With a jolt the horses moved. Their pace was steady, faster than Fiona expected, and hope grew within her when the sleigh left the road, moving to where the snow was thicker, and headed in the direction of the flickering lights of the next village.
“We haven’t had so much excitement since we had a Frenchman hiding in one of the barns!” Mr. Potter declared. “He came all the way from Dover, rounding the coast as if he were some sort of holiday goer.”
The men shook their heads, heaving deep sighs.
“Though who knows!” Mr. Potter shrugged. “Maybe that’s the French idea of a holiday. What with Bonaparte as a leader and all.”
“We’ll catch up with him soon, love,” Mr. Nicholas said gently. “Don’t you worry. You’ll find the father of your baby soon.”
“I hope so.” Fiona’s eyes flickered down.
The horses dragged the sleigh swiftly and expediently through the thick snow. The men sang Christmas songs, clapping their hands and stomping their feet.
More wassailers appeared through the midst of snow.
“Oy!” Mr. Potter stood on the sleigh and waved at the wassailers. “Oy!”
The wassailers stopped.
“We’re pursuing justice!” Mr. Potter’s voice thundered through the wind. “We’re going to find a rascal. We’ve got a lady who’s with child and we’re off to get her fleeing husband to make sure he stays to care for it.”
Fiona cringed and wrapped her arms together.
The wassailers’ faces darkened. “We’ll help you. No lady should be in trouble on Christmas. This is supposed to be a joyful period. A time for families.”
“Aye, aye!” Mr. Potter added emphatic nods to his declaration. “A pretty young woman shouldn’t be experiencing Christmas in distress. That just won’t do. Not in this ‘ere village. We’ll bring ‘im back. Dead or alive, that’s what I always say.”
“Alive!” Fiona squeaked. “He mustn’t be harmed! I mean—I’ve no use for him dead.”
“There, there, don’t you worry,” Mr. Nicholas murmured in a tone likely meant to soothe her, but it did nothing to quell Fiona’s surety that she’d never needed to worry more.
***
Snow fell with increased rapidity, and the horses’ pace slowed. The snowflakes blurred together, and a sheet of white replaced the flurry of delicate shapes with pointed edges and intricate patterns.
“Blast.” Percival gripped onto the reins. Wind struck his face, and white flecks clung to his attire.
This would not have happened in Sussex. Snow there was a rarity, just as it should be. An inch there would be deemed a disaster.
Percival surveyed the landscape before him. Definitely far more than an inch, and the snow showed no sign of ceasing its downward plummet. He tightened his fists. The coach wouldn’t be able to make it through the snow for much longer.
The snow stung his skin, and he pulled his scarf more tightly around him. He’d been through worse in Russia.
Except then he didn’t have a throbbing leg to contend with and wasn’t stuck on a carriage that might collapse at any moment. Mail coaches were built sturdily, but this weather was battering this one.
At least he had the package. Percival patted the fold in his great coat.
He’d escaped. That was the important thing.
The woman, no matter how effective she’d been at capturing him by herself earlier, didn’t have the benefit of her backup ruffians now. He’d left behind some coins, and she’d realize she should just keep the money, even if she did know exactly who he was.
The horses stumbled and stepped into a snow drift. They lurched, panicking, and it was all Percival could do to calm them. He tried to edge them back onto the road, but it was dark, the horses were scared, and his wooden leg wasn’t helping matters. The last thing he needed was for the horses to gallop off without him once he inelegantly disembarked.
Lights flickered beside him, moving through the snow, and he swore and tried to urge the horses to the main road. Finally—finally he succeeded, and his heart slowed to a steadier, calmer beat, until—
“Sir!” A man’s voice shouted, and a chill descended on Percival. “Halt.”
Percival gritted his teeth. This was Yorkshire, and he didn’t know a soul. No way in Hades would he stop.
“Sir!” The voice rivaled the sound of a cannon ball’s roar, except now no firing muskets or storming cavalry competed with it.
Percival directed his gaze toward the ferocious man.
A group of men on a wide sled and a few on horseback gazed back at him, waving their arms.
A hefty man with a bushy beard rose and pointed a pistol at him. “If you don’t halt now, you bloody bastard, we’ll come over there and tear your bloody limbs apart!”
A woman shrieked, and a few men wrestled the weapon from the crazed man. Thick-accented curses soared through the wind.
