Poor Dobbs, Emmett, and Timms! It could not be a very good life for those on the box at any time, but in weather like this they must be soaked and freezing. And unlike their wealthy master, it was highly unlikely that they carried a change of clothes with them.
It seemed like hours that they careened through the blinding storm, with Ellen’s face turned to avoid the marquess while he slept like a babe in spite of his avowed inability to do so. There appeared to be no lessening of the intensity of the storm, and no brightening of the sky ahead. A bolt of lightning struck precariously close by, and either it or its attendant thunderclap caused the horses to rear in fright. She could hear Timms yelling above the din of the storm at the team.
Suddenly they were no longer upright, and Ellen felt herself slammed across the seat against Trent and then they were both falling into one of the doors. The coach turned on its side and slid in the mud while glass shattered and showered them from above. Ellen tried to right herself only to be pinned down by the marquess’s body.
“Lie still!” he shouted over her, “And let it come to rest.” He flung a protective arm across her face to take the glass and buried his head in her breasts. It was over as quickly as it had begun, and an eerie feeling descended over them. For several seconds, the only sound they heard was the steady pelting of the rain.
Cautiously, Trent lifted his head and tried to get his bearings. Someone climbed over the side of the carriage and tugged at the door above them. The marquess pushed up in concert and finally it opened. Cold rain drenched them immediately.
“Thanks be,” Dobbs muttered as he peered anxiously down at Trent. “Miss Smith—she all right?”
“I think so. Lend me a hand and we’ll get out.”
The coachey leaned over and pulled as the marquess braced himself against the side-turned roof with his boots and heaved his body upward. Clearing the doorway, he perched on the side and leaned down to Ellen. “Here, take my hand and try to swing upward when I pull. Come on … Good girl!” he encouraged as he lifted her through the door. “Are you hurt?” He pushed her hair back from a cut above her eyebrow that was already being cleansed by the rain. “ ’Tis not too bad, my dear. You can be thankful it wasn’t a shade lower.”
“I am grateful to be alive, I assure you,” she breathed shakily. “And I am quite all right.” She looked up to where blood trickled down the side of his face. “ ’Tis you who are hurt, my lord.”
“A scratch from the glass merely.”
Dobbs slid off the overturned coach and went to look after the others while Trent lifted Ellen down. A few moments later, the coachey came back shaking his head in disbelief. “Emmett’s dead, mi’lor’—broke ’is neck—and Timm’s hurt bad—’is leg.”
“You’d best not look,” Trent told Ellen as he stepped to shield her with his shoulder. “Death is not a pretty sight.”
“No.” She shook her head purposefully. “While there’s naught to be done for poor Mr. Emmett, I can at least assist with Mr. Timms. You will find that I am not the least queasy in the stomach at the sight of blood.” She pushed past him to slog through the mud toward the fallen driver, asking him, “Can you tell what you have done to it?”
“Dunno. Broke it, mebbe.”
She bent over the outstretched leg and nodded. “Mr. Dobbs,” she told the coachey, “we shall have to get his boot off before the leg swells. Can you cut it?”
“Aye, miss.” Dobbs knelt and slit the driver’s boot with his knife, then looked up for further guidance.
“Go on. It has to come off.”
Timms winced and then went pasty white from the pain as Dobbs removed the boot.
“Let me see.” Heedless of her wet gown, Ellen sat in the mud beside the driver and, with a total lack of fashionable modesty, began feeling along the bony ridge of the man’s shin. “You are right—’tis broken and will have to be set.” She looked up at Trent, who stood above her watching in fascination. “I think I can do it, my lord, but I shall require your assistance.” She measured the driver’s legs against each other and then tried to force the bone into place. The bulge under the skin moved but would not snap into position when she pushed. She shoved her wet hair back out of her eyes and shook her head in exasperation. “I know how ’tis done, my lord, but I have not the strength required. See if you can pull it into line by grasping his foot, and I’ll push. Dobbs, if you will but get some of the wood from the coach for a splint …”
“Aye, miss,” Dobbs answered promptly. “I think ’er’s got th’ gift,” he muttered to Trent as he passed. “Niver seen th’ like fer a female!”
