Having reached them, she chose the more skittish of the pair and reached up to gently stroke its flanks, continuing her stream of ceaseless, gentle babble. The animal shuddered and leaned into her, as though seeking badly needed reassurance. Somehow she supplied it. To Nicholas’s amazement, the team stilled.
Miss Alexander shot him a look. Needing no further prompting, he spurred into action. He edged alongside the team, fumbling once again for the clasps to unhitch them. Now that the animals were still, the task was quickly accomplished, despite the driving rain. The harness dropped to the ground with a satisfying clunk.
Once the horses were free from the burden of the coach, he breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back onto the path. Miss Alexander followed suit. He glanced across at her and received a look so unexpected it temporarily froze him in place. The woman was smiling. She was soaking wet, her clothing was drenched, her hair was running down her back in a tangled mass of thick ebony curls, and she was standing up to her ankles in a current of swift-flowing mud. Driving gusts of wind whipped torrents of rain around her. Yet as their eyes met, she sent him a smile of astonishing warmth and approval. The horses were safe.
Her satisfaction duly conveyed, she reached into the coach and removed her carpetbag. Once that item was securely in her grasp, she spun around and began to march toward him. She hadn’t moved more than two feet, however, when her sodden gown caught and twisted beneath the coach wheel. She gave the fabric an impatient jerk, then another. When both attempts to free her gown faded, she planted her feet in the muddy ground, gathered the fabric between her hands, and tugged with all her might.
With a surge of horror, Nicholas suddenly realized how perilously close she was to the edge of the cliff.
“No!” he shouted.
His warning went unheard in the raging storm. Just as he had feared, after several angry tugs the fabric jerked free so suddenly that she stumbled backward, loosing her footing in the mud. Her arms flailing, she scrambled on the slippery slope to regain her balance. As she did, a bolt of lightning illuminated the sky. In that single, fleeting moment—a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity—she appeared poised in midair, as helpless and fragile as a china doll that had been tossed from a balcony window. The lightning abruptly faded and the sky went black once again.
Miss Alexander gave a scream of terror and tumbled over backward.
Nicholas dove for her, hurling himself toward the spot where he had last seen her.
As his last hope of reaching her in time plummeted, his fingers brushed against a sodden, kicking appendage. Recognizing it as her ankle, he immediately tightened his grip, holding on to her with both hands. But his relief at catching her vanished almost instantly. Propelled by the slushy mud beneath him, the momentum of his lunge, and the sheer force of Miss Alexander’s fall, he was about to be carried over the edge along with her. For instead of bringing them both to a stop, his body continued to skid toward the edge of the precipice.
Nicholas frantically glanced around for a foothold in the torrent of mud and rain, searching desperately for some sort of anchor to stop their fall. Nothing.
His arms slid over the cliff wall.
He stuck out his legs, hoping to hit a root or a rock—anything to stop their deadly plunge. His head slid over the cliff wall. Refusing to let her go just to save himself, he dug his heels into the ground. But there was nothing to hold him. Nothing but mud and slush and tangled shrubs.
His chest slid over the cliff wall.
Muttering a vivid oath that fell somewhere between a swear and a prayer, he kicked out his legs one last time… and finally felt something connect with his boot. He immediately hooked both ankles around the unknown object as he and Miss Alexander jerked to an abrupt stop. Although he couldn’t see what had blocked their fall, it felt as though he had hooked his boots over a thorny bush.
Letting out his breath in a gush of relief, he took a second to reassess their position. Despite the direness of the predicament, the absurdity of their situation didn’t fail to impress him. He could well imagine the collective and comic shock of his peers were they to see Nicholas Duvall, the Earl of Barrington, hanging upside down over the face of a cliff. Both his hands were firmly gripped around one of Miss Alexander’s ankles, while her opposite leg flailed about, coming back every four seconds or so to strike him somewhere about his shoulder, back, or head.
