CHAPTER ONE #4
The man gestured at the fidgety beasts. “Come. My horses won't tolerate the delay.”
Without waiting for her reply, he strode to the waiting carriage, and Darcie found herself trailing behind him.
In her exhausted state it would be sheer stupidity to refuse the ride.
Hiking up her skirt, she paused, startled, as he offered his hand to help her into the carriage as though she were the finest lady out for a morning ride.
Such courtesy for a common girl whom he'd nearly run down in the roadway. She was amazed.
She had barely settled on the seat when he climbed in and lowered his body down beside her, his shoulder pressing against hers in the confined space.
He smelled clean and fresh, and Darcie was ashamed of her own state of disrepair.
Likely he bathed every day, while she felt certain she smelled like the docks.
Each morning she performed her ablutions as best she could, searching out a rain barrel, or any clean water that was handy.
In her small, black cloth bag she carried a sliver of scented soap, a luxury she had splurged on in a moment of supreme foolishness.
The soap was nearly gone now, melted by her attempts at personal hygiene.
The money would have been better spent on food.
Dragging in a shaky breath, Darcie looked down at her hands, clasping the tips of her left fingers with her right. She pressed her lips together and cast a sidelong glance in the man's direction.
He had let his head fall back against the seat, baring the strong column of his throat.
His golden hair fanned across the dark velvet upholstery.
His eyes were closed and the curled sweep of his lashes formed dark crescent shadows against his skin.
Everything about this man was beautiful.
The sculpted angle of his cheek. The straight length of his nose, accented by the tiny bump at the bridge.
Forcing her gaze away from him, Darcie turned to look out the side window, uncertain what to do, what to say.
The coach lurched and began to move, picking up speed as the seconds passed.
Darcie stared out the window, watching the buildings move by in a blur.
Tears pooled in her eyes. She was exhausted, hungry, and disgusted by the horror she had nearly been driven to.
But the dormant flame of hope ignited in her breast because she had a name—Dr. Damien Cole—and a reference.
So much more than she had started out with.
Unwanted, her sister's warning crept to the fore and echoed hollowly in her mind. He is a man to fear. Stay out of his way. Stay clear of his work. And keep your nose out of his secrets.
Shifting on the seat, Darcie looked straight ahead into the dim confines of the coach.
With a start, she realized that there was a third person in the vehicle.
A man was sprawled on the velvet upholstery of the seat across from her, his clothing coarse, his boots scuffed and worn.
In the burgeoning light of morning he seemed unnaturally pale.
Watching him for some minutes, Darcie frowned.
There was something strange about the man, something odd about his posture.
Darcie ducked her head and looked through the rain-dampened tendrils of hair that had escaped her pins, toward the man at her side. Her rescuer.
“Y-your friend is sleeping very deeply, sir.” The words jumped from her lips before she could restrain herself.
He opened his eyes, but kept the base of his skull resting against the seat back. When he spoke, he did not look at her, merely stared at the roof of the coach.
“He is not my friend.”
“Oh.” Darcie looked again at the sleeping man across from her. He half sat, half lay across the cushions of the opposite bench. He had not moved, had not made a sound. “That man…Is he ill? Or drunk?”
Her companion made a harsh sound. Darcie thought it might have been a laugh. She turned to face him and found that he was regarding her intently, the strangest expression in his eyes.
“No, he is neither ill nor drunk.” The words were low and soft. “He's well past the possibility of either.”
Darcie’s stomach clenched, not with hunger, but with an irrefutable certainty.
A chill crawled across her skin, raising goose flesh.
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Unable to tear her gaze from the stormy depths of her rescuer's eyes, she whispered the question to which she already knew the answer.
“Is he dead, then?”
His expression did not change, betraying neither emotion nor concern. Darcie watched his lips form the words, though the rushing in her ears nearly obscured the sound of his reply.
“Oh, yes. He is dead. Has been for several hours. Anything more than that and the stench would chase us from the carriage.”
And he smiled most amiably as he said it.
Darcie swallowed against a rising nausea as she stared at her companion in dismay. She shared the coach with two men, one dead, and the other quite possibly mad.
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