by Stacy Reid
His coachman, George, a spry man despite his advanced age, moved with alacrity to do Alexander’s command. The man had the audacity to smile slyly and wink. The impudence. He should fire him as he’d threatened to do these last ten years.
George had been hinting throughout the journey that he should keep the ravishing Miss Danvers’s company. He’d fallen silent this morning only when Alexander had promised to remove his tongue from his head. Though he’d said it with a modicum of affection, it seemed George had believed his irritable vow.
The steps to the carriage were knocked down, and Alexander clambered up and into the warm confines of the carriage. Miss Danvers’s lips parted on a silent gasp and she lowered the book she read.
“Your Grace…” She glanced out the small window into the rain.
“Miss Danvers. I hope you will permit me the pleasure of your company for the rest of the journey.”
She smiled, and his heart ached. How in God’s name did she do that…with only a damn smile?
“I see you were forced to join me.”
He grunted, and her grin widened. Her boldness knew no bounds, and he had yet to decide if he liked it. Except for his sister, he was quite used to ladies operating within the confines society and their family placed them in, and he had no notion of what to make of Katherine Danvers.
Alexander was still haunted by her actions in the garden. Never would he have expected such daring from any young lady. Even at the theater, she had displayed a strength of character in the face of his silence and the blatant ogling of society. She had been so unflinching, so certain, so unafraid. He’d wanted to kiss her more than he wanted the pain to stop.
Even now it was there, a fester, a clawing need that would not abate. Alexander had the fierce urge to gather her to him, to kiss her face and throat, to taste the sweetness of her lips, inhale her scent, and make it a part of him.
The attraction he felt confounded him. Katherine Danvers was not the type of lady he would have pursued in the days he’d been “mad, bad, and dangerous.” The diamonds of the ton, women who could match him in wealth and beauty and connections, were whom he’d pursued. He and his eventual fiancée had been declared the match of the season, and all of society had praised their alliance. Yet Lady Daphne had been quite sweet and docile, her likes and wants a secret to him, and he’d never made the effort to unearth them.
Still, this burning desire to know all of Miss Danvers would not leave him be. Surely this could not be a simple reflection of his boredom with life? Though Alexander must admit the empty well inside felt like it had been given a drop of something precious. Something was different. The jagged emptiness had not tormented him these last few days. How long would it last?
Her throat cleared delicately, and a delightfully pink blush ran along her cheek. “You are staring, Your Grace.”
Her cheeks grew redder under his slow, careful appraisal.
He gave her a faint, mocking smile. “Surely you know how beautiful you are,” he returned smoothly.
The woman rolled her eyes, pulling a smile to his lips.
“You do not believe it to be true?” he asked, mildly surprised.
“I’m pretty,” she said softly. “And I’ve been told my eyes are lovely. ‘Beautiful’ is perhaps a stretch, hmm?”
His heart stumbled in his chest. “I agree, they are remarkably fine eyes, particularly so when sparkling with indignation or when they begged for a kiss. But you are also unquestionably more than pretty, Miss Danvers.”
She was unique in her boldness and beauty.
She gasped, staring at him with those wide, impossibly lovely eyes. “My eyes did not beg you to kiss me,” she whispered furiously, looking as if she wanted to hit him with the warming pan.
Alexander chuckled. “Was it the word ‘beg’ that appalled you?”
She growled low in her throat, cocking her head in a decidedly impatient and annoyed gesture. He smiled, and she narrowed her eyes, doing an excellent job of appearing threatening. Her posture did not paint a picture of a woman who accepted defeat easily.
He liked teasing her. Seeing the myriad expressions chasing across her face. They were all beautiful in their complexities. How unforgivably idiotic he was being.
The carriage lurched jarringly, throwing her forward. He grabbed her, steadying her as they came to a shuddering stop. The carriage door swung open, and they peered down into George’s worried face.
“A mountain of a tree fell ’cross the road, Yer Grace. ’Tis impassable.”
Alexander cursed under his breath. They were too far from civilization to turn around, and there was no inn close by. “What are the options?”
“We could go ’round, Yer Grace, and use the bridge. Might take a few minutes more.”
That bridge was a rickety old thing that was slated for repairs. It was a risk, and one he wasn’t sure it made sense to take. “When last did you travel upon it, George?”
“Only last week, Yer Grace.”
“If the river is swollen, we must find alternate means,” Alexander replied.
George nodded and closed the carriage door. A few moments later, they rumbled away again. Miss Danvers once more peered into the sleeting rain.
“We are soon to arrive, then?”
“Yes. Less than an hour.”
A soft sigh slipped from her. “I do not know what to expect,” she confessed.
“Neither do I.”
She slanted him a quick, searching glance. “It warms my heart to know you are similarly uncertain.”
“Does it?”
“Hmm, that tells me you have no nefarious plans to do away with me.”
“I was uncertain about what I shall do with you outside of my dastardly plans, Miss Danvers. Wickedness can take up only so much time.”
“You tease me, Your Grace?” She laughed lightly, and the cold retreated and warmth filled his bones. How fascinating.
The carriage suddenly careened wildly.
“What the devil—?”
