In the next instant, Hamish was flinging open the door and leaping onto the muddy ground. Racing down the road through the rain to where a nightmarish scene was laid out before him.
Oh, no. God, no.
Miss Morland’s carriage lay on its side. A wheel had splintered, and a valise or portmanteau had ruptured, spewing its contents far and wide. One horse was down and, to Hamish’s horror and sorrow, not moving. Hudson was attempting to calm the two wild-eyed, snorting, and stamping beasts still trapped in the broken traces. The fourth animal appeared to have bolted.
One of the footmen, MacSwain, was in the process of helping the coachman over to the grassy verge, and Daniels was on top of the overturned cab, attempting to wrest the door open.
Hamish vaulted up to join him. The side of the carriage was slick with rain, and he almost lost his footing.
“I can’t budge it, my lord.” The footman kicked at the edge of the door with the toe of his shoe. “It’s stuck. Miss Morland and the bairn are trapped.”
Hamish swore beneath his breath. The windowpane was still intact, but the door handle had snapped off.
Dropping to his knees, he peered through the fogged-up glass. Tilda was crying, but it was difficult to make out anything much in the dim interior. The child seemed to be huddled up against a slender form that was partly shrouded by a tartan blanket.
Lavinia.
Had she been knocked unconscious or worse?
Hamish pushed his sodden hair away from his face and tried to tamp down a wave of rising panic. He didn’t want to break the window and send shards of glass showering down on the child and Miss Morland, both of whom might be injured already, but he might just have to.
Unless the nursemaid could be roused and then she could open the door from the inside. “Miss Morland. Lavinia, lass.” He rapped sharply on the glass with his knuckles. “Can you hear me?”
There was no response, and Hamish cursed profusely, not caring who heard him this time. He examined the door and its broken handle more closely. “We’ll need something to lever it open.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Daniels. “I think there’s a spade stored with the tools in the other carriage.”
“Good thinking, lad.”
While Daniels fetched the spade, Hamish tried to calm Tilda with soothing words and reassurances that everything would be fine. However, trying to provoke a response from Miss Morland proved to be futile. Aside from the sound of Tilda’s weeping and the pattering of the rain, there was utter silence.
Hamish wasn’t in the habit of sending up prayers to heaven, but in this instance, he did.
If anything happens to Lavinia . . .
No, he couldn’t think like that. She would be all right. And so would Tilda.
Daniels reappeared and threw the spade to Hamish. Straightaway, he rose and jammed the narrow metal edge of the blade between the doorframe and the latch. With his foot on the edge of the spade, he then used all of his not-inconsiderable weight and whatever strength he possessed to try to prize the door open.
The worst curse word he knew of was hovering on the tip of his tongue at the precise moment the obstinate door at last gave way. Wrenching it open, Hamish fell to his knees. Little Tilda reached up to him, and he plucked her out and handed her to Daniels.
A terrible sense of foreboding settled over him as he turned back to the gaping doorway. Miss Morland still hadn’t responded to a goddamned thing going on around her. But even though she was curled up in a corner of the cab, Hamish sensed she was alive. Still breathing. The tartan blanket had fallen away, so he could see that her arms were wrapped about her drawn-up knees, her head bent as though she was trying to make herself as small as possible. He carefully eased himself into the space, his booted feet crunching on the broken glass pane of the other window, which had now become the floor, and then knelt down beside the immobilized girl.
Christ, the poor lass was shivering, her whole body trembling. Her breathing came in short, shallow pants. There was a small cut upon her pale forehead oozing blood, but other than that, Hamish couldn’t discern any other obvious injuries.
“Lavinia. Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?” Hamish tugged off a damp glove and laid a hand upon her shoulder. He squeezed gently.
At his touch, the lass looked up and began to shake her head. “No, no, no,” she whispered hoarsely. Her expression was wild. Distraught. Her gaze skittered to his and then away again, seeking out a dark corner of the cab. “No, no, no. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.”
