Chapter 3
Alison was not smiling. Or prattling. Her flushed cheeks and feverish eyes killed all evidence of her habitual mirth. The absolute silence of Cara’s maid was only further heightened by the wind howling outside the Earl of Derby’s carriage. This was very dire, indeed.
Cara drew the curtain back and peered out into the thick swirl of snowflakes. Then the conveyance stopped. “Why has the carriage stopped?” Did those words belong to her or Alison? A niggling of unease pitted in her belly.
“I am sure we are merely stopping for a moment because…” Her maid eyed her skeptically. “Because…” Well, blast what was there to stop for in this desolate landscape painted white? “Highwaymen?” Alison breathed, fear dripping from that one word. “A-choo!”
The girl’s tendency for the dramatics eased some of Cara’s attention and she gave a roll of her eyes. “Highwaymen do not traverse this road.” It was too well-traveled. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. At least, she didn’t think they did. Schooling her features into an expressionless mask, she peeked through the crack in the velvet curtains and squinted out into the rapidly falling snow. The muscles of her stomach clenched. What if her overly imaginative maid proved correct and there was a blasted highwayman? Wouldn’t that just prove her rotted luck this day? She tensed her jaw. They could make off with every last one of her possessions, but there was one that would have to be pried from her fingers.
“Do you see them?” Did the clattering of the girl’s teeth have to do with her fever or the cold?
They both jumped as someone banged on the carriage door. Cara’s heart climbed into her throat and she studiously avoided Alison’s I-told-you-there-would-be-highwaymen looks. With trembling fingers, she peeled open the curtain and brushed her gloved hand over the iced pane. Some of the tension went out of her. The earl’s groom tugged his cap lower and made to knock once more.
Cara pushed it open. A blast of snow slapped at her face and the cold of it momentarily sucked her breath away. “What—?” The winter wind stole all sound from her words.
The groom cupped his hands about his mouth. “The carriage is stuck, my lady.”
She tipped her head. “Stuck?”
He nodded once. “We passed an inn a short while back, but we will have to walk the remainder of the way. The drifts are too high on the roads.”
Her heart sank into her stomach. “Walk?” She knew she must sound something of a lackwit repeating back every other one of the servant’s words, and yet—“Are you mad?” she shouted into the wind. By God, they would perish in this Godforsaken storm.
“It is not far,” he called back and then held out a hand.
A spark of fear lit Alison’s glassy eyes, but she accepted the groom’s hand and allowed him to assist her down. The maid’s serviceable boots disappeared into the thick snow and her lips parted on a gasp as she tugged her cloak closer.
Cara’s thoughts raced as she took in the couple shivering outside the carriage. “But surely—?”
“The carriage cannot be moved,” he said impatiently.
On its own volition, her gaze swung to the roof of the black barouche to where her trunk sat atop—and her mother’s necklace. Now she would pay the price for her own foolish pride. “But my belongings?” Panic raised the tone of her words to a high pitch. She could not leave her trunk. Not when the last piece belonging to her mother rested within its confines.
“I will have to return for it.” She would have to be stone deaf to fail to hear the impatience in the older servant’s tone.
Cara reached for her bonnet and set it atop her head, deftly tying the long, velvet ribbons underneath. Words of protest hovered on her lips.
…you will not so shame yourself by showing that you care about anything or anyone, Clarisse Victoria Falcot…
Her gut churned at the long-forgotten words drawled by her father from across his office desk. “Very well,” she said with a regality even her father would have a difficult time faulting and accepted the servant’s hand. Her boots sank deep into the snow, wringing a shocked gasp from her as her ankles disappeared into the drift. “Bloody hell.” And if she weren’t so blasted cold she’d have felt some heat of embarrassment at her scandalous utterance.
The groom’s lips twitched as he turned his efforts to unhitching the horses. A short while later, he motioned Cara and Alison to follow. Her Falcot pride had gotten her into this bumble broth. She forcibly lifted her legs and snow-dampened hem, struggling to maintain her balance as they walked slowly back to an inn she’d not even seen in their travels.
