Chapter Five
Green.
Ravenel's startled gaze registered a splash of green bare seconds before his body struck the ground. But it couldn't be grass, the ridiculous thought flashed through his mind. Grass couldn't possibly be so damned hard.
The impact of his fall drove the breath from his lungs and sent him rolling over and over until he at last thudded to a halt. Closing his eyes tight, he attempted to dispel the black webbing that danced before him, to banish the ringing from his ears. His mind was a blur of confusion, except for the urgent need to draw a gulp of air into his pain-racked chest.
Several shuddering breaths later, the world finally seemed to stop spinning beneath him. He was lying flat on his back and something cold was brushing against his face. Forcing his eyes open, Ravenel focused on Spotted Bert's nose but a fraction from his own. The dog whined, then licked his cheek.
With a low groan, he shifted onto his side and cursed, trying to prevent Bertie from nuzzling his ear. One hand crushed a dandelion. He glanced down at it, his mind yet numbed with shock, trying to make some sense of his surroundings. He appeared to be sprawled in a pasture, marooned in the middle of nowhere with not so much as a cottage visible or another living thing except Miss Vickers's dog.
Miss Vickers! The carriage. Memory sliced through his throbbing head like the cold, sharp edge of a razor. He had been thrown from the carriage. Regardless of the pain that throbbed along his bruised flesh, Ravenel jerked up onto one elbow, his gaze whipping down the narrow ribbon of dirt road to a point some hundred or so yards distant. His blood froze when he saw the carriage tipped into a ditch, the only figure in sight that fool of a coachman weaving on his feet as he struggled to cut the snorting, plunging horses free of the traces.
But where was Miss Vickers? Jarvis? Dreadful imaginings jolted through the baron, of both the lady and his valet yet trapped inside the coach, possibly bleeding and unconscious. Spurred by panic, he managed to drag himself to his feet. He limped from the meadow with Bertie trailing at his heels.
As soon as he drew near the road, he was relieved to see Miss Vickers and Jarvis helping to ease the footman on the grassy bank just above the ditch. James was wailing in a most unmanly fashion.
When Bertie barked, Miss Vickers's head snapped in Ravenel's direction. Releasing her hold on James, she came running down the road, her bonnet flying back, held only by its strings. Ravenel was excessively grateful to note that except for the pallor of her cheeks and the tear at the waist of her gown, she seemed to have taken no ill effects from the accident. As Bertie raced toward his mistress, the baron paused, expecting that Miss Vickers, overjoyed to find her pet unharmed, would embrace the dog.
He was therefore unprepared when she shoved past Bertie and flung herself against him, the fierceness of her hug nearly sending them both tottering over backward.
"Thank God," she cried, muffling her face against his chest. "I thought you must have been killed."
"Er, yes," Ravenel said gruffly. He could not recall anyone ever becoming this distraught over the prospect of his death, There was no doubting the genuineness of her distress. She was making no attempt to weep prettily, as Miss Carruthers would have done. Her breath came in great gulping sobs as she wreaked absolute havoc upon what remained of his cravat His arms closed about her and he patted her back. "There now, Miss Vickers... Gwenda, my dear. Please, you must not upset yourself."
"B-but you terrified me half to death:' She sniffed. "What possessed you to try such a mad thing?"
"I will admit it was not the most prudent thing I have ever done," he agreed soothingly. He cradied Gwenda closer, finding the sensation of her soft curves molding against him very agreeable.
But his sense of propriety and responsibility all too quickly reasserted itself. He could not stand here in the middle of the road embracing Gwenda while Jarvis stood anxiously awaiting him, the footman continued to howl, and that dolt of a coachman was doing God knew what to those horses.
Ravenel eased Gwenda away from him. She wiped her eyes with her knuckles, looking a little flustered and mortified by her own tears. "It would seem the only one injured is poor James," she said with a quavery smile. "What good fortune we have had."
