The wind howled again and shifted abruptly. The rain had given up altogether and heavy, white flakes were falling from the sky, turning the entire world white. It had turned into a blizzard, coming in sideways and penetrating even the heavy layer of his cloak. He’d take the shortcut, he decided, using the dirt lane that the farmers used. As he neared it, he saw the carriage and cursed again.
“What the devil are you doing out here?” he shouted.
“Mr. Middlethorp, sir? Is that you?”
Even through the wind and rain he recognized that voice. Travers. The Dowager Viscountess’ driver. “Is she in there?” Branson snapped. He could wring her blasted neck for putting herself in danger. She should have arrived already and been safely settled at Midford Abbey.
“No, sir. She struck out on foot almost a quarter-hour ago, taking the shortcut to the house. I’ve been trying to get the carriage turned so I could get back to the inn in the village but the horses keep sliding.”
“There’s a farm just a hundred yards behind you. It belongs to a Mr. Pace. Tell him you’re the dowager’s coachman and that you’ve been stuck by bad weather. They’ll give you lodgings for the night. Leave the carriage. Unhitch the horses and walk them in. They’ll be less likely to injure themselves that way. In the morning, he’s to hitch them to his sleigh and come to the dower house. I’m going after Lady Vale. And Travers, it’ll be on your head if she’s managed to do injury to herself!” Branson snapped and then made for the lane. The ice was growing heavier on the branches. As fierce as the wind was, those branches would soon begin to snap. He had to get to her and he had to do it quickly.
Turning down the lane, urging his horse as fast as it could safely travel on the slippery path, Branson alternately prayed and cursed her hardheadedness. Ever since his brother had passed away, looking after Sarah had been his first priority. But she had never made it easy. During the course of Benedict’s long absence and the uncertainty of his fate, she’d put herself in the path of every charlatan and criminal imaginable, despite his best efforts to curb her recklessness. Contrary to what she believed, it had never been the money or even a need to control her as she had often asserted. He would gladly have sacrificed every bit of the Middlethorp fortune, his own personal funds, and the coffers of the entailed Vale estates if it might have offered her peace. She had despised him for his interference, thinking him as controlling and hateful as his brother had been. That could not have been further from the truth. All he’d wanted then, all he wanted still, was her happiness and for her to be safe.
Branson had not gone far when he spotted her. She was not quite a quarter of a mile from where the lane began. She was still a good three-quarters of a mile from where the lane ended on the grounds of Midford Abbey. But she’d never make it that far. Even if she did, they’d never make it up the steep incline that awaited her in order to reach the main house.
“Sarah!” he called out.
She glanced over her shoulder, but did not halt. Instead, she picked up her pace as if she didn’t know it was him at all. Or perhaps she did, he thought, and her wish to avoid him was greater than her own sense of self-preservation. No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he heard her scream as she slipped in the mud and ice. His heart stopped as he saw how utterly still she was. Heedless of his own safety, Branson raced forward, terror clawing at him.
Chapter Two
Sarah’s temper had flared at the mere sound of his voice. Even now, with her son home where he belonged and Branson no longer the trustee over the estate—and her—he dogged her footsteps. But her anger had come on the heels of another feeling. Relief. Despite all her resistance to his managing and highhanded ways, the instant she’d heard him call her name, she’d had but one thought. Branson would know what to do. He always did. There had never been a time in her life, not since her husband’s death, when Branson had not been there to see to things, to manage things, to prevent her from falling in with those who would have exploited her grief for their own gains.
It had been those complicated and warring feelings that had spurred her on, making her careless in her haste. Lying there in the mud, rain splashing all around her—she was dazed, winded, and uncertain of how injured she might be. Her ankle throbbed and her shoulder ached where it had struck a stone that had fallen from the fence.
By the time she’d managed to shake off enough of her disorientation and wounded pride from having literally fallen on her backside, he had nearly reached her.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded as he drew nearer. Her tone was sullen and sharp. Despite knowing that, she did not feel it was in her power to correct it. He sparked her temper like no other man ever had.
“I saw the carriage on the road and set out to find you,” he said, dismounting. “Are you hurt?”
“Not seriously,” she answered churlishly. Other than having him witness more of her indignity. She felt foolish enough in his presence without being covered head to toe in mud and muck.
“It’s too dangerous to walk much further and the horse cannot possibly maintain his balance with both of us on his back.”
“We cannot just stay here!” she snapped.
“In point of fact, Sarah, we can. The gate to the dower house is only a few yards ahead. It’s where I’ve been staying since Benedict and Elizabeth took up residence at Midford,” he replied. “Come along.”
“I need to reach Midford Abbey! Benedict—”
“Is not going anywhere. I will get you there tomorrow. But if you persist in this foolishness tonight, you will be seriously injured or killed.”
