The Frost Fair (6 page)

Sir Geoffrey didn't wait to hear if there were any objections to his plan, and no one offered any. He tossed Trixie upon his stallion, handed Hackett the lantern and bade him lead the way. Then he and Roodle unharnessed the other two horses, he lifted Isabel carefully on one of them, and Roodle led the mare off behind Hackett.

As soon as he saw the others on their way, Sir Geoffrey lifted Meg upon the third horse and, grasping the bridle near the bit, began to follow the procession. But the horse's gait was unsteady. With a muttered curse he stopped, knelt down and examined the chestnut's left foreleg. “Damnation, there's a wound!”

“Oh, dear,” Meg said in concern. “Is it very bad?”

“I can't tell in the dark.” He looked ahead to where the rest of the procession was disappearing beyond a rise of land. “It doesn't pay to call them back just to take a look. We shouldn't do the mare too much harm if we walk her the rest of the way, but perhaps she shouldn't be made to bear a burden. Are you up to walking? We haven't very far to go.”

Wincing, Meg slipped down from the chestnut's back. Whatever it cost her, she would not let this arrogant man see that she was in pain. “Go on,” she said, tight-lipped. “I'm following right behind you.”

They hadn't progressed three steps before she realized that the task she'd set herself was impossible. Her ankle couldn't stand the pressure. The pain was unbearable—she had all she could do to keep from screaming. Uncertain as to what to do, she paused, shifted all her weight to the uninjured leg and shut her eyes, letting the waves of pain subside. Suddenly she was seized by two powerful arms and lifted off her feet. “Broken your ankle, eh?” Sir Geoffrey muttered. “Jingle-brained female!”

She sputtered in fury. “How
dare
you touch me! Put me down at once!”

“Put your arms about my neck and be still!” he ordered. “This is going to be difficult enough without your making it worse. Why couldn't you tell me you'd been injured, like a sensible creature? I could have made proper provision for your transport if I'd known—”

“I was under no obligation to tell you anything!”

“What has obligation to do with it? We are speaking of plain good sense. Even a simple-minded ninnyhammer would have better sense than to try to walk on a broken ankle.”

“I didn't expect to walk on it. I was going to ride, remember?”

He shifted her weight so that she rested higher on his chest, bringing her face on a level with his. “I told you to put your arms round my neck. Please do so at once! It will help the balance. You're no featherweight, you know.”

She could feel the muscles in his arms tense with the strain of her weight. Reluctantly, she did as he bid her. Her face was close to his, and his arms—one supporting her back and the other her legs—pressed her closely against his chest. The position placed her in such intimate proximity to the man that she felt deucedly uncomfortable. To mask her embarrassment, she said with a conscious lack of gratitude, “I think, sir, that you're quite the
rudest
man I've ever come across.”

He completely ignored the remark. “Can you reach the horse's reins? I don't think I can hold on to you and the horse as well.”

She reached back over his shoulder and managed to grasp them. They started forward, Sir Geoffrey slogging awkwardly through the deepening snow, Meg feeling clumsily heavy and burdensome in his arms, and the horse limping behind them. “Back at the inn,” she reminded him nastily, “you said that you didn't care to involve yourself with me. Now you're carrying me to your own home. That, sir, is involvement with a vengeance. I'm surprised that you didn't decide to leave me back there to freeze to death in the snow.”

“If you're going to talk rubbish, ma'am, I may yet do it. I'd be obliged if you'd hold your tongue until we reach home. There, of course, you can talk nonsense with the females in my household to your heart's content.”

“And you, sir, had better change your tone when you speak to me!” The man was truly infuriating, and Meg had no intention of putting herself at the mercy of his barbs, no matter how dependent she was on him at this moment. “I don't intend to permit you to berate
me
with the sort of verbal abuse you seem to enjoy inflicting on females, even your wife.”

“My wife? What are you talking about?”

Meg was nonplussed. “I'm talking about your cruelty to the poor creature after Roodle helped her from the wreckage.”

“Do you mean Trixie? In the first place, ma'am, that was my sister, Beatrix. I have no wife, thank heaven. In the second place, I was not in the least cruel to her.”