Hamish frowned. “Tilda’s safe, if that’s who you’re worried about, lass.”
“No.” Lavinia began to rock back and forth. Tears streamed down her face. Her words tumbled out between her frantic gasps for air. “No, they’re not . . . they’re not safe. They’re d-dead. I . . . I can see them . . . there . . . over there . . . Mama and Papa . . . There’s too much blood. I can’t, can’t stop it. Can’t help.”
Realization hit Hamish like a facer to the jaw. What a prize idiot he was. Lavinia wasn’t here with him. Not really. She was caught up in some other horrendous memory. A living nightmare from her past. He’d seen it before in men he’d served with in battle.
He experienced it far too often himself . . .
He needed to bring her back to the present.
“Lavinia, look at me, lass.” He carefully grasped her chin and turned her head toward him. “It’s me. Lord Sleat. I’m here with you now. I’m just going to check you’re not injured, and then I’m going to get you out of this carriage. Do you think we can manage to do that?”
Her gaze connected with his, and even in the gloom, he could see she recognized him at last. That she wasn’t mired in her terrifying memories any longer. She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good, lass. Tell me if anything hurts.” Hamish tugged off his other glove and then quickly and lightly ran his hands over her skull, along her arms and collarbones, then over her legs and down to her booted ankles. She still shivered, but her breathing was beginning to slow. “Everything seems fine. Do you think you can stand?”
Again she nodded. “I . . . I think so.”
“Here we go.” Hamish slid an arm about Lavinia’s slender frame and helped her to rise.
She leaned against him, her head on his chest, and he tightened his hold when she swayed on her feet. “I f-feel a b-bit giddy,” she murmured through chattering teeth. “And c-c-c-cold.”
“You’ve had a bit of a knock to the head, I’m afraid.” The rain had turned to mizzle, and Lavinia’s dark brown hair was covered with a gauzelike veil of tiny droplets. “We need to get you somewhere warm and dry.”
“I’d like th-th-that.” Her fingers curled into the lapels of his greatcoat as though seeking the warmth of his chest beneath the damp wool. “A c-cup of tea would be n-nice.”
“You can have whatever you like, lass. But first let’s get you into my carriage. I’m sure Tilda is anxious to see you.”
As Hamish lifted Lavinia out of the ruined cab, she looked down at him and gave him a tremulous smile, then an earnest, whispered thank-you that lit her lovely deep brown eyes. And even though the day was gray and miserable and filled with terrible, heartrending things, Hamish suddenly felt as though there were a break in the clouds and the sun had come out.
But only for a few fleeting seconds. The space between one breath to the next. Because in the midst of that dizzying, glorious moment, Hamish was also struck by a lightning bolt, a horrifying epiphany that made his blood run colder than the sea crashing against the rocks below Muircliff in the depths of winter.
For the very first time in his misbegotten life, he might be in danger of feeling something beyond lust for a woman. Emotions he’d never thought could exist within his granite-hewn heart threatened to stir: warmth and tenderness and something akin to affection.
And he’d never been more terrified.
/> Graitney Hall, Gretna Green
Graitney Hall was the loveliest inn Olivia had ever come across. As Lord Sleat’s carriage rolled down the tree-lined avenue toward the elegant whitewashed manse, the marquess informed her that the Earl of Hopetoun had lately had the house converted into a coaching inn. “Probably to take advantage of the trade in clandestine marriages,” he remarked with a wink as they drew to a stop outside the front door. “The man certainly seems canny when it comes to matters of business.”
Olivia offered him a small smile. She appreciated the marquess’s attempt at levity. However, she suspected it would take a little more than congenial conversation to pull her out of her deeply unsettled state. Even though Tilda sat upon her lap, periodically offering her gentle hugs about the neck and, at one point, a sweet kiss upon the cheek, and Lord Sleat was nothing but consideration personified, Olivia still couldn’t shake how odd she felt. Disconnected from what was happening around her. She had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t trapped in an overturned carriage.