“You are supposed to be swooning helplessly, Ellen,” Trent murmured as he knelt down next to her.
“Pooh. And what would that accomplish, my lord? Then you should have to tend to two people. Here—pull down like this …” She looked up and noted his reluctance. Mistaking the reason, she snapped, “Very well, if you are too exalted a personage for this, I’ll ask Dobbs.”
“You know, you are deuced cross, my dear,” he complained. “And I know what has to be done, but ‘twill hurt like the very devil.”
“It will hurt less now than later.”
“All right.” He grasped Timms’ foot, pulled it sharply while she pushed at the protuberant bone, and was rewarded by the sight of the leg moving back into line.
Dobbs returned with two shafts of wood taken from the coach’s shattered body, looked down at the ashen driver, and shook his head. “ ’E’s fainted, miss.”
“All the better. He won’t feel it when we tie these on for support.” She cast about for something to use for a wrapping and wished that fashion had not changed to where ladies no longer wore voluminous petticoats. “Can you use your knife to cut the traces, do you think? We’ll have-to bind these in place.”
“Aye, miss.”
They worked quickly, with Dobbs sawing the reins apart and she and Trent tying them around the broken leg.
In a short time, Timms was sitting upright in the mud and mire looking at her handiwork. He gave her a weak smile of approval. “All right an’ tight it is, miss, but ‘ow’d a lady like yersel’ know it?”
“I used to help the doctor in our village”—she smiled— “until my papa found out. Alas, he felt it not an accomplishment for a female, and forbade me to continue.”
“Can you ride, Timms?” Trent asked abruptly. “We’ll have to boost you up on one of the team without a saddle.”
“Yer lor’ship’ll ‘ave ter shoot one,” Dobbs reminded him grimly.
“That still leaves three. You and Timms can ride back the way we came and seek help. Ellen—Miss Smith—and I will take the one left and try to find shelter. I’ve got to get her inside before she contracts an inflammation of the lungs.” He turned back briefly to Ellen and asked, “Can you ride pillion, ma’am? You’ll have to sit astride because I cannot hold you on.”
“I won’t have any modesty left, will I?” She sighed. “But then, I don’t suppose it makes any difference now.”
“That’s the girl,” Trent approved. “Now, turn your back and cover your ears. No, don’t argue with me.” He waited until he was sure her head was averted, and then he walked to where one of the horses still lay tangled in the shaft and harness, its eyes wide and dilated with fright. Resolutely he raised his pistol and fired a ball into its head. Then he closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the upended carriage. At least his powder had been dry enough still for the task and he hadn’t had to slit its neck.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mi’lor,” Dobbs interrupted diffidently, “but what’s ter do ‘bout Emmett?”
Trent exhaled slowly and straightened his shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do for the moment. You’ll have to get help and come back.”
Dobbs nodded and went to fetch the horses he’d cut loose. When he led one back, he and Trent boosted the injured driver up on its back and then threaded a makeshift bridle around its nose and through its mouth.
“Can you m
ake it, Timms?” Trent asked again.
“Aye, I think so.”
Dobbs got another horse and pulled himself up by hanging on its mane. Leaning over to take Timms’ rein, he decided, “Mebbe I better ’ave it. Yer looks queasy ter me.”
“And you are chilled to the bone,” Trent observed as he prepared to throw Ellen up on the last mount. “Here— take my cloak and wrap it around you. I’ll get behind you and hold you on as best I can.”
“No, you keep your cloak, my lord.” The thought of his hands around her waist and under her breasts gave her pause. “And I think it would be better if I rode behind you.”
“There’s no time for argument, my dear. If you think you can hang on better that way, I’ve no objection, but you will take the cloak.” He gave her a boost up on the big black’s back before removing the heavy woolen cape and handing it up to her. As soon as she had pulled it around her shoulders, he ordered her, “Hold him steady until I get up.” And then he swung up in front of her. “Are you sure you’ve got your seat?” he asked as he reached for the makeshift rein.
