A Christmas Bride (2 page)

“Yes,” he said, as he pulled the door closed, “but they are both dead.”

“The coachman is over here,” Jenkins shouted, pausing partway down the hill. “He is dead, too.”

“Take care of the horse.” Timothy sighed. He wished there was something else they could do other than report this to the authorities in the next village. They would have to figure out who had owned this carriage and let the family know of the disaster.

He flinched at the sound of the single shot. Its echo was muted by a woman's shriek.

Whirling, he almost lost his footing. That scream had come from the other side of the carriage. Someone must be alive!

Felix shouted something to him, but he did not pause to listen as he continued down the hill, trying to pinpoint where the sound had come from. He called for Jenkins to fire the gun again. As the shot resonated along the hillside, he followed the terrified cry to his right.

He knew he would never have seen this woman if she had not cried out. Her clothes, as befit a servant, were as drab as the leaves along the hillside. Mud further darkened them. A broken bonnet could not restrain her black hair, which camouflaged her. As she turned her head to look at him, her face was deathly pale. Her shadowed eyes were lost beneath the blood coursing along her forehead.

“Thank goodness,” she whispered. “You did not leave me here.”

He knelt beside her. “Calm yourself, miss. Where do you hurt?”

When she did not reply, he saw she had lost consciousness. He guessed that only the sound of the gun firing had roused her from her pain. He quickly checked her limbs to determine that no bones were broken. Tearing a strip from the hem of her apron, he bound it around her head to slow the bleeding. He wondered how long she had been lying on the hillside waiting for help that might never have come.

He slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her cautiously. Her moan against his neck sent shivers of dread to his toes. If one of her ribs was broken, he could be hurting her worse. He could not leave her here. Even if they were able to find a doctor in the next village, she might die before they returned.

Her head lolled against his chest. Jenkins scampered across the hillside and down to him. The coachman folded the young woman's arm over her breasts, which rose and fell so slowly. Bending, he picked up her ruined bonnet and one slipper.

“Do you need some help, my lord?” he asked. He tucked the bonnet and slipper under his arm as he gripped the gun with his other hand.

“I think I can manage.”

Timothy was less sure of his assertion on every step up the precipitous hill. The woman was slender, but even her slight weight was a burden when he had to fight for each foothold. More than once, Jenkins's hand in the middle of his back steadied him. He was panting like a hound after a fox when he reached the wall at the top of the hill. Somehow he swung one leg, then the other over the wall and carried the young woman to the carriage.

“Oh, my! Oh, my!” Felix said with a gasp as he wrung his hands.

“Calm yourself,” he said, as he had to the young woman, even though he knew it was useless. Felix was always ready to cede himself to panic.

“Is she dead?”

“Not yet.” He set her on one cushion and climbed into the carriage. Settling her head on his leg, he motioned for his cousin to get in, too.

“What are we going to do with her?”

Timothy exchanged a wry grin with Jenkins. “We are going to the next village to see if we can get some help for her. If we hurry, she may live long enough to get there.”

“But, Timothy—”

The young woman shuddered as she drew in a breath, and he retorted, “If we stay here until all your questions are answered, we may be burying her along with the others.”

Two

Pain laced every breath she took. She tried to breathe shallowly, but it made no difference. The pain began on her right side and leaped across to her left with each motion. When she tried to hold her breath, hoping it would ease the anguish, the very pulse of her heart augmented it.

“Shouldn't she be waking up soon?”

She tried to put a face with that petulant voice. For a moment a wisp of memory taunted her; then it vanished into a cacophony of agony. Just thinking hurt.

“Have patience, sir,” a woman replied with a comfortingly familiar north country accent.

Did she know that woman? No, she was sure she had never heard the raspy voice before.

Something cool brushed her cheeks. She almost smiled at the brief respite from the pain, but winced as even that slight motion exacerbated the torment.

“She moved! I saw her move!” The man's voice resounded through her aching head.