That her parents’ bodies—broken and lifeless—weren’t beside her. That this time, she could do the impossible and somehow save them.
Indeed, the strange feeling of detachment and disquiet persisted even after she’d installed herself upon a silk-upholstered sofa before a roaring fire in a small but well-appointed sitting room located between her bedchamber and Lord Sleat’s. The interconnecting doors between their rooms stood wide open, and if Olivia hadn’t been so addled, she might have remarked upon it. As it was, such a scandalous breach of decorum hardly seemed important at the moment.
The cup of tea she’d been craving before disaster struck sat untasted on a finely carved mahogany occasional table by her elbow. Tilda snuggled up against her beneath a cashmere blanket. And Lord Sleat sat close by in a leather wingback chair.
He frowned at her, his gaze shadowed with concern. “How is your head, lass?” he asked. In his long fingers, he held a tumbler of whisky; the amber liquid caught the firelight as he raised the glass to his lips and took a sizable sip.
Olivia raised her fingers to carefully probe the egg on her forehead. The cut had been cleaned and had stopped bleeding some time ago, but the flesh surrounding it was bruised and tender. “I have a slight headache,” she admitted. “But I also feel . . .” She trailed off, not sure what to say.
“Like you’re not really here?” asked Lord Sleat gently.
“Yes. How . . .” She frowned and winced. Even the slightest movement hurt. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve experienced the same feeling, shall we say? And I’ve seen many a soldier—even those who are battle hardened—suffer a similar reaction. It’s as though you’re stuck in a terrible moment from your past and you can’t break free from it. Your mind keeps showing you the event, over and over, until you think you’ll go—” He broke off and looked away. Swallowed another mouthful of his drink.
“I know you probably won’t like it, lass,” he said at length, “but I can highly recommend a dram or two of whisky to help you feel better, at least for a wee while. I know it’s not a healthy habit”—his lips twitched with a ghost of a smile—“but it’s more effective than tea.”
“All . . . all right.” At this point in time, Olivia was willing to try just about anything to alleviate the unease still holding her captive. Feeling this way was disconcerting, to say the least.
Lord Sleat poured her a glass of the strong liquor from the bottle he’d apparently procured from the innkeeper’s secret stash, and she took a tentative sip. The liquid blazed down her throat, stealing her breath and making her cough. But after she swallowed a second and then a third mouthful, a pleasant warmth began to spread through her body. Her limbs felt heavier, and the knot of tension inside her belly loosened.
“You’re right,” she said. “It does help.”
“Of course I’m right,” he said with a trace of his roguish grin. “And I’m glad you’re feeling a little better.” He refilled his glass, then leaned forward in his chair, aiming a direct stare her way. “At the risk of opening old wounds, I wanted to let you know that if you ever want to talk about your parents and what happened, I’m always here to listen.”
Olivia dropped her gaze to her whisky glass. She was simultaneously touched and terrified. She could barely recall what she’d said or done in the minutes following the carriage crash near the Sark Bridge. It was all a horrible blur—this accident had somehow melded with the accident that had claimed the lives of her parents five years ago. Until Lord Sleat had climbed into the cab and had spoken ever so gently to her, she hadn’t known what was real and what was a memory. It was as though she’d lost her mind.
She could sense that the marquess still watched her, assessing her reaction to his invitation to share something about her past. Had he ever come across the newspaper accounts of how the wealthy arms manufacturer Edmund de Vere and his wife, Grace, had been tragically killed when their coach overturned along a treacherous stretch of road outside Birmingham? But, by some miracle, their daughter, Olivia, had survived? And if that were the case, had he already guessed that she wasn’t Lavinia Morland, but really Olivia, Edmund de Vere’s only child, who stood to inherit her father’s vast fortune on her twenty-fifth birthday?
Olivia really wished she could remember what she might have said to the marquess in those fraught minutes after the accident.