Percival dropped his hands from the reins, and his heart sped. The sleigh moved in his direction.
“You’ll go no farther,” another man shouted.
“Why in Hades not?”
“None of your blasted arguing,” the hefty man roared.
The ache in Percival’s leg intensified, and he squirmed. “I’ve got urgent business in London to attend to.”
“You forgot something,” another man said.
Percival rubbed his hand through his hair.
“Please do not claim you’ve forgotten me.” A clear, alto voice soared over the deep-voiced grumblings, and Percival blinked when a familiar face peeked from the throng of men.
“You’re a witch.” Percival’s voice was hoarse.
That was the only explanation. Maybe all those people in the middle ages warning about ginger-haired demons had been onto something.
“I had help.” The woman rose and gestured to the surrounding men.
“But—”
“You will take her with you,” a man from the sled said.
“But—” Percival rubbed his hand over his hat.
“Now.”
“I was so devastated when you abandoned me!” The woman’s voice sounded mournful.
“Your wife is pregnant!” A white-headed fellow frowned. “You can’t abandon her. I don’t care how tired you are of your children.”
“My children?” Percival gasped.
“She’s told us everything. No lies.”
“We’re—we’re not married,” Percival stuttered.
“Take her with you now.”
“I—”
“Are you planning on abandoning your pregnant wife to the snow?”
“Think of your four children!” another man shouted.
“I’m just happy my mother is taking care of them now!” The Scarlet Demon tossed her head, her voice still mournful. “How could you have abandoned me? I know it’s hard . . .”
The men frowned. “We will not tolerate any man being unkind to his woman. Especially on Christmas.”
“Christmas is a time for romance,” one person on horseback added.
The white-headed man shook his head. “Just because you used to be a soldier doesn’t mean you can put on fancy airs. Seducing women with your uniform. Marrying them. Leaving them when they’re pregnant. For shame. You’re not at war anymore. We won’t tolerate these actions any longer.”
“You’ve made a mistake. A terrible mistake.” Percival sucked in a deep breath of air. “And I need to get to London.”
“Get into the sleigh beside your wife now.”
Percival glanced at the road. Snow swept over it rapidly. Anger seared him. He’d been so close to escaping. He’d even left the woman some money, for some ridiculous reason feeling sorry for her, only to find she’d managed to convince a whole tavern filled with people to capture him again.
He crossed his arms and scowled. “She’s not my wife.”
The men murmured.
He pointed at the Scarlet Demon. “This woman is a fraud and a liar. She’s a highwaywoman who captured me.”
Fear flickered over the woman’s face, but she then had the indecency to dab her eyes with a handkerchief, as if he were the one lacking in reason. The woman was impossible.
“It’s the truth, so help me God.” Percival raised his hand to his chest.
A gasp sounded. “You shouldn’t do that, lad! You shouldn’t lie before our heavenly father.”
He gritted his teeth. “This lady is a highwaywoman.”
“Darling!” The Scarlet Demon let out an affronted shout.
“She stopped the coach I was in, threatening the driver and me with a knife.”
“Where’s the driver?” Someone shouted.
“He ran away.” Percival flicked his hand. That part was irrelevant. “She demanded I let her take me somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know!” Percival shook his head. “But she had me drive the coach north, even though it is vital that I get to London soon.”
“Do not believe him.” The woman’s voice trembled. Though it still had a rich alto sound to it, her manner had changed, as if she were a genteel woman, overwhelmed by the male-dominated surroundings.
She seemed more like a mouse than a fox.
“What say you to this?” one person asked her.
The woman frowned, and Percival didn’t fail to notice the worry in her eyes. “I say he needs some rest.”
“I don’t think we should let you alone with him,” the hefty man grumbled.
“But! I’m not the one who kidnapped somebody,” Percival shouted. “I’m the one who was dragged miles out of my way. I’m not the person claiming to be someone I’m not. I’m not even married. I don’t even have a wife.”
“Then who are you?” The white-headed man asked.
He sighed. He hadn’t wanted to reveal this, but he couldn’t be taken for a criminal by this wild grouping of men. “My name is Percival Carmichael, and I am the Duke of Alfriston.”
“That is an extraordinary claim!” The white-headed man frowned.
“No! There’s nothing extraordinary about it at all. I’m the one being truthful. All of you are believing a madwoman.”
Gasps sounded from the others.
“I am worried about having you alone with him.” The hefty man turned to the Scarlet Demon.