"Yes," he agreed, dubiously, rolling his eyes skyward. If this was Gwenda's notion of good fortune, she was going to be positively ecstatic when those storm clouds gathering over their heads broke. He turned and strode toward the embankment as quickly as his bruised hip would allow.
For a moment Ravenel feared even his stately Jarvis meant to fall upon his neck and weep for joy to find him yet in one piece. But although appearing much shaken, the old man as ever maintained his dignity. Gwenda skirted past Ravenel to bend down beside the footman, who sniveled and clutched his ankle.
Encouraged by Gwenda's murmur of sympathy, James wailed, "Ohhh, It is me leg, miss. I've broken it sure."
"Nonsense," she said bracingly. "If you had done that, the shaft of the bone would likely be protruding through your flesh and—"
Before she could reduce the lad to total hysterics, the baron nudged her aside and made a cursory inspection of James's foot himself. It was not easily done since the footman screeched like a banshee before Ravenel had laid so much as a finger on the injured area.
At last he pronounced, "No, It is not broken. Most likely the bone is but chipped, or it is a very nasty sprain. As soon as we—"
Ravenel broke off as another squeal pierced the air, but this one did not originate from the unfortunate James. Rather, it was an equine cry of fear. The horses and Fitch. The baron straightened abruptly, feeling harried.
He spun about to peer at the front of the upset carriage. Fitch had managed to cut the horses loose, but now as the overexcited animals milled about, the coachman cowered back, wielding his whip as though surrounded by a pack of savage beasts.
"Stop that!" Ravenel bellowed, heading toward the man, but Fitch had already caught one of the leaders on the top of its nose. The horse reared back and then charged down the road, rapidly followed by the other three.
"No! Damnation!" Although every muscle in Ravenel's body shrieked in protest, he leaped down the bank and over the ditch and tore off after the horses. But even if he had been in top form, the pursuit would have been futile. The last horse he had backed at Newmarket should have set such a pace as those four, Ravenel thought bitterly.
He staggered to a halt, clutching his side, and watched their only hope of riding for help vanishing in a cloud of dust. Gwenda drew up breathlessly at his side, holding up her skirts.
"Well," she said, "At least we know that none of the horses were injured, either. We really have been remarkably lucky. I am sure the team will not go far and we will have no difficulty finding them."
The glare Ravenel shot her caused even Gwenda's unquenchable smile to waver. He thought he had held up well until now, considering he was not in the least accustomed to being flung out of carriages or finding his traveling schedule overset by unnecessary accidents. But this last bit of idiocy on the part of the Vickerses' coachman was entirely too much for any sane man to bear.
"Madam," he growled, "if I were a horse, I would flee all the way to hell before I let that cow-handed fool come near me again."
Whipping about, Ravenel advanced on Fitch, his wrath swelling with every painful step. But the coachman showed not the least sign of alarm, not even when the baron seized him by the collar of his driving cape. Rather, it was the baron who recoiled at the heavy odor of stale gin reeking from the man.
Despite the goose egg forming on his forehead, Fitch was obviously feeling no pain. He went limp, directing a muzzy smile past Ravenel at Gwenda.
"Was brave thish time, Mish Vickers," he mumbled. "Took care 'o the 'orses to the lasht."
With that, Fitch rolled up his eyes and sank against the baron in a heap. Ravenel lowered him to the ground none too gently, but the man still curled up on the stone-strewn road as blissfully as though it were a feather bed.
The word again went through Ravenel like a cannon blast. "Again?" he asked with a most deadly calm. "Miss Vickers, what do you mean `again'? Are you telling me that your coachman has a habit of drinking?"
"I would not call it a habit, precisely. But he does like a drop now and again to steady his nerves because ..." She faltered in the face of his furious stare, then concluded meekly, "Because he's afraid of horses."
"Afraid of horses?" Ravenel said through clenched teeth. It was probably ridiculous to even ask for an explanation, but for the sake of his own sanity, he felt he had to know. "Then why the blazes did you allow him to drive your coach?"