“Wife or sister, your attitude was abominable. If I were she, I would have struck you.”

She could feel, rather than see, his scowl. “I would like to suggest, ma'am, that since you know nothing about my sister or myself, your comments are quite meaningless. And since I've more than enough plaguey irritations to deal with at the moment, I'd appreciate it enormously if you'd cease your maggoty bibble-babble.”

“Would you, indeed!” she retorted through gritted teeth. “Let me see if I understand you. In the past few minutes you've called me a jinglebrained female, a simple-minded ninnyhammer, a fat cow and a plaguey irritation. But
I
am not to be permitted to say a word! Is that the way you wish to establish the rules?”

She thought she felt a rumble of laughter in his chest, but there was no sound of amusement in his voice when he responded, “I did not call you a fat cow.”

“Well, you said I was no featherweight, which is much the same thing.”

He stopped in his tracks, turned his head and glared at her. “I've asked you repeatedly not to talk rubbish, but evidently you are neither capable of uttering a sensible remark nor remaining silent. Therefore, I'm going to carry you in such a way that will make the burden easier for
me
to bear and will prevent
you
from being able to murmur idiocies into my ear.” With that said, he shifted his hold on her and, with one heave, slung her over his shoulder as if she were a heavy sack of grain.

The reins fell from her grasp, and the breath was pressed out of her. “Put me …
down
, you … beast!” she gasped. She found herself hanging from her waist, her head and arms dangling down behind him. The position was not only humiliatingly ridiculous, it was completely uncomfortable. Her head throbbed, her breath came in gasps, and when she tried to kick her legs, the pain in her ankle made her groan.

Paying no heed to her grunts and her evident discomfort, he squatted down, picked up the reins and walked on. Meg, dizzy and bereft of breath, could only pummel his legs with her fists. After a while, realizing that her exertions were doing no good at all, she subsided. Thus, powerless, breathless and limp, like a slain doe or a sack of sawdust, she was carried over the threshold of Knight's Haven.

Chapter Five

Her first glimpse of the house was of the stone floor of the hallway. It was of polished slate and covered with a faded Persian carpet that must, a long time ago, have been quite magnificent. Dangling helplessly from his shoulder as she was, she could see nothing else but a number of booted or slippered feet. The hallway was evidently full of people shocked into silence by the sight of Sir Geoffrey looking like a hunter returned from a kill, with a woman slung over his shoulder instead of a stag.

“Geoffrey!” a female voice cried, appalled.

“Meggie!” That was Aunt Bel. “Sir Geoffrey, what—?”

Her shocked voice was drowned by a great hubbub of voices, all of them evincing horrified disapproval. Feet came closer, and Meg could detect that she and her tormenter were being surrounded. “Geoffrey, put the poor creature down at once!” the first voice ordered.

“I will, Mama, as soon as you step aside and let me take her to the sitting room. She's broken her ankle and can't stand on her own.”

There were cries of sympathy and a chorus of alarums, suggestions and commands. Meg could feel Sir Geoffrey's huge sigh of impatience. “Will you all stop this useless babble?” he demanded. “Mama, take Mrs. Underwood into the sitting room. You, Trixie, take off your bonnet and cloak at once. Keating, see that the fire is built up in the sitting room, will you? And then do something about all the wet garments. Mrs. Rhys, will you tell Cook we'd like some hot soup and whatever else she can put together for a light supper? We'll have it served in the sitting room. You, Hackett, take Lady Margaret's man—what's your name, fellow? Roodle? Take Roodle downstairs and see that he's fed and given a room. And as for you, Sybil, if you dare to indulge in one of your fainting spells, I shall wring your neck! It would be a great deal more helpful if you'd pour a glass of brandy for our invalid.”

The feet turned away, and Meg watched as the floor moved beneath her again. Stone became parquet, and when she could see another Persian rug below—this one brighter and less shabby—she was deposited full-length on a faded, gold velvet sofa. Isabel immediately bent over her. “Is the pain very bad, dearest?” she asked, her eyes cloudy with alarm.

“I'm all right. Just a bit … breathless,” Meg answered, taking a moment to glare up at Sir Geoffrey before she permitted herself to close her eyes and surrender to the luxury of reclining against the cushions.