As if to emphasize his point, a brutal gust of wind blew through just then and branches shattered in the distance, falling onto the hard-packed, icy lane with a heavy crack. Sarah jumped and shuddered. Had she not fallen but continued on, she would likely have been struck by them. That thought silenced any token protests she might have made. It was certainly unorthodox for her to spend the night in the dower house with him, but there would be servants there, after all. And they were family. He was practically her brother.
Except he wasn’t.
“Very well,” she agreed. “Do you promise you will get me to Midford Abbey tomorrow, Branson?”
“I will do everything in my power to get you there, Sarah. I know you’d prefer as little time in my company as possible,” he replied sharply. “Now, let’s get you up off the ground.”
Sarah took his hand, noting how warm it was despite the frigid cold. But as she rose, her injured ankle gave way beneath her and she stumbled. He caught her, pulling her against him and managing, somehow, to keep them both upright.
“You are injured,” he said accusingly.
“I must have turned my ankle when I fell. It will be fine,” she insisted.
He maneuvered them so that her injured side was against him. “If you lean against me, it will be easier going. I’d carry you but if I fall, it would go even worse for you.”
She did as he suggested. His arm was strong about her as he supported most of her weight and she was vividly conscious of the warmth of his body against her even through the layers of sodden clothing between them. She was not without desires. Despite the cruelty of her late husband, she was still a living woman, with a woman’s body and a woman’s needs. Needs that had been awakened so long ago, but never truly fulfilled.
Sarah closed her eyes and tried desperately to push such thoughts away. They were futile and pointless, as he would never see her as anything but some addlebrained ninny. Unable to do anything else, however, she clung to him as he turned and led the way down the icy lane. Somehow, in spite of the conditions, he never slipped, slid or even seemed to fumble for his balance. He was completely and utterly implacable even in the face of such intolerable conditions. Never in her life had she known anyone more stoic than Branson. Though, if she were forced to admit it, there were times when that same trait that maddened her had also helped her to salvage what little of her dignity remained. Had it not been
Branson, after all, who’d dealt with the aftermath of James’ scandalous demise in the bed of his infamous mistress? And there was his unfailing knack for saving her and their fortunes whenever she’d been on the verge of falling under the grasping thrall of any mystic who offered hope her Benedict was still alive.
There was much to be grateful to Branson for and it was that, more than anything, to which she took umbrage and which made her unfortunate response to his nearness so embarrassing. In his presence, she always felt less, weak, lacking in some way that he’d been the one to protect her from herself for so long. She resented it, she realized. She resented him because he reminded her of her own weaknesses and failings, because he reminded her of a time before James had humiliated her beyond reason, before the disappearance of her son and the uncertainty of his fate had nearly driven her mad. And any deep-seated desire she might have for him, any unconscious acknowledgement of how strong and handsome he was, would only bring disaster if allowed to come to fruition.
Shuffling beside him, struggling to maintain her balance on the slippery ground with one injured ankle, she resented him for the relative ease with which he made the short trek to the small, gated entrance of the dower house. More than that, she resented him for making her feel things she had no business feeling and could never act upon.
Finally, they reached the house. Even through the deluge of icy rain, she could see it was entirely dark. “Have your servants already sought their beds?”
He glanced back at her. “There are no servants… well, not that stay here. There’s a maid that comes down from the house to tidy things up here and there. I’ve never liked having a valet, as you well know.”
“But there’s no butler or cook?”
His laughter carried on the wind. “Lest you forget, Sarah, I will no longer have the entirety of the Middlethorp fortune at my disposal. I have elected to accustom myself to my newly-lowered standing by forgoing such things.”
They would be alone. Utterly and entirely alone. She hadn’t been alone with any man since her husband’s passing and, even before that event, James had shown no interest in her. He’d preferred the company of his mistresses, after all, or women who would tolerate his abuses with a smile and an open palm for their coin. Of course, it was Branson. He had no interest in her either. But it was simply the thought of it, of that strange intimacy that occurs in the darkness between two people. Could she bear it? Did she have a choice?
He reached for the door, pushed it open and then moved to help her inside. She hesitated there just long enough for his expression to harden. “I realize it’s beneath you, Sarah, but so is freezing to death!”
Chastened and more than a little embarrassed, she stepped into the darkened hall, still leaning heavily on him. The snick of the door closing blocked out all other sounds save for the muted buffeting of the wind against the house. It was as if the darkness inside provided its own sort of insulation, a buffer against the rest of the world.
Following his unspoken commands, Sarah disengaged herself from him and leaned back against the wall, avoiding putting weight on her injured ankle. Within seconds, he’d moved deeper into the narrow space and lit a taper left on the table there. The dim glow of the candle illuminated the entryway and cast harsh, dancing shadows over his face. “The library was in use earlier and had a fire laid in it for most of the day… I daresay it will be the easiest room to knock the chill off of you first. I’ll get you settled in there to warm up then get a bedchamber readied.”