“Can you handle him like this?” she asked anxiously.
“Aye, Deveraux are noted horsemen,” he flung over his shoulder.
She arranged his cloak about her back and drew her exposed legs up against his, pulling the rest of the cloak to cover as much as possible of both of them. Leaning against his soaked back, she sought to give and get warmth.
Even as he nudged the horse forward, the rain came down harder again, forming sheets rather than droplets, and the wind increased until it howled. The temperature was falling from the early-autumn storm, and Ellen could not afford even a semblance of modesty. She hugged the marquess tightly and burrowed her face against his shoulder blades to protect it from the biting wind.
“Can you see anything?” she shouted against his shoulder.
“Nothing!” he shouted back.
They plodded along the sodden road until both Ellen and Trent thought they would surely freeze before finding any shelter at all. Her whole body ached from the chills that racked it, and her teeth chattered so hard that they clicked against one another. Then, as she straightened to ease the cramp in her shoulders, she saw it. She pounded his shoulder excitedly as the horse rounded a bend in the lane they’d turned into.
“Th-there’s a b-barn or s-something ahead.”
When they drew closer, they could see it was someone’s hunting box, and it was apparently unoccupied. Ellen slid to the ground and held the horse while Trent dismounted and tried the door. It was securely locked. In desperation, he threw his weight against it several times in hopes of breaking the lock, but without success. Finally he walked around the box, testing each window until he found one that gave several inches.
“Here,” he called out to her. “The ropes are frayed on this one. If I can but get it up a little higher, I’ll push you through.”
She looked at it in dismay. “I cannot squeeze through there.”
He worked until he had it open about seven inches before turning back to her. “Aye, you can,” he encouraged. “I’ll put you up.”
“You’ll do no such thing!”
“Ellen, even if you are determined to freeze, you’ve no right to take me with you.” Without waiting for her consent, he picked her up and lifted her to the window. “Bend over and I’ll boost you through.”
It was an effort, but they finally managed to get her inside with a considerable loss of dignity on her part. As she trailed her wet and utterly revealing gown through the box, she reflected momentarily that by now he must surely think her the veriest trollop. Thus far, he had seen her legs, had his hands on her buttocks, and had felt her breasts pressed against his back. If he made an improper advance after this, she could scarcely blame him. But then she caught sight of her face in a glass and had to be reassured: absolutely no one, not even a thoroughly dissolute rake, could be attracted to the dripping hag she saw. She opened the door to let him in.
“What a pretty pair we are, Ellen.” He grinned as he entered. Thoroughly soaked himself, his shirt was transparent over his chest, his pantaloons were bagging with excess water, and his fine boots were thoroughly caked with mud. Water ran in rivulets from spiked ringlets that fell forward over his forehead. In short, the usually immaculate Marquess of Trent presented a picture that would have stunned his acquaintances.
“Aye.” She grinned back. “Two drowned rats if ever there were any. But you are shaking with the chill, sir, and so am I. See if you can start a fire and I will look for something dry to wear.”
She found the box to contain three small bedchambers, a kitchen with attached pantry, and an open area that passed for a combination sitting-drawing room. She could hear Alex puttering around in the latter as she rummaged shamelessly through drawers and wardrobes. She could find a supply of men’s shirts and small clothes belonging to men of smaller stature than Trent. By the looks of it, the box belonged to a man who had some sons.
“I have lit a fire, my dear,” Trent called from the other room. “Are you finding anything of use?” She looked up as his voice grew nearer and found him leaning against the doorjamb. “By the looks of it, I shall fare better than you.”
“There’s nothing else.”
“Then you’d best take a blanket and wrap up while I dry your clothes. I’ll hang them closest to the heat.” He walked closer and selected the largest shirt and leather breeches to be had. “Hmmm—’twould seem the owner took his smalls with him.”