“But your ankle!” her aunt wailed. “Why didn't you tell me?”

If there was anything Meg disliked (next to being carried over a man's shoulder like a trussed-up side of venison), it was being fussed over. She opened her eyes and pulled herself to a sitting position. “Perhaps it's only a sprain,” she told her aunt reassuringly, trying valiantly not to indicate to her worried aunt or her odious host that she was quite dizzy, uncomfortably damp, chilled and ready to shriek with pain. She gritted her teeth, clenched her fists and struggled to regain her self-possession. Forcing her head erect, she blinked her eyes and looked around her.

She was startled to discover the number of people standing before her and watching her with what she could only describe as fascination.
Good heavens
, she thought with embarrassment,
what must I look like
! She became aware that a number of dripping strands of hair had fallen over her forehead. She lifted a hand to her head and found that her bonnet was gone—probably lost in the snow during her hideous, upside-down journey from the wreck—and her hair completely disheveled. She must look a fright.

With her hand uselessly trying to tuck up her hair, she was suddenly and irritably aware of Sir Geoffrey's eyes on her, his expression one of barely masked contempt. He'd taken note of her attempt to improve her appearance and had obviously interpreted her behavior as that of a woman of excessive vanity. The man was revoltingly toplofty and arrogant; she was again smitten with a powerful urge to slap his face. But at the same time she had to admit to herself that her concern for the appearance of her hair was quite out of place under the circumstances. Perhaps he was right to think her vain.

But the contemptuous expression she thought she'd detected on his face disappeared. With a small, rather ironic bow, he said, “Welcome to Knight's Haven, your ladyship. And you, too, Mrs. Underwood. May I present my family? This is my mother, Lady Carrier.”

A large-bosomed woman with a head of artificially colored russet hair stepped forward, smiling broadly. “How delightful to meet you, Lady Margaret, although I suppose I shouldn't say delightful when the circumstance has been brought about by dreadful accident—and you injured, too!—but it
is
delightful otherwise. I've already met your aunt, you know, out there in the hallway, and as I told her, you may be quite surprised to learn that I was acquainted with your dear mother. In London, you know. We had a house quite near to yours—”

“Yes, Mama, but there will be plenty of time for reminiscences later,” her son cut in coldly. “I must introduce our guests to my sisters before they become hopelessly confused. Lady Margaret has already mistook Trixie for my wife.
This
, your ladyship, is my sister Beatrix Carrier, whom you've already encountered to your sorrow. Trixie, come and give her ladyship your apologies.”

The young woman, now divested of her cloak and bonnet, gave her brother a frightened glance and came forward. “I am very s-sorry, your ladyship, about the accident. I'm sure I d-don't know what to say to—”

Miss Carrier was much younger than her brother, looking no more than twenty. She had dark brown hair, tied up tightly on each side of her forehead and falling over her ears in curls, eyes modestly lowered, and a pair of full lips which looked as if they were overly accustomed to pouting. “You needn't say anything, Miss Carrier,” Meg said kindly. “The accident was not your fault, you know.”

Trixie threw her brother another quick glance before answering. “Thank you, your ladyship. And I wish you will call me Trixie. Everyone does.”

“And now, ma'am,” Geoffrey said, “you must meet the youngest of our family. Here she is, bearing a warming drink for you. My sister, Sybil Carrier. Give Lady Margaret the brandy, Sybil.”

The girl looked to be barely seventeen, with light brown hair neatly braided round her head, pale cheeks and light eyes now wide in interested admiration of the London ladies. She dropped a bobbing curtsey and approached the sofa. “Will you take the brandy, my lady?” she asked shyly, offering the glass.

Meg smiled at her warmly. “How do you do? Shall I call you Sybil? Thank you for troubling yourself, but I don't wish to drink anything.”

“Take it,” Sir Geoffrey ordered. “It will do you good.”

Meg's smile faded. She met his eye, her own darkening angrily, and put up her chin. “Thank you, sir, but I don't
wish
for any brandy.” She wanted him to know from the outset that she would not take orders from him. She was quite ready, despite her weakened condition and the presence of his family, to demonstrate to him that her spirit had not been cowed by his high-handed treatment of her.