell, so we need to empty that and dry everything out. My bag was on Webb’s horse so it’s dry.
” He set the clothes on the bench near the fire.
“Wear them until yours dry. You can change while Webb sees to the horses.” He moved and strung a wool blanket between two pegs on the wall.
“I’ll keep my back turned. Wrap yourself in that when you’re changed and hang your clothes to dry.
We aren’t going to hurt you. I give you my word. ”
“Your word means nothing to me.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know you. I don’t know why you took me or what you want from me or—”
“Firstly, I want you to not die from the cold,” Oliver said flatly. “That’s what I want right now. Everything else can wait until you’re warm and dry. Then I’ll explain more.”
The door opened and Webb entered, water dripping from his coat. He took one look at the tableau, Megan pressed against the wall, Oliver holding dry clothes, the tension thick between them, and sighed.
“I’ll step back outside, see to the horses properly. Give you both some privacy.” He left before Megan could respond.
She stared at the dry clothes, then at Oliver. “Why should I trust you?”
“I cannot give you a reason.” He moved away from her, settling himself on the far side of the hut with his back turned. “But you need to get dry, and I’m the only option you have right now. So, trust me or don’t. Just get warm before you make yourself ill. We can’t escape if you’re ill.”
Megan waited, watching him. He didn’t move.
Didn’t turn. Just sat with his back to her, working quietly with wet gear, and she could hear the soft click of metal, a pistol being cleaned, put right again.
Hands that knew what they were doing. She watched the line of his shoulders and told herself it meant nothing.
Slowly, shaking with more than cold, she grabbed the dry clothes and moved behind the hanging blanket.
Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings of her wet dress.
Everything was soaked through. She’d had the presence of mind to wear a warm wool day gown and thick stockings, but they were saturated to her chemise, even her stays.
She peeled them away from her skin with numb fingers, hyperaware of every sound from the other side of the blanket.
Oliver didn’t move. Didn’t try to look. She could hear him still at his work, lighting the fire the only sound beneath the rain.
The dry shirt was enormous on her, hanging to her knees. The breeches were impossible, far too large, falling off her hips. She abandoned them and pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, then wrapped herself in one of the dry blankets.
“I’m decent,” she called out, her voice small.
Oliver turned.
His expression was carefully neutral as he took in her appearance. Swamped in his shirt, wrapped in a blanket, her wet hair hanging in tangles around her face.
And it was neutral, that expression. Megan had become expert at reading men’s faces, at cataloguing every shift from polite interest to the thing that came next, the thing she had learned to brace for.
She read him carefully and found nothing to alarm her.
Only something she couldn’t quite name, something that moved through his eyes and was put away very quickly, like a letter folded before someone else could read it.
She filed that away and looked at her hands.
“Better,” he said. “Hang your wet things by the fire to dry. And sit, get warm.”
She did, acutely aware of wearing so little in front of a man she didn’t know, but Oliver had already turned away again, building up the fire, and she found herself studying the back of his head the way she would study a landscape for the paths out of it. Mapping it. Noting it without meaning to.
“You need to get dry too,” she said, almost to herself.
“I will once we’ve organized food.”
The door opened and Webb returned, water still dripping from his coat. He moved to the fire without looking at Megan, stripping off his wet outer layers.
That was when she saw the blood.
“You’re hurt,” she said, the words automatic.
Webb glanced at his shoulder, where his shirt was soaked with blood as well as rain. “Caught a bullet in the escape. It’s nothing. Merely a scrape.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
But Megan was already moving, instinct taking over. The same instinct that had gotten her through years of tending the staff’s injuries, of learning to be useful in the hope that someone might eventually help her in return.
“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the bench. “Let me see to it.”
Webb looked at Oliver, who nodded. The older man sat, and Megan carefully peeled away his wet shirt.
The wound was a graze rather than a true bullet wound, but it was deep and still bleeding. Hours old. If not treated it could fester.
“It needs to be cleaned,” she said. “Do you have whiskey?”
Webb pulled a flask from his coat pocket with his good arm. “This’ll do.”
Megan took it, then looked around the hut. She needed cloth for bandages. Her chemise was wet, but it would work. She retrieved it from where she’d hung it to dry and began tearing strips with shaking hands.
“Where did you learn field medicine?” Oliver asked from across the room.
Megan didn’t look at him. “My jailers often got injured. I learned to tend them, hoping maybe one day they might help me in return.” She poured whiskey over the wound, ignoring Webb’s sharp intake of breath.
“The gamekeeper taught me. Said it was useful, but I suspect he knew I needed something to occupy my time.”