While this was undoubtedly a nuisance, his attention was nonetheless diverted by the fascinating effect gravity had had on her skirts. Hanging upside down as she was, Miss Alexander’s skirt and petticoat had taken flight and were gathered inside out and upside down over her head. His position, hanging over the ledge with his head between her ankles, offered him an uninterrupted look at her legs—encased in serviceable black stockings—as well as her hips and belly—chastely covered by white cotton drawers edged with delicate pink ribbon.
A decidedly interesting view, but one he was not at liberty to enjoy. That point was driven home most effectively when the shrub around which he had wrapped his ankles bent abruptly, sending him slipping another inch or so over the abyss. His heart slammed against his ribs and he heard Miss Alexander’s muffled cry of shock and distress as it echoed through her skirt and petticoat. Immediately returning his thoughts to the task at hand, he moved one hand up her leg, attempting to pull her toward him. He shifted one gloved hand to her calf, then placed his other hand on her lower thigh.
She released an immediate squeal of maidenly protest, followed by a storm of even stronger outrage. Ignoring her objections, he slowly inched his way up her leg, pulling her closer to him. To his dismay, she was much heavier than she had appeared. Finally he realized why. As he was desperately struggling to keep his foothold on the tangled shrub—which might give way at any second—she was using both her hands to clutch her bulky carpetbag above her head.
Amazement, fury, and disbelief gripped him in turn. “Let go of that damned bag!” he shouted.
“What?!” came back her muffled reply, her voice buried beneath the layers of her skirt and petticoat.
The shrub gave again, sending them both sliding another inch forward. Nicholas’s back was breaking, his arms ached, and his shoulders burned as though they were about to be wrenched from their sockets. “Drop the bloody bag! Now, dammit!”
His words appeared to have finally sunk in, for she released one hand while swinging the bag with her other, as though to fling it away from herself. But rather than allowing it to drop, she hurled the bag upward with all her might.
The carpetbag flew full force directly into his face.
Nicholas released a startled roar of both pain and anger as the rough canvas bounced off his nose and cheek, then catapulted from his shoulder to land with a heavy thud on the path above them. After delivering yet another curse in a long stream of heated profanity, he jerked her to him, finally managing to catch her around the waist. Holding her thus with one arm, he extended his free hand and shouted in a tone that was not to be ignored, “Take my hand!”
Miss Alexander obeyed instantly, blindly reaching upside down through the tangle of her skirts to grope for his hand. Nicholas caught her palm in his. No sooner had she bent forward, straining to a half-sitting position, when his glove, slick from the rain and mud, slipped from his hand. Her body hurled backward once again. If not for the grip he had maintained on her waist, she would have tumbled to her death.
The woman gave a startled, panicked cry and reached for his hand again almost instantly, this time without any prompting from him. As her bare hand struck his, Nicholas tugged her forward. Using his body as a human bridge, she scrambled clumsily over him, reached the narrow path, and pulled herself up. He followed immediately, digging his fingers into the rock and mud as he scaled the cliff after her. She tugged at his shirt and trousers as he climbed, doing her best to assist him. Finally, with all the grace and dignity of a pair of drunken monkeys falling out of a tree, they reached the ledge.
Too exhausted to move, breathing
hard, they lay sprawled out side by side in a current of mud. Neither one spoke as the rain pelted their bodies. They didn’t have to. The silence between them carried a mutual, unspoken emotion: astonishment. Pure, unfettered astonishment that they were still alive.
Nicholas had no idea how long they stayed like that, but gradually he became aware of a change in the weather. Like most storms in the region, this one had swooped down with a sudden, violent intensity out of a clear blue sky, only to vanish almost as quickly as it had come. The rain, which had poured down in torrents only minutes earlier, now began to soften. A light, misty drizzle blurred the horizon. The ground seemed to steam, almost purr, with luxuriant relief at the passing of the storm. The chirping of birds and the sounds of animals thrashing about in the bushes filled the air once again.
Nicholas rolled over onto his side, looking at the prostrate form of Miss Alexander. “I trust you’re unharmed?” he asked.