An ominous groan was the only warning before they became weightless, the bridge caving and dumping them into the raging waters of the river.
…
Kitty suppressed her panic as the duke shoved at the carriage door. The equipage was rapidly sinking, and the pressure of the water made it difficult to pry the door open. She scrabbled to his side, lending him her strength. They pushed, the door blessedly sprang open, and they spilled into the swollen waters.
The icy cold shocked the breath from her body and she wheezed. She grabbed onto a piece of the coach, very aware that it was submerging, and it was the only thing keeping her above water. The sleeting rain stung her eyes, and Kitty futilely swiped the rivulets from her face. The coachman was shouting something and pointing toward the banking, but Kitty could not discern his words over the roaring water and the intermittent thunder.
“Can you swim?” the duke demanded, coming to her side.
Fear iced through her heart. “No,” she gasped. “Can you?”
His reply was lost in the wind. With grace and speed, he spun in the water, wrapping his arms across her waist from behind. The banking of the river was close by, but it felt like it took forever as he pulled against the churning waters to get her to safety.
Wanting to help him, she kicked her legs.
“For God’s sake, do not move,” he roared.
They sank briefly, and everything muted as water rushed over her head and the weight of her dress and petticoats pulled her down. Yet panic did not rush in, for Kitty sensed he would not let her drown. Another surge and they were once more above water, and thank God, the banking was there.
She giggled, possibly from hysteria, when he planted his firm hands on her buttocks and pushed her up the slippery slope. She gripped the lush, thick moss that grew along the embankment, hauling herself up.
Once she was safe from the churning waters, she turned around to help him. But he was swimming back toward the carriage that was almost submerged.
“Alexander!”
He did not turn at her cry. George, still in the water, was busily unhooking the animals, and the duke headed for his stallion hitched to the back. The animals were screaming, their cries lost in the ripping wind. A trembling seized her limbs, and she could only watch helplessly as they unhitched the horses from the rapidly sinking carriage. The duke slapped their rumps and the horses instinctively, thank God, lunged and swam toward the banking, then mounted the riverbank to safety.
The carriage sank, and the exhausted coachman slipped beneath the rushing waters.
Oh dear God!
The man did not surface, and the duke went under, disappearing for several moments. Kitty’s heart was a drum in her ears, and she trembled violently as she prayed for the duke and the coachman to reappear. Helplessness surged through her, and she watched the frothing waters, furiously wiping the rivulets from her face.
A sob of relief tore from her when she saw him with George clasped in his hand. The duke tried to swim over, but she could see that he struggled. Her heart pounded with fear, and grabbing at a nearby tree branch, she held onto it and slipped it into the churning water. The cold once again shocked her, and her breath exploded on a gasp. But her feet touched the bed of the river, and that mattered more than anything. With her death grip on the branch, which bent as if it would break at any moment, she inched her way toward the duke.
He glanced back as if to assess the shores and spied her. He shouted something to her, but the wind ripped it away. The duke seemed to double his effort. Kitty kept inching closer, carefully bracing against the waters and ensuring her feet could touch the ground. She paused when the water finally reached her chin, and she held out a hand. The duke reached her, and she grasped one of the shoulders of the coachman.
With a groan, the duke slipped from beneath him and stood in the river, supporting the man under his arms. Kitty helped him by lifting George’s face above the water, and they painstakingly made it to the banking. Then she rested the weight of the coachman on the duke and, using the branch, hauled them from the waters. It took several attempts amid much sliding and grunting, but she made it. Kitty turned around, panting, reached down, and helped drag the man out of the river while the duke pushed. With a grunt, Thornton heaved himself from the churning waters.
He lay back on the muddied grass, breathing heavily. With a deep groan that spoke of agony, the duke pushed to his feet, staring at her.
“Thank you,” he said, his eyes intent, a grove of pain bracketing his mouth. “Not many people who cannot swim would dare to brave these waters to help rescue a servant.”
“It is a kindness I would do for anyone,” she whispered. Then she lifted a hand to his brow. “You are in pain. I can see torment in your eyes.”
“It is nothing,” he said gruffly, his expression shuttering.
She lowered her hand and shockingly, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Unexpectedly, a beguiling jolt of ice and fire lanced through her. Kitty had no time to respond before the duke turned away and looked at his man lying on the muddied earth.
“We need to get him out of the rain,” he said, dipping and then hoisting the old man over his shoulder.
Kitty hurried after him as they made their way toward the dense section of the woods, away from the shattered makeshift bridge and the swollen waters. As they entered the tree line, a few large oaks provided some relief from the rain. The alcove was thick with sheltering trees, the scent of oak moss and pine redolent in the air. The grass was verdant and soft, and the duke lowered himself to his knees, slinging the coachman to the forest floor. The duke remained on his knees and pressed an ear to the coachman’s chest.
The duke pushed himself up and glanced at her. His eyes were ravaged with pain and grief. “One foolish decision and now a good man has died.”
Shock tore through her. “He’s dead?”
The duke lowered himself again, pressing his ear close to the man’s chest and then his mouth. With a grimace, he straightened. “I cannot hear his heartbeat or feel the heat of his breath. I fear he is truly dead.”