“Hush, sir. 'Tis best if she wakes slowly.”

“At this rate, Timothy will return before she regains her senses.”

“If His Lordship is here or not will make no difference in her waking.”

She liked that woman's voice. It was matter-of-fact, not borderline hysterical like the man's.

The coolness vanished, and she wanted to ask for it to come back. No words reached her lips. Hearing footsteps fade, she wondered if she had been left alone. How could they leave her alone when she was so helpless? Did they have not a lick of sense between the two of them? Or were there more than two of them with her here in … Where was she?

The battering of questions ached worse than her pain and forced her eyes open. She stared up at broad beams crisscrossing a slanted ceiling. Not a hint of whitewash had ever stained them, although a sliver of water edged along one before dripping on the floor. It must still be raining.

Yes, it had been raining before when … She frowned. Another moan rushed through her, bursting out of her lips like a peal of thunder.

“Are you awake?”

She wished it had been the woman's voice, but she turned her head to see a man leaning over her. His soggy brown hair clung closely to his scalp and curved along his gaunt face. The intensity in his dark brown eyes threatened to pierce her, and she closed her eyes again. She should scream out her dismay at seeing a stranger leaning over her while she was so vulnerable in this bed, but she did not have the strength.

“I know you are awake,” he said.

He
was
petulant. He could have the decency to lower his voice to a whisper that would not careen through her head.

Slowly opening her eyes again, she murmured, “Barely.”

“How do you fare, miss …?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it. She knew how she fared. Poorly. What she did not know was the name she should give him.

“Miss …?”

Closing her eyes, she took a careful breath. “I am sorry. I cannot seem to recall my name.”

“Is that so?” In a mutter, he added something else, but she could not understand what he said.

She looked across the bed at him. He now had his back to her. Sagging into the pillows, she forgot him as she was overwhelmed with pain again. It dragged her down into the darkness once more.

Not a silent darkness, but one filled with screams and the sounds of a horrible crash. Wood splintering and horses screeching in terror. No escape, nothing but death and pain and more darkness.

“Hush, child,” murmured a voice that drew her out of the morass of horror. “'Tis all right. You are safe now.”

She gazed up at a woman who was nearly as round as she was tall. A smile stretched the woman's apple red cheeks beneath her gray hair.

“I am the innkeeper's wife, Mrs. Bridges,” she said, wringing out a cloth.

She sighed with delight when the cloth brushed her cheeks. Her relief vanished as she heard the irritating man's voice from the other side of the room.

“I need to speak with her alone, Mrs. Bridges.”

“But, Mr. Wayne—”

“Alone.”

The innkeeper's wife's cheerful expression became a scowl, but she turned away from the bed. The door closed softly in her wake.

“Do you think you can stay awake more than a minute this time?” asked Mr. Wayne as he came to stand by the bed.

“I don't know.”

“Then I shall explain this to you quickly. Tell me your name.”

“I told you. I don't remember it.” She winced, but pushed herself up to sit against the pile of pillows. Looking past him, she saw that the rest of the room was as spare as the ceiling. Plain boards ran along the walls, and the only other piece of furniture than this narrow bed was a washstand by the door. No window broke the wall, but she could hear the sound of something hitting the roof. Something icy. It had been raining when … She was not sure when, but she knew it had been raining.

“What do you remember of the accident?”

“I am not sure.” Were the nightmare images and sounds memories or just something dredged from her pain?

“Do you remember the names of the people you were traveling with?”

“No.” She dampened her lips. “Are they hurt?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. They are dead.”

She pressed her hand to her bodice. Realizing she wore only a nightgown, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. She saw a pile of soaked clothing on the floor. When she looked up at Mr. Wayne, his smile was cold.

“Mrs. Bridges put you to bed here.” He sat on its edge. “Listen closely to what I have to say, because I must say it before Timothy returns.”

“Timothy? Who is he? Another passenger?”

“Just listen.” He smiled as he leaned toward her. “Just listen, and I can guarantee that you will be glad you did.”