At her side, Alison gave a piteous moan. “We are going to die out here.” Now the girl would choose to abandon her sunny disposition?
“I am not going to die out here,” she mumbled to herself. She was too bloody enraged about the whole blasted day. She focused on that rage to keep from thinking about how the wind slapped painfully at her cheeks, stinging her eyes with snow. With each step she took, she fed that fury. Forgotten by her father. One step. Forgotten also by her brother, if one wanted to be truly precise in their upset. Another step. Forgotten at Christmas. Yet another step. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Where is this blasted inn?” she shouted.
The servant jabbed his finger ahead, not breaking stride. And for one horrifying moment, she believed this had all been a deliberate ploy by her enemy Lady Nora, and the girl had somehow convinced the loyal, smiling-for-his-mistress groom to abandon Cara and her maid here in the middle of the wild, in the midst of a storm.
Pride was a dangerous thing. Trudging through the snow, with her cloak little protection from the harsh elements beating down on her face and cutting through her clothes, Cara readily conceded there were reasons for all those lessons, proverbs and statements about the blasted vice. Her teeth chattered, the sound of it swallowed by the howling winter wind and then, through the thick curtain of snow rapidly falling, a small establishment pulled into focus. “Thank God,” she breathed, stirring puffs of air with her breath.
They trudged the remainder of the way to the stables outside the inn. The earl’s groom rapped loudly on the wood doors which were thrown open by an old, graying man. He eyed them a moment. Whatever words were exchanged between the two were lost to the howling wind. Moments later, they marched up to the front of the old inn. The groom pushed the door open. Shivering inside her hopelessly damp cloak, she looked about the dark establishment. A thick haze of smoke filled the taproom from a recently lit pipe. The pungent scent burned her lungs. Cara wrinkled her nose. She’d always detested the nauseating smell. It was a scent that drew forth memories of her father closeted away in his billiards room while he entertained other pompous noblemen who were all vastly more important than his own daughter.
A weak Alison hovered at her shoulder, eying the empty taproom.
Cara tugged off her wet gloves and continued to pass her gaze over the dimly lit space, searching for the owner of that foul cheroot. A fire raged in the hearth, casting eerie shadows about the cracked and chipped walls. “Hello?” she called out in an icy tone. From the back of the establishment, footsteps shuffled.
A portly, white-haired man with a pipe stuck between his teeth, rushed forward to greet them. “Ah, in need of rooms are you?”
Did he think she preferred to spend her night out of doors in this violent storm? Cara bit back the tart response. “I require a room,” she said tightly, dusting her gloves together. She cast a glance at Alison. “That is, two rooms.” After all, it wouldn’t do to be quite so alone in the miserable inn.
The innkeeper removed his pipe and grinned, displaying a row of cracked and missing teeth. She rocked back on her heels, nearly bowled over by the scent of stale garlic on his breath.
“And meals,” she said.
At her side, Alison sneezed into her elbow.
“And a warm bath.”
The older innkeeper took another puff of his pipe. “Is there anything else, my lady?”
She gave a bru
sque shake of her head, and shrugged out of her dampened cloak, and turned it over to the older man’s care. “That is all.”
An equally wizened woman with shocking white hair and a twinkle in her rheumy eyes rushed forward. “Allow me to show you to your rooms, my lady.”
Cara held up a staying hand and cast a look back at the earl’s driver. “I would have my trunk brought abovestairs immediately.”
The man opened his mouth, but a large gust of wind slammed into the door, rattling it on its frame and beating against the lead windowpanes. He doffed his hat and beat the wet piece against his leg. “But my lady, the storm…”
Her heart started and she turned her attention to the window. Why in blazes had she not carried her heart pendant on her person? Because you were so hurt and angry at your father’s inactions this day, that you spitefully lashed out at the piece given you by the one person who ever loved you. Her throat worked painfully. And what had she done? Had her maid bury it into the bottom of her cold trunk. This bloody day. Nay. It was her blasted impulsivity. Jane Munroe slid into her thoughts once more and Cara forcefully thrust the kind, former instructor’s visage from her mind.