"It's rather a long story. You see, Papa organized this musical society and Fitch has the most wonderful baritone for singing catches and glees—"
"Perdition, madam!" Ravenel roared. "Do you people ever hire your servants for normal, sane reasons like everyone else does? Did it never occur to your father that a coachman should have some experience, should feel comfortable handling a team?"
Gwenda's chin jutted upward in a defensive manner. "Papa always says that lack of experience should not bar a man from obtaining a situation. If everyone thought the way you do, my lord, how would anyone gain any experience to begin with?"
She sounded so entirely reasonable; it was he who was shouting like a lunatic. That realization did nothing to help Ravenel curb his temper. He raised his hands in a gesture rife with frustration.
"You and your entire family are stark raving mad. And I must be madder still to have ever traveled one inch in your company."
Gwenda flushed bright red, but before she could voice whatever comment trembled on the tip of her tongue, Jarvis appeared, wedging himself between them.
"That will do, Master Desmond," he said sternly, making Ravenel feel all of nine years old again. "Shouting at the young lady will do naught to remedy our situation."
"There is not much else to be done," Ravenel said, "when here we are, left stranded in the middle of who knows where."
Gwenda bent sideways around Jarvis to peer at Ravenel. "I know precisely where we are. Or almost. There is an inn not more than a mile from here. I shall walk there and fetch help."
"Hah!" Ravenel said. "You'll do nothing of the kind. Do you think I would set you loose upon an innocent countryside?"
"Master Desmond!" Jarvis looked positively scandalized.
But the baron felt pushed well past the brink of civility or any kind of gentlemanly behavior. Considering the condition of the coachman and James's injury, it was patently obvious to him who would be obliged to go trudging in search of aid. But Miss Vickers hotly refuted the suggestion.
"You? You could not possibly find the place. I have only the vaguest notion myself and would have no way of giving you directions."
"And this," Ravenel sneered, "from the woman who declares she knows precisely where we are."
As Gwenda bristled with indignation, Jarvis quickly interposed, "It would seem that the most sensible solution, my lord, would be for you to escort Miss Vickers—"
"I should as lief be escorted by Bertie," Gwenda interupted.
The baron also voiced his own objection to this scheme. "No, Miss Vickers must stay with you, Jarvis. Do you expect me to leave you alone to cope with one man injured and another drunk?"
Jarvis drew himself up to his full dignity. "I have been coping with all manner of disasters since well before you were born, Master Desmond. But if you now think me such a feeble old man, perhaps it is time I served you notice."
Ravenel bit back an oath. To add to all the other disasters, now he had offended Jarvis. He paced a few furious steps down the road, experiencing a discomfiting feeling of having no control over the situation. At last he conceded with bad grace, "Very well, I shall take you with me, Miss Vickers."
"How utterly noble of you," Gwenda said in a voice dripping sarcasm.
"Because I am sure Jarvis will be far safer if I do."
"Why, you—you—"
But his lordship did not give Miss Vickers a chance to think up a name bad enough to call him. He moved quickly, dragging the inert coachman off to the side of the road. He examined the wrecked carriage to see if it would prove steady enough to provide some sort of shelter and then settled Jarvis and James inside, making them as comfortable as possible. With a mighty heave, he managed to thrust Fitch's unconscious form onto the coach floor.
He paused briefly in the midst of these exertions to warn Gwenda, "We are going to have to hasten. The next we know, we shall be caught in a thunder shower."
"It is not going to rain," she said loftily. "I have seen those sort of clouds frequently before. They may threaten all day, but the storm never breaks until well after dark."
An hour later, Ravenel, Gwenda, and her dog were yet shuffling wearily down the road, the woodland thickening around them and overshadowing their path.
The baron hunched down, drawing up his collar. "It is raining, Miss Vickers," he informed her in long-suffering accents.
"I am perfectly aware of that, my lord," Gwenda snapped, feeling one large drop splash and trickle down the back of her neck. Even Bertie's tail drooped, the water starting to bead on his glossy black-and-white coat.