She waited a beat, then shifted experimentally. Looking thoroughly dazed, she slowly sat up and opened her eyes. “I believe I lost my hat,” she replied. “Other than that, I’m quite all right. And you?”
Nicholas inclined his head and matched her polite, drawing-room tone. “Aside from the bruises you gave me with your kicking and ungodly struggles, I expect I’ll live.”
“You were accosting me.”
“I was trying to save your life.”
“You were doing so in a most indecent manner.”
“In the future, Miss Alexander, should you ever again decide to plunge headfirst over the face of a cliff, I shall endeavor to grasp your ankle in a more genteel fashion.”
She sent him a withering glare and then bent her head, removed her spectacles—which had somehow miraculously managed not to tumble over the cliff—and turned her attention to the task of cleaning them. Apparently satisfied that she had removed as much of the dirt and grime as she could using her sodden gown, she propped the glass lenses once again onto the bridge of her nose.
Nicholas watched her, absurdly wishing she had left them off. Her eyes, when not obstructed by those thick, clumsy spectacles, were truly amazing. The most unusual shade of lavender he had ever seen.
“Well,” she said crisply, “now that our little adventure is over, I trust we may proceed on our journey.”
“Indeed,” Nicholas glanced over at the horses and coach. Although still skittish, the team appeared to have settled down enough to be manageable. He rose to his feet and offered her a hand up.
She placed her delicate palm in his larger one. Although he hadn’t noticed it earlier, it occurred to him now how small her hand was within his, how light and absurdly fragile.
The realization of how narrowly they’d avoided disaster suddenly struck him. Fixing her with a reproving glare, he intoned sternly, “Had you listened to me in the first place, Miss Alexander, that entire incident might have been avoided. We would both be safely ensconced in the coach right now, waiting out the last of the storm in relative comfort and—”
A sharp, deafening crack cut off his words. Nicholas swung sharply around. What he saw made his blood run cold. A mud slide, a not uncommon by-product of the region’s sudden torrential rains, churned down the mountain, carrying with it a mass of rocks and debris. As it gained in size and speed, the force of the avalanche snapped a tree in half.
Now the slide was hurtling straight toward them.
CHAPTER THREE
With no time to do anything but dive out of the path of the torrential avalanche, Nicholas lunged once again for his passenger. He knocked her down in a rough tackle and rolled sideways, desperately attempting to propel them both to safety.
The ground shook as the slide rolled past them, missing their bodies by scant inches. It slammed into their coach with a thunderous crash, hitting the conveyance broadside and knocking it flat. As the coach tumbled past them, Nicholas instinctively shielded Miss Alexander beneath him, covering her body with his own. He heard a sharp crack within the tumult of the avalanche—the coach being ripped in half, perhaps? A second later the sound of splintering wood and steel filled the air. Nicholas clenched his jaw, his muscles tensing as he felt a sharp, agonizing sting lash his back.
For one heart-stopping moment he thought the entire coach was about to come crashing down upon them. But in the next second the conveyance was gone, careening over the cliff edge as it exploded against the rocky shore below. After a minute or two the deafening roar of the slide slowly faded to a dull rumble. As the muffled protests and squirming motions of Miss Alexander slowly penetrated his consciousness, he rolled over and let her slip out from beneath him.
She sat up and gazed in stunned disbelief at the deep river of mud that flooded the path where they had stood just moments earlier. Biting back a groan, Nicholas struggled to a sitting position and glanced around as well. Aside from the steady current of mud streaming slowly down the mountain side, the landscape was once again peaceful and serene. Too serene. At the start of the mud slide their horses had taken off in a terrified gallop, deserting them completely. The ungrateful animals were safe—albeit halfway to Monaco by now.
After a minute or two of contemplative silence, Miss Alexander let out a doleful sigh. “My trunk was atop that coach.”