Cara squinted out into the dark as a blanket of white snow swirled past the frosted pane. She swung back to face the driver and set her jaw to hide the faint quake there. “I require my belongings this instant.” The gowns and other fripperies she’d been granted as the daughter of a duke could go hang. Her heart pounded with panic. “I need—” My mother’s necklace. The assembled collection of servants fixed peculiar looks on her. Cara’s skin went hot. “Dry clothing,” she finished lamely. “I require dry clothing.”
The old woman beamed. “Well, that is easy enough, my lady. I’ve several lovely gowns. Nowhere near the fancy garments you are accustomed to.” She turned to go.
“No,” Cara cried out and her utterance echoed around the inn, earning shocked silence. She turned back to the earl’s driver and forced her tone into a semblance of icy calm “Go.”
The earl’s servant shifted on his feet with the gusting storm raging its fury at the door. “But, my lady,” he whispered. “It is snowing.”
She took a step toward him. “It is a bit of snow and I command you to go.” Please go.
He dropped his unrepentant stare to her wet boots.
“You’d send a person out into this Godforsaken weather for your own fripperies, brat?”
A harsh, angry voice sounded beyond her shoulder and she spun about. Her heart stilled and fear settled like a stone in her belly at the big, broad, bear of a man glowering down at her. She fisted the fabric of her gown and swallowed hard. A man who glowered at her. With the gruff stubble on his face and towering height, the imposing stranger wore the rank of his lesser class like a stamp upon his skin. As though he’d followed the direction her thoughts had traveled, he narrowed his blue, nearly black eyes in a menacing fashion. She swallowed hard and backed away from him.
A mocking grin pulled at his hard lips. “Nothing to say, brat?”
Outrage blotted out the nervousness swirling in her belly. Brat? Why, the lout had called her brat. Twice. And challenged her, before this small, shocked cluster of strangers. Finding her courage, she settled her feet on the wood floor. “How dare you?” She prided herself on those evenly delivered words when inside she quaked. By God, the man was a foot taller than her own five-foot four-inch frame and his powerful muscles strained the confines of his coarse garments.
He folded his arms at his chest, stretching the fabric of his white sleeves over his defined biceps. She really had no place ogling a figure such as him and yet—she warmed. She’d spent most of her life filing men into the category of worthless, shiftless bounders such as her father. Never before had she admired a man, and warmed at his mere presence, alone.
“How dare I? You are a spoiled ice princess who’d send out her servants to rescue what? Your fine gowns?” His condescending opinion jerked her back from her foolhardy musings with all the effect of being dumped into that icy snow outside.
Cara ground her teeth. “Do not call me ice princess. Furthermore,” she raked a gaze over him. “It is not your business.” What should she expect a rude-mannered lout such as this one to understand about that necklace buried in the bottom of her trunk?
He took another step closer and her courage deserted her. “Not my business?”
Oh, dear. She’d never before been expected to account for her opinions to anyone beyond her father. And he cared even less for her opinions than he did for her on the whole. Cara retreated until her back collided with the wooden door. She winced, managing a jerky nod. “That is correct. N-not your business.”
“Not my business that a spoiled lady would send a man out into a bloody blizzard for her fancy baubles?” A seething fury graveled his voice.
His highhandedness grated on her last nerve. In a bid to goad him, she tipped her chin up a notch. “I see by your words, you at least understand.” What did he know anything of her?
It proved the wrong thing to say. He ate away the distance between them in three long strides. His alacrity wrung a gasp from her and she held her hands up to ward him off, but he continued coming until a hairsbreadth separated them.
Even weakened from fever, Alison managed a fierce look for the stranger. “How dare you? Do you know who—?”
