“I’ll fit. But Francine won’t.” He hefted the trunk with both hands, lifting it above the water. It was far too big to fit through the window. “Go on. Take shelter under some trees. I’ll keep her dry until the rain lets up.”
“You want me to leave you here? Alone?”
A flicker of some emotion passed over his features, but he squelched it. “I’ll be fine. We’ll stay within shouting distance. You know our system, M. Tallyho, and all that.”
She shook her head. Impossible man. Not five minutes ago, he’d clutched her in his arms and begged her to never leave him. Pledged to follow her to the grave, if it came to that. He honestly thought she would abandon him now? Leave him trapped in a darkened carriage, alone, on these same roads that had claimed his parents’ lives?
He truly was cracked.
“I’m not leaving you in there.”
“Well, I’m not leaving this trunk.”
She rattled at the door latch again. It still refused to budge. “Perhaps I can break it open. Hand me the pistol, will you?”
Reaching up through the broken window, he handed her the weapon. She unwrapped it, slid her palm around the grip . . .
And then leveled it at him.
“Come out of there, Colin.”
She spoke with cool, unruffled calm, shielding the gun from the rain with her body. Minerva didn’t mean to really threaten his life. She just hoped to shock him out of his stubborn, foolish wish to stay inside that coffin.
Well, he certainly looked surprised.
His incredulous gaze flicked from her face to the pistol in her hand. “Min, have you gone mad?”
“I might ask you the same! It’s over, Colin.” Her voice broke. “It’s over. We’re not going to reach Edinburgh, and this isn’t worth another moment of your distress.”
“To hell with my ‘distress.’ This is your life’s work in this trunk. I’m not leaving it. And we can still make the symposium, Min. As soon as the postilion returns . . .”
Minerva looked up and around. No sign of the postilion or horses anywhere. Muddy runnels swelled in the road, carrying a tide of leaves and sticks coursing past. And the rain only pounded harder, pinging and thundering against the shell of the coach.
She had to raise her voice to call over the din. “The water’s rising, and night is falling. The post-chaise is damaged. Even if the horses arrive, the road will be impassable. It’s over.”
“Blast it, Min. Don’t you give up on this. Don’t you give up on me. I made a promise to you, and I will damn well keep it. I will find a way.”
“You can’t—”
A startled cry stole the rest of her argument. The overturned coach lurched a half foot sideways. The rising rainwater had buoyed the hollow, overturned post-chaise, allowing it to slip over the mud.
Minerva’s gut clenched. She had to get him out. His stubborn insistence on remaining in the carriage was now not only foolhardy, but dangerous. If the water kept rising, they could slip right off the road.
She thrust the pistol forward. “Colin, drop the trunk. We both need to leave this coach. No more arguments.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t do it, Min.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
She steadied the pistol, cocked the hammer, aimed—
And fired.
“Holy—”
Bang.
When the pistol went off, Colin’s first thought was: My God. She did it. She actually shot me.
His second thought was: When the hell were my blood and guts replaced with gritty white powder?
As the dust settled, Colin slowly realized that she had not shot him. She’d sent a bullet whizzing straight through her trunk. And the plume of white powder that exploded through the dim interior was not the remnants of his calcified heart.
It was Francine.
Oh God.
God damn it. He wished Minerva had shot him in the guts instead. It would have hurt less. And at least his guts might have a chance of mending. Francine, on the other hand . . .
Francine was gone.
“Wh—?” He choked on the plaster dust. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you left me no choice,” she cried, flinging the pistol away. “Now come out of there. It’s over.”
It’s over.
Yes, it was over. All of it, over. She’d just shot a bullet through all her hopes and dreams. It didn’t matter if the postilion arrived with four fresh horses. It didn’t matter if the clouds suddenly parted and a hot-air balloon descended to whisk them to Scotland. Without Francine, it was over.
He swallowed back the bitter lump in his throat. There was nothing left to do but admit defeat.
He’d failed her. He’d managed to fail her, despite all his best efforts. His good intentions landed like mortar shells, and this time Francine had taken the hit.
He hoisted himself out through the broken window. He jumped from the post-chaise first, landing in calf-deep water. “Jump into my arms,” he directed.
Minerva obeyed. She clung to his neck, just as though he were the hero in her fairy tale and not the villain ruining everything. “Where will we go?”
Colin stared down the road, peering through the tapering rainfall. Could those shadows be . . . ?
Horses. Yes, they were. A fine team of four from his own stables. At last, here came the postilion—accompanied by two of Colin’s own grooms from Riverchase.
He released his breath and told her, “Home. We go home.”
The distance to Riverchase was only a few miles, but the road conditions forced him to take those miles at a painfully slow walk. He held Minerva in front of him on his horse, trying his best to shield her from the cold and wet.
For a while, he thought she’d fallen asleep.
Until she mumbled, “Colin? What is that vast, impressive-looking place in the distance?”
“That’s Riverchase. My estate.”
“I thought it might be. It’s lovely. All that g-granite.”