Ignoring the plaintive remark, he pointed to a small scrap of lace showing beneath her skirt hem. “Your petticoat…”
With an indignant frown, she immediately swept her skirts over the offending bit of lace. “A gentleman would not have noticed.”
“The gentleman is bleeding to death.”
Her brows snapped together. “What?” she said. As her gaze flew to his back, an expression of shocked horror filled her face. “How did that happen?”
“I believe it was the coach’s harness straps.”
“Does it hurt?”
Holding back the sharp retort that sprung to his lips, Nicholas bit out between clenched teeth, “If you would be so kind as to allow me the use of your petticoat…”
Finally understanding that he meant to use it to bandage his back, she hesitated. “Oh, dear, it’s one of my best…”
Nicholas reached for her petticoat without another word and ripped off a generous length of the rain-soaked cotton.
“Really!”
He slipped off his shirt and attempted to maneuver the bandage in place. As he did so, her startled gaze flew across his naked chest. A soft, ruby glow infused her cheeks, visible despite the layers of mud and grime that coated her skin. After a few minutes of awkward fumbling on his part, she finally intervened.
“Here, let me do that.”
He released the makeshift bandage without a word, hoping she would make a better job of it. Her touch was surprisingly soothing, light yet firm. He recollected her ministrations with the badly spooked team, and how effortlessly she had been able to bring them under control. “You have a nice touch, Miss Alexander.”
Her hands instantly stilled.
“With the horses, I meant.”
“Oh, that.” She resumed her task, her brow furrowed in concentration as she smoothed the makeshift bandage against his skin. “Yes,” she continued after a moment, “I’ve always got along well with horses, ever since I was a child.”
“It would be most convenient if I shared that talent,” he continued, more to distract himself from the feel of her hands against his skin than any genuine interest in the topic. “Unfortunately, I tend to have a rather trying record with the animals myself.”
“Oh?”
“It seems one way or another, the beasts continually manage to best me.”
“That being the case, you may not have chosen the wisest vocation.”
It took him a moment to follow her train of thought. “Ah,” he said at last. “You mean the coach.”
She cast a worried glance at the cliff, then back at him. Despite the astonishingly unattractive spectacles she wore, the sympathy in her eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t suppose your employment will remain unchallenged after this
episode.”
True. His career as a coachman had undoubtedly reached an end. Nicholas let out a low laugh at the absurdity of the situation—albeit one that was cut short as, with an abrupt motion, she pulled the bandage tight and knotted the strip of cotton.
“There,” she said briskly, “that should hold. How does it feel?”
His back was stiff and bruised, the binding was uncomfortable, and the lacerations stung like hell. “Fine.”
“Good.” She rose to her feet. “Now what do we do?”
Nicholas stood as well. “Now, Miss Alexander, we walk.”
“All the way to Monaco?”
“All the way to Monaco. Unless you have a better plan.”
She thought for a moment, studying the horizon as though a solution might be offered there. “I see your point,” she conceded.
They hadn’t moved but a few steps when he reached for her carpetbag and wordlessly took it from her hand. She studied him with a surprised frown, as though the small courtesy were completely unlike him. “Thank you,” she said.
Shrugging the matter off, they strode together along the rugged path that would carry them to Monaco. “It would appear that the two of us are cursed, Miss Alexander,” he said after a moment.
“I don’t believe in curses,” she replied absently. “My mother did, naturally, but I don’t suffer from the same old-fashioned thinking.”
“Why is it natural that your mother would have believed in curses?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.
“She was a gypsy.”
“I thought you said you were as well.”
“True, but I don’t enjoy it.”
Certain she was joking, a small smile touched his lips. “You don’t?”
“It’s in the blood,” she conceded with a small sigh, “but I’m not like my mother at all. I don’t have her flair for the dramatic. My father was an Englishman, and I’ve always thought my temperament was more like his.”
“I see.” He studied her for a moment in silence, attempting and failing to reconcile the prim little chit striding beside him with the woman he’d seen help herself to the contents of Mrs. Stanton’s bag. “What brings you to Monaco?”
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