Gwenda, accustomed to meeting the direst of calamities with a philosophical good humor, felt more cross than she could ever remember. Step after wretched step they had traveled, with no sign of the inn or the village she had sworn was there. Ravenel said nothing, but from his grim expression she knew it would be only a matter of time before she was treated to another of his long homilies on her scatter-brained ways. Her anticipation of this did little to soothe her temper.
She wrapped her arms about herself as the rain started to come down harder, shivering with the knowledge that she would soon be soaked to the skin. Ravenel stripped off his coat. But the gallant gesture was diminished by the manner in which he thrust it at her.
"No, thank you," she said. "After everything else, I should not like to have you blaming me if you get a chill."
She gasped when he seized her by the arm and halted her in the middle of the road. He roughly whipped his coat about her shoulders. When she started to discard it, he caught her hand.
"Miss Vickers. Attempt to remove that frock coat and I shall not be answerable for what I might do. Until I met you, I would have sworn that I would never shout at, curse, or strike a lady. You have already provoked me into the first two.Do you care to risk the third?"
With two brothers Gwenda had learned long ago not to allow herself to be bullied, but Ravenel made a most formidable figure towering over her. Some elusive memory tugged at her as she studied the piercing light in his dark eyes, the rainwater glistening on his swarthy skin, his wet garments outlining the stalwart set of his shoulders like some storm-swept buccaneer. Then, with a jolt, she realized what it was. Dear heavens, Ravenel looked just like Roderigo had in her recent dream. Or had it been that Roderigo resembled Ravenel? Either way, it was a most disconcerting discovery to make at this particular moment.
"Thank you," she grumbled, allowing the coat to remain around her shoulders. "But, in the future, I wish you would have the goodness to stay out of my dreams."
The baron looked startled, but to Gwenda's relief he merely shook his head and did not question the strange comment she had let slip. As they resumed their trek, he lapsed into this own dark thoughts. After a time, Gwenda saw his lips move as though he were counting something.
"If you have anything to say"—she winced as she trod in a puddle, the water seeping inside her already damp slipper—"I wish you would just say it. It is an odious habit of yours—thinking so loudly."
"I was merely making a tally, Miss Vickers. In the last twenty-four hours I have witnessed the loss of six horses and two carriages. It staggers the imagination."
"My carriage is not lost! I know exactly where it is."
"Just as you knew exactly where this elusive inn was
to be found."
"We might have stood some chance of finding it if you had let me inquire at that farmhouse we passed awhile back." The miserable way in which Gwenda's sodden skirts were beginning to cling to her legs inspired her with an unreasonable urge to shift all the blame for their trouble on to Ravenel.
"It is peculiarity of men I have frequently noticed," she said. "You can never bear to ask directions or admit when you are lost."
The baron slicked back his rain-soaked dark hair "At that farmhouse all you would have achieved was the farmer's wife setting her dogs upon us. We are not precisely the most reputable-looking couple, Miss Vickers."
As Ravenel plodded along, he drew himself rigidly upright. Gwenda set her teeth, knowing what was coming.
"If you had not been so insistent in the first place that you knew the way, I would have felt more of a need to make inquiries. But then it is all of a piece with your manner of conducting a journey, ill-conceived and ill-advised—"
"Kindly do not start doing that again!" Gwenda stomped her foot, which had the effect of' pelting them both with an additional spray of water.
"Doing what?" his lordship demanded.
"Lecturing me in that pompous manner. It is another annoying habit of yours. Anyone would think you were some aged grandsire tyrannizing over a flock of unruly grandchildren."
"Not grandchildren, Miss Vickers, but as the head of my family I do have responsibility for many dependents, younger cousins whom I frequently have had to lecture, as you put it."
"That must make them all positively dote on you"
Ravenel flinched as though she had hit upon some painful point, but the expression was so fleeting she might well have imagined it. She nearly regretted her spiteful remark, but he quickly recovered himself and began to intone, "One's duty is not always pleasant, either for—"
"Oh, do stop! You are beginning to remind me of Thorne again."
Brighton Road Page 9