Sarah nodded and accepted the taper as he held it out to her. Rather than leaning on him for that short journey, he simply swept her up and into his arms, carrying her, mud and all, into the room to the right of the entryway. Trying to think of anything but how glorious it felt to be in his arms, she focused on their surroundings instead. The small library was a much more feminine room than she might have expected but, then, he hadn’t had the house redone to his tastes. She assumed his lodging there was of a temporary nature. Branson was a London man. He’d never cared for hunts and riding the way others did, though he certainly excelled at both.
He sat her down in a wooden chair before the fire and helped her to remove her heavy cloak. He started to simply drop it, but she halted him. “Not there. For heaven’s sake, let us spare the upholstery such an ignominious end.”
He said nothing, but moved the garment into the hall and draped it over the banister. Branson returned almost immediately and coaxed the few remaining warm coals in the hearth back to life. Eventually, the fire blazed and cast a soft glow over the room. As silently as he’d entered, he simply rose and retreated from the library.
Sarah could hear his footfalls on the staircase as he made his way above. Easing herself into one of the chairs before the hearth, she acknowledged how much her body ached. She was not as young as she had once been and the few slips and tumbles she’d suffered along the way, and her more serious one just before Branson had reached her, had taken their toll. No doubt, she’d be a mass of bruises by morning. But it was her ankle that would truly be the devil. If she didn’t get her boots off, she’d likely not be able to. She could feel her ankle beginning to swell already.
Carefully, she bent forward and removed her boots, ignoring the twinges of pain as she did so. If she acknowledged the aches and pains, such an admission would only be greeted with a smug “I told you so”. The situation was intolerable enough to start with without adding fuel to that particular fire. By the time she’d managed to remove her offending footwear, she was all but in tears. It hurt terribly. More than that, she feared that it would impede her efforts to spend the holiday with her family. She simply would not allow it, she vowed. Whatever pain she might suffer, the end result would be worth it.
With the task finally done, she leaned back in the chair and considered her options. She was, at least, closer to Benedict than when she had started. But if the weather continued, would they truly be able to reach Midford Abbey the following day?
“The farmer just down the lane has a sleigh. I sent Travers there for the night with instructions they should use the sleigh and fetch us in the morning. It’s already turned fully to snow outside and I imagine, by daybreak, we’ll have quite a bit of it. If there’s enough snow to cover the ice, we’ll have no trouble getting to Midford Abbey.” The explanation was offered without any preamble at all, despite the fact that it seemed he’d read her mind. As a matter of fact, it was just as everything he did, it seemed.
“You think me foolish,” she said. “Foolish and sentimental to go to such lengths.”
“I think your judgement is clouded because you are trying to make up for lost years, Sarah. Do not waste the present trying to recapture the past,” he warned.
“It’s the first Christmas I will have with my son in more than two decades, Branson. Can you not see how important it is that I not let another such special day pass without being close to him?” She was imploring him to understand, and he did, she thought. When Benedict had been small and Branson a young man about town, he’d doted on the boy. There had been no denying that he had been heartbroken, as well, when Benedict had been abducted all those years ago. The only person who had been unmoved had been James. He’d simply been livid to have himself saddled with a wife who was no longer capable of giving him an heir to replace the one taken. If anyone could understand her desperation, wouldn’t it be the other person who had loved Benedict so well as a boy?
He’d get her there. If it meant moving heaven and earth, he would find a way. When she looked at him like that, as if he truly had the power to do anything in the world, how could he do anything less? “I will get you to your son by Christmas, Sarah. No matter what. You have my word.”
She dropped her head and sighed with relief. “Thank you, Branson. I cannot tell you what it means to me.”
“I had thought you were to set out more than a week ago,” he commented. That was the very reason he’d made himself scarce, after all. It was easier to avoid her than to be
in her company when he’d been informed that she would be spending more than a fortnight with them at Midford. So he’d gone to Bath to deal with some inane business that could just as easily have been handled by post.
“My maid took ill. She is recovering now but is still far too weak to travel, and as I could not wait any longer, I set out without her.”
He didn’t harangue her for it. There was no point. They both knew it had been a foolish choice. It also wasn’t his place. With Benedict returned, he was no longer the trustee of the estate. He no longer had any control over Sarah’s finances, behavior or living arrangements. All of those things were now the purveyance of her son. That thought weighed on him, pressed down upon him with a heaviness that made his heart ache. Ignoring that, as he’d done with so many of his emotions over the years, he stepped deeper into the room. At his side, he carried a small bundle of bandages and a liniment that smelled like the devil but worked wonders.
A Night of Angels Page 24