For a moment the two stared at each other without further sound or movement.
Kitty looked at the duke in ill-concealed fright. “Surely it cannot be so. How dreadful!”
Her heart ached at the naked agony in Thornton’s gaze. “He has a wife…children and grandchildren.”
“I…” Her throat went tight at the senseless loss. “I’m so sorry.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Why did I risk going over the bridge?”
The hollowness in his voice tore at Kitty. Uncaring that the muddied ground would damage what was left of her dress, she lowered herself to her knees and touched his shoulder in gentle support.
“I’m so terribly sorry, Your Grace.” It had all been so sudden and violent. She couldn’t believe the grumpy coachman who had seemed overly familiar with the duke could have just died so. “I am so sorry,” she whispered again.
“God damn you,” the duke roared, slapping the man’s chest.
The sacrilege, beating a dead man’s chest. He repeated the motion, this time his sound of fury and denial muted. Just as she was about to order him to stop, one of the man’s fingers twitched. She screamed and then slapped a hand over her mouth.
“What is it?” the duke demanded, his eyes scanning behind her, sharp and calculating.
“I…I thought he moved.” Every foolish gothic book she’d ever read in the late evening blared through her mind. It did not help that the sky had the ominous darkness of a fiercely brewing storm or that the wooded glen was so empty.
His eyes cut to the man on the ground, and he bent over, pressing his ear to the man’s chest for several seconds. The duke’s eyes closed, regret lining his handsome features. “He did not; he’s dead,” he said flatly. Yet his eyes spoke of pain and grief.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” he said, bowing his head as if in prayer.
Several moments passed in taut silence. Kitty had no notion of how to comfort him. “Your Grace, I believe we should—”
A groan came from the body on the ground, and he twitched. Kitty gasped, grabbed onto the duke’s shoulder, and tried to haul herself up. She tumbled into the mud and rolled down the gentle slope. Somehow, she came to a sprawling stop on her back. She hurriedly turned over, still sliding in the muddy grass, pushed herself up, and stared at the body. “Did you see that he moved?” she yelled.
The duke’s face was a mask of astonishment as he stared at her, then back at his coachman. The man jerked and then turned over to his side, coughing up mouthfuls of water. When he was done, he sat up, his bleary gaze scanning the woods, a fierce scowl on his weathered face. The man who’d presumed to be dead was muttering under his breath, rubbing at his chest as if the spot was sore, and glaring at the duke.
“Ye had to thump so hard, Yer Grace?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “I’m glad you’re well, George.”
The duke glanced back at her. His lips parted, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dratted man started to laugh. Rolling belly laughter that sounded like thunder itself, and at the heart of it, she heard the relief. “Did…did you perchance think George was the living dead, Miss Danvers?”
Kitty scowled, humiliation heating the tips of her ears. She was vexed to feel herself coloring. She had reacted like a silly, hysterical miss. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she finally burst out. “I do not believe it is humor that is required in this situation, Your Grace!”
There was an amused expression in his eyes as he said, with perfect gravity, “Miss Danvers, how you’ve brightened my day. I shall not forget today anytime soon.”
Pulling her tattered
dignity around her, she struggled to her feet. Tendrils of hair clung damply across her forehead. Mud slurped at her half boots, and her hem was muck-encrusted. Kitty had never felt more bedraggled, while the duke was still flat on his arse in the mud, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
After a few moments of rest and recovery, the coachman pushed to his feet and glanced from the duke to her. Then he, too, grinned, and Kitty scowled.
“We’re close to Emmet’s cottage, Yer Grace,” he said with a trembling cough, holding out his hand and assisting the duke to his feet.
Then surprisingly the duke pulled his coachman into a hug. She faltered, staring at them in mute amazement. Kitty had never witnessed such familiarity between servant and master before. The kindness radiating in the duke’s eyes and the affection in his embrace brought a lump to Kitty’s throat. That the cold and aloof duke had such an attachment revealed much about the man’s character. An altogether new sensation unfurled through her belly. Unidentifiable but pleasant.
George muttered something, and with a low chuckle, the duke released him after slapping his back.
“That we are. Let’s make our way, then.” He held out his hand to her. “Come, Miss Danvers. We must get out of the rain and to a shelter.”
Grateful that shelter was nearby, she hurried over to his side.
He shrugged from his wet jacket and threw it over her head. She tried her best not to gawk at the outline of his chest beneath the waistcoat and shirt. The rain plastered his clothes to his lithe, elegant frame.
“Thank you,” she murmured, fancying she could smell his unique scent in the waterlogged garment.
She stumbled, and with lightning-quick reflexes, he grabbed her.
“It is very slippery, is it not?” she breathed, shocked at the strange feeling low in her stomach at his touch.
He laced their fingers together, and for precious seconds she stared at their clasped hands. Then he tugged her forward. Each step felt as if she were headed into something new and terrifying. It was her silly imagination, of course, but she could not escape the sensation that something about her life had altered. And it hadn’t happened when she met the duke, or when she agreed to accompany him to his remote castle in Scotland…but now, in this moment, their hands fused palm to palm as they silently made their way, heads dipped low to brace against the wind and rain.