She was faced with a conundrum. Her conscience compelled her to confess her true identity to Lord Sleat and attempt to explain why she’d been lying to him for the last few days. But that might put her in unnecessary jeopardy if he hadn’t put the puzzle pieces together by himself. Because surely he would want to wash his hands of a troublesome runaway once he learned the truth; he had enough problems of his own to deal with.
And then she’d be packed off to London and placed under her uncle’s care again in the blink of an eye.
Olivia took another sip of whisky and glanced down at Tilda. The little girl, clearly exhausted by the whole ordeal of the crash, had fallen fast asleep.
A wave of tenderness washed over Olivia. She’d grown inordinately fond of the sweet-natured child and would be loath to leave her just now. If Lord Sleat discovered her secret, she prayed she would be able to convince him to keep her on as a nursemaid at least until they reached Skye. Then she could seek another situation. She needed to stay hidden for only a few more weeks.
Then again, she might be getting ahead of herself. The marquess hadn’t yet challenged her identity. If she shared some small, nonspecific details about her past, he might be satisfied enough to let the subject go.
“I . . . I appreciate your offer to lend a sympathetic ear, my lord,” she began. “The truth is . . . my memories of the crash that took my parents are fragmented. I was later told that one of the axles on the coach snapped and be-because we were traveling at a considerable speed . . .” She shook her head as her vision blurred. “I don’t know how I wasn’t killed too. And to be in another crash, and survive . . . At this point, I’m not sure if I’m the unluckiest or luckiest young woman alive.”
Lord Sleat’s gaze was filled with compassion as he said, “Your coach driver informed me that one of the traces snapped and spooked one of the horses. When the beast bolted, he couldn’t control the carriage on the wet, muddy road. I’m saddened that one of the horses perished today, but I’m also extremely grateful everyone else escaped relatively unscathed. Especially wee Tilda. And of course you, Miss Morland.”
Olivia wiped a tear from her cheek. “I need to thank you, my lord, for . . . for everything you did. As you saw, I wasn’t in my right mind. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
“Your reaction was perfectly understandable given the situation. Old memories we think are long buried often have a way of resurfacing when we least expect them to.” His mouth tilted into a sardonic smile. “Believe me, I should know, lass.
Now . . .” The marquess put down his glass and stood. “I’m afraid I have some matters to chase up. If your carriage can’t be repaired within a day, I’ll have to hire another conveyance. And as I’m sure you would like to change into fresh clothes, I’ll also check on the whereabouts of your luggage. I asked Daniels and MacSwain to retrieve everything, but they seem to be taking a while.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Apparently the contents of her valise had been strewn across the road when the carriage overturned. Olivia suspected most of her garments would need to be laundered if that were the case, but she appreciated Lord Sleat’s thoughtfulness all the same.
Lord Sleat departed, and Olivia nursed her whisky, staring into the leaping flames of the fire.
The marquess hadn’t pushed her for too much information about her past, thank goodness. But Olivia’s guilty conscience was still a persistent worm that niggled away at her. She wanted to be honest with him, to lay all her secrets bare, but the risk was too great.
Because they were staying here in Gretna Green another day, at least she’d have the opportunity to write to Charlie—and even Sophie and Arabella—to let them all know about her situation and current whereabouts. If Uncle Reginald did decide to go to the newspapers and report that she was missing, Olivia didn’t want her friends to worry about her.
And after she turned twenty-one, she might be able to stay with one of her friends—at least for a little while—until she found a way to support herself . . . or a good man who would happily take her to wife. Her heart still longed for a love match. Surely it wasn’t an impossible dream. Her parents had been happily wed for seventeen years before tragedy struck. And, by all accounts, Sophie and Arabella were blissfully content with their new husbands.
Olivia sighed wearily. Would that Lord Sleat cared for her in a romantic way—she’d already dismissed the “almost kiss” they’d shared the night before as nothing more than a momentary lapse in Lord Sleat’s judgment because he’d been befuddled by sleep, bad dreams, and too much alcohol. And even though the marquess exercised a considerable degree of consideration following the accident this afternoon, she shouldn’t misinterpret his acts of kindness.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 10