Timothy swung down off the borrowed horse in front of the Old Vixen Inn. He handed the reins to a stable lad who looked as drenched as he was. For the past two hours he and Jenkins had been helping the local constable and vicar deal with bringing the dead to the village. His pockets were lighter by the cost of three burials. Even though they would be temporary, for their families would want to claim the bodies once the young woman could tell them the names of the dead coachee and the man and woman in the carriage, the corpses could not be left out in the storm.

Nothing in the carriage had given them a clue to the passengers' identities. When he had seen all the footprints in the frozen mud around the carriage, he had guessed thieves had helped themselves to anything of value in it before he was able to return.

“Thank you, my lord, for your assistance,” the pudgy vicar said from within his closed carriage. His smile warned that he did not intend to step out into the snow piling up in the yard in front of the inn.

“I wish it had not been necessary.”

“The young woman—”

“I left her in Mrs. Bridges's care.”

He nodded, both of his chins bouncing together. “Please let her know that I would be glad to speak with her if she wishes.”

“And the constable is sure to want to speak with her.”

The vicar shrugged. “I doubt if she can tell him anything other than the names of her companions. Then he can contact their families and deal with transferring the bodies. From what we saw on the road, it is clear that your coachman was right. The man in the box on that carriage lost control in the storm. A terrible calamity, but nothing of interest to the law.”

Timothy was about to ask another question, but the wind rose, firing snow at him as if from a cannon. The vicar ordered his carriage to hurry him home across the narrow green.

Stepping onto the wide porch, Timothy shook clinging snow and ice from his cape. This storm was not a good omen for his journey to bare his soul to his grandfather.

“Don't be a widgeon,” he grumbled to himself as he ducked his head to enter the inn. Superstition had no place in his thoughts, which must be clear when he spoke with Grandfather. Tonight he would enjoy the best this inn had to offer. Even if it was not much, a trencher of beef and some stout would ease the cold left by the storm and the tragedy on the hillside.

Mrs. Bridges hurried to him and held out her hands for his cape. He undid it and shook it again before handing it to her.

“How does she fare?” he asked.

“She is awake.”

“Is she?” His smile threatened to crack his taut face. “What has she said?”

Mrs. Bridges frowned. “It was very strange. Mr. Wayne shooed me out of the room before she could say more than a pair of words.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.” She stepped aside as a lad held out a tankard of beer. “I went to check on her a few minutes ago, and the door was barred.”

Timothy glanced at the stairs. “That is odd.”

“I thought so.” She rubbed her hands together. “Do you know the lass, my lord?”

“No.”

“Does Mr. Wayne?”

“I doubt it. He seldom ventures far from London.” He took the tankard. Tilting it back, he let the warmth of the beer counteract the hours in the snow and wind. “Why do you think he knows her?”

“No reason. Just the way they were looking at each other.”

Timothy cursed and shoved the tankard back into the lad's hands, spilling beer over both of them. Felix had been lamenting for the past week that his latest mistress was boring him. Not wanting to believe that his cousin would take advantage of a lass in such a perilous state, he reached for the rough railing on the stairs.

“They were not looking at each other in
that
way, my lord,” Mrs. Bridges hurried to say, warning him that his reaction had been too obvious.

“Then how?”

“Don't know how to explain it exactly.”

“Try.”
Blast it!
He did not want to stand here playing a guessing game with the innkeeper's wife after he had spent too much time outside on this frosty afternoon.

“As I said, just as if they thought they might know each other.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges,” he said, as he climbed the stairs.

As dusk drew him up, he wished he had brought the beer with him. The one sip had not been enough to rid him of the chill. His toes were awash in his boots. Once he checked on the young woman and discovered what had unsettled Mrs. Bridges so, he would send his boots to be dried and polished, so they would be ready in the morning when they left. He did not want to delay here any longer than necessary. The sooner he reached Cheyney Park and told his grandfather what he must, the better it would be.