Cara glanced around the hulking beast’s shoulder, silencing the girl. It would hardly do to reveal the truth of her birthright before this thunderous brute. Despite his cultured tones, he clearly detested those of noble birthrights. He was likely some indulgent nobleman’s by-blow son who despised anyone and everyone of the peerage. Who knew what an uncouth lout such as he would do with the truth of her identity?
“I do not give a jot if your mistress is the Queen of England,” he directed his icy words to Cara. He stuck a finger under her nose and she went cross-eyed staring down at it. “If you are in such desperate need of your fineries, then risk your own life but not another person’s.”
She wanted to spew rancorous words at him, lauding her station and birthright that would effectively silence him. Except, by the unrelenting set of his strong, square jaw, this man would never be suitably, or even unsuitably, impressed by any of that. Cara swatted his hand. “You mannerless lout. Do not put your finger near my face.”
“Mannerless I may be, but I am not a self-centered snob who’d put my own well-being before that of another’s because of some inflated sense of self-worth.”
That harsh accusation ran through her. Never before had anyone spoken to her so. There was something humbling in being so disparaged by a person’s words and his thoughts. Only, this desperation was not for her fineries and fripperies as he’d called them, but rather for one particular finery. “You know nothing about it,” she bit out between clenched teeth.
“Oh, don’t I?”
“No, you don’t!”
The servants swung their heads back and forth, as though they took in a game of racquets.
A wry, condescending smile pulled harder at his hard lips. “Nor do I care to know anything about it.”
It, as in her. Humiliation slapped her cheeks with heat. Embarrassment…but something more blended with that emotion. Hurt. Which made little sense, and surely could only be accounted for by her blasted maudlin thoughts at this silly time of the season with her father’s latest display of indifference.
The earl’s driver cleared his throat. “I-I can fetch my lady’s belongings.”
She swallowed back bitter regret. A bit late for that. All of this mortifying exchange could have been avoided if he’d made that offer before this uncouth stranger put his aquiline nose in her affairs. Cara gave a brusque nod and the man turned to go.
“You will do no such thing.” The brute’s icy, commanding tone would have impressed her austere duke of a father.
Pain stabbed at her heart. In a desperate bid to feign nonchalance, Cara snapped her skirts, and with her nose in the air, stepped around the ser
vant’s champion. “I would like to be shown to my rooms.” That request contained what little remained of her pride.
“Of course.” The old woman rushed over. “If you’ll follow me.” She motioned to Cara and Alison.
With her neck burning from the hard gaze the stranger fixed on her, she forced her steps into the practiced, unhurried ones meant to convey control when all she wanted to do was shut herself away in the miserable rooms of this inn, lock the door, curl up in a heap on her borrowed bed, and forget this whole blasted day.
Chapter 4
Seated alongside the blazing fire in the empty taproom, William stared into the contents of his tankard. His earlier peace and calm had been effectively stolen by a tart-mouthed, self-important lady. He scowled and then took another swig of his drink.
All the golden-tressed harridan had done was rouse thoughts of the pretentious lady his parents would see him wed to; one of those young ladies who put her own material desires before the safety and security of a servant, or anyone, as long as her needs were met.
It really was quite a shame that a lean, lithe creature with the heart-shaped face of an angel and that pale blonde hair should be as frigid as a January freeze. He’d like to kiss the frown from the lush contours of her lips and melt that icy veneer. He growled. He’d been too long without a bloody woman if he was lusting after that one.
The innkeeper shuffled over and motioned to William’s drink. “Another?”
William gave thanks for the timely interruption from the fleeting madness of lusting after the ice princess. He smiled and held his nearly empty glass out to be refilled. “Fine ale, thank you…?” He stared expectantly up at the older man.
“Martin. My name is Martin and my wife is Martha,” he motioned to the old woman running a rag over empty tables.
He lifted his tankard in salute. “Fine ale,” he lied. It was blasted rubbish stuff.
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