Her face turned red and she looked away. He caught her expression and pointed out reasonably, “I did not mean to offend you, but surely you must have seen the laundry of your male relatives hanging on the line.” Walking back to the door, he added, “Get out of those wet things and pass them through to me. You can use the blanket for warmth and modesty.”
“I cannot run around with naught but a coverlet, sir,” she blurted out.
He fixed her with a wry look. “I don’t see why. You will be better covered than you are now. I have an excellent notion of your form through that wet gown. And if I am to continue being your self-appointed rescuer, I expect you to stay healthy.” He went out, tossing back over his shoulder, “And if you do not hand out the wet things in two minutes, I shall come back for them.”
Hastily, Ellen pulled a heavy woolen blanket from the bed and examined it for bugs and spiders. Finding none, she peeled off her wet gown, her petticoat, and her pantalettes. Pulling the blanket tightly about her, she cracked the door and extended the. gown and petticoats out. He took them and draped them over a bench pulled up to the fire.
“You might as well give me the rest, Ellen. I’ve a fair notion of what is missing, since I have seen about every item of female apparel at one time or another.” He came back to stand just outside. “And if you mean to wear them under the blanket, it won’t do. You must get dry.”
She opened the door wider, swallowed in embarrassment, and clasped the coverlet closer as she edged into the room. “I will hang out my own, sir,” she told him with her chin held high.
Only her bare feet and her face and one hand were visible, and yet she felt utterly exposed. He faced her wearing a clean shirt and a pair of breeches that were too tight for comfort. With a jolt, she realized he must be embarrassed also.
“That should do, Ellen. Now, come warm yourself by the fire before your teeth chatter out of your head.”
“You cannot be very warm, either.”
“I am like solid ice,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you found a comb or hairbrush in there, did you? We could both use one.”
“On the chest.” She edged closer to the warmth and found a bench. Stretching her toes to the fire, she did not think she would ever be comfortably warm again. She closed here eyes in exhaustion and leaned forward to huddle in the blanket.
“Ouch!” She felt a tug as her wet hair was lifted outside the coverlet and a clumsy attempt was made to drag a comb through it. “I can comb my own,” she muttered u
ngraciously as she ducked away.
“That I should like very much to see.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Most women of my acquaintance raise their arms to do their hair. To do that, you would have to let go of your wrap.”
She turned around and found that he had combed his own hair until it lay ridiculously flat against his head, and she guessed he was like her brother, Julian, and did not appreciate the thick curls. She extended three fingers while maintaining a precarious grip on her cover. “Hand it to me and I shall go back and do my own.”
“Have it your way.” He shrugged. But as she retreated into one of the bedchambers, he added impulsively, “You have beautiful hair, Miss Marling.”
“Nonsense, my lord,” she called back. “And now is not the time to begin giving me Spanish coin, for I have no illusions about my looks. And I have not forgotten what you said when you found we were on our way to York.”
“Well, I was wrong,” he yelled through the door. “And I have revised my opinion. You are not nearly so thin as I thought. I think you would draw attention if you were properly gowned.”
Squeezing the water out of her hair and pulling the comb through the dark tangles, she began to worry that he was trying to set her up for a flirtation that could only cause her grief. Admittedly, she found him exciting and attractive, but she was not foolish enough to think that anything could ever come of even the slightest flirtation. Men like Trent probably simply flirted with what they saw at the time, and certainly they did not really give an Ellen Marling a second look if anyone else were available. And even if he were serious, which he could not be, there was still the matter of Basil Brockhaven. Finally satisfied that she had done what she could with the hair, she pulled up her blanket and sought the fire.
They sat quietly for a time, savoring the warmth from the hearth. He appeared to be brooding about something—probably the loss of his coach and coachman, she decided—and she left him alone to his thoughts. Abruptly, he drew back and looked at her.
“I don’t suppose you can cook, can you?”
“Of course not.” She smiled as his face fell. “I have the accomplishments of a lady of quality: I do watercolors, play the pianoforte well, embroider with a fair hand, and sing on key.”
Anita Mills Page 6