He laughed inwardly. She would notice that first. “It’s local stone.”
“I’d bet it sparkles in broad daylight.”
“It’s luminous.”
He tightened his arm about her, drawing her close. For the first time, he noticed how violently she shivered against his chest.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Just cold. So c-cold.”
Swearing under his breath, Colin nudged the horse into a trot. The rain was dwindling to a mere trickle, but she’d already been soaked through. He had to get her before a fire, and quickly.
At least the Riverchase staff had been warned by the postilion that their master was in the neighborhood. The entire house had been thrown into readiness. When Colin rode up in the drive, the front door opened and a bevy of servants sallied forth.
Colin slid from the horse first, then helped Minerva drop into his arms. Sliding one arm about her back and lashing the other beneath her thighs, he carried her up the fourteen granite stairs and through the main entry.
The old, familiar housekeeper, Mrs. Hammond, hurried to greet him. It must have been almost two years since he’d seen her, but he cut the salutations short.
“Have you laid a fire?” he asked.
“In the drawing room, my lord.”
Shifting Minerva’s weight in his arms, he strode past the housekeeper and turned directly into the drawing room. He laid Minerva’s sodden, shivering form on a plush divan and pushed the entire thing—furniture and woman—forward, until it sat a few feet from the hearth. The fire was young and blazing. Scorching flames leaped and danced.
“This is a lovely room,” Minerva said weakly. “I’m so gl-glad to—” Her teeth chattered. “To have this chance to see your home.”
“Shush. Don’t try to talk. You can have the grand tour later.”
“All right.”
Her thin, quivering attempt at a smile made him want to howl with anguish. It should not be this way. He slipped the spectacles from her face, wiped them dry, and replaced them on her nose.
Mrs. Hammond stood in the doorway.
“Bring blankets,” he ordered. “A clean shift, I don’t care whose. Hot tea immediately, and other refreshment as you’re able.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Once the woman disappeared, Colin set about the work of removing Minerva’s soaked clothing. She tried to help him, but her fingers were shaking too hard.
“Be still, pet. Allow me.”
In the end he gave up on the buttons and hooks and drew the folding knife from his boot, using it to slice her gown at the seams. He peeled the drenched fabric from her body, tossing her garments into a heap by the fire. As he hacked away at the sweet, gauzy muslin, he wanted to weep.
A week ago had he harbored some vague concern that he might ruin this girl? Taint her reputation beyond repair? Or, horrors—steal her virtue?
She should have been so lucky.
Look at her now. Curled up, shivering uncontrollably. Skin pale, lips blue, gown in rags. Dreams left shattered and strewn on a country road, and all her hopes for the future vanished. As he undressed her, he found a horrific bruise swelling on her shoulder.
This went beyond social ruin. This was complete and total devastation he’d wrought upon her.
The deep, eviscerating pain Colin felt at that moment told him two things, both equally tragic.
He loved her, beyond anything.
And she was lost to him, forever.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Amazing, what an hour’s rest, a warm fire, and a spot of doctored tea could do for a girl’s constitution. As she snuggled into her warm nest of blankets, Minerva decided fleecy quilts were her new favorite attire.
And she’d yet to have the promised grand tour, but judging by what little she’d glimpsed thus far, Riverchase was the finest home Minerva had ever dripped inside.
If only Colin would abandon his post by the hearth and come sit next to her, she would feel completely restored. He looked so miserable. She started to rise and go to him. But he stayed her with an outstretched hand and single, harsh word.
“Don’t.”
His voice and his eyes were so cold. Minerva shrank back into the divan.
He stared into the fire. “I’m sending you back to London. Tomorrow.”
“You’re . . .” Her breath caught painfully. “You’re sending me to London? Not taking me.”
Now that Scotland was no longer their destination, she supposed it made sense that they would turn back. But tomorrow? Separately?
He nodded. “It’s safer that way. And more expedient. Naturally, you’ll have outriders for your security. Mrs. Hammond, my housekeeper, will travel as your companion.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll ride ahead to warn Bram, so he’ll be expecting you.”
“Lord Rycliff? But what will you tell him?”
“The truth.” He gestured vaguely. “Some version of it. That we left Spindle Cove with plans to go to Scotland, but it didn’t work out. And that I’m asking his and Susanna’s help in salvaging your reputation. We’ll tell everyone you never traveled past London. That you fell ill that first night, and you’ve been staying with them the whole week.”
The prospect of so much deceit made Minerva’s stomach churn. “Susanna is my friend. I don’t want her to lie for me.”
“Such things are done all the time.”
Minerva knew this much was true. More than one of the young ladies she’d met in Spindle Cove had been sent there to weather a scandal or indiscretion. As the village’s erstwhile patroness, Susanna kept a great many secrets. And society at large owed her a great many favors of discretion, no doubt.
But it would be one thing to conceal this journey from public notice, and another thing to banish it from their own memories. He spoke as if they would be strangers to each other, from this point forward.