The woman’s lips wobbled. “He’s harmless. He couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Oh.” The men tilted their heads and stroked their chins, the prospect of believing him apparently impossible.
“The man’s perfectly safe. You mustn’t harm him. Never even learned how to fire a musket.”
“You’re insane.” Percival frowned. “I lost my leg in the war.”
“Farming accident.” The woman turned to the others. “One of those dreadful new machines—far too complex for the man. Certainly not a duke.”
“I would never have married you,” Percival grumbled.
The woman drew in her breath sharply, but then smiled. “Are you saying a demon must have arranged it?”
Percival glanced at the determined faces of the men, so eager to fight injustice, which apparently he embodied. He sighed. “I’ll come with you.”
“Good.” The woman’s shoulders slumped though, and her lips fluttered downward.
“It is a crime to abandon your wife in a strange place,” the hefty man growled.
“I forgive him,” the scarlet-haired woman said.
“You should be in church!” one of the men on horseback said, “Praising the lord that you have such a good wife.”
“Come on, darling,” the Scarlet Demon said. “Will someone take the man’s coach? I’m afraid he must have taken the mail coach by accident.”
“We won’t report him,” the white-headed gentleman said kindly.
Percival cast a mournful look in the direction of London.
Chapter Nine
Fiona exhaled as Percival stumbled toward her through the thickening snow. His gloved hand tightened around his cane, and his wooden leg thumped against the floor of the sleigh. Mr. Nicholas rose and offered Percival his seat beside Fiona, and a man returned the mail coach.
Percival’s gaze remained fixed away from her, and something in Fiona’s chest constricted as the sleigh sped back over the hills.
They weren’t far from Cloudbridge Castle, but Fiona couldn’t show up so late with a stranger, even a supposed fiancé, in tow. At least she’d told Grandmother she was visiting her sister.
She glanced at Percival. The man’s face was as stony and hardened as a statue, and she averted her eyes. She shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have gotten him involved, and goodness, she shouldn’t have gotten the tavern-goers involved. She wrapped her arms together and pressed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t stop the occasional brush of his arm against hers in the jostling sleigh, reminding her of his presence.
Finally, the sleigh pulled up at the Old Goblet Lodge and the men toppled outward, hollering something about rewarding themselves with cider and ale.
She cast a glance at Percival’s ashen face, and her stomach tightened as if pulled into one of the more complex fishermen’s knots. “Forgive me. I—I won’t hurt you. You must know that.”
Mr. Nicholas snorted, and Fiona frowned.
“Sorry, love. It sounded like you were apologizing to him. After he gone and done a runner on you.” His voice sobered, and he shook a finger at Percival. “Young man. You may have lost your leg, but you should be shouting to the heavens in joy that you still have the affection of such an enchanting woman.”
Percival’s features hardened.
“Mr. Nicholas,” Fiona ventured, but the man merely waved his gloved hand at her. Snow continued to topple onto his hair, the thick white flecks giving him a sage-like appearance the man might appreciate, even if she was sure he didn’t deserve it.
“You’re lucky to have her in your life,” Mr. Nicholas continued. “You certainly shouldn’t be worried she’ll hurt you. Why, this sweet woman is the mother of your children.”
Fiona squirmed.
“Let’s see if the tavern has a room for you. Bringing another life into the world should be cause for joy,” Mr. Nicholas grumbled. “It’s a good thing she came after you when she did. That coach wouldn’t have made it to the next town, and you would be an ice block.”
Percival tensed beside her, and Fiona fought the urge to loop her arm with his and seek to bring him some comfort.
“And where would your lovely wife and children be then?” Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Ice blocks make even worse husbands than cripples.”
Percival flinched.
“You mustn’t speak of him in such terms!” Fiona exclaimed.
“Cripple?” Mr. Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “Just saying it how it is. I leave all the gentlemanly nonsense for those men in court with their silk pantaloons and their white wigs.”
Mr. Nicholas pushed open the door to the pub, and Fiona and Percival followed him. The men in the carriage seemed well on their way to working through their first celebratory round.
“To the reunited couple,” Mr. Potter cheered and thrusted a half-empty tankard in their direction. “We’ve got you the best room in the tavern.”
“That’s not necessary.” Percival eyed Mr. Potter, as if assessing the likelihood that the man would direct his pistol at him again.
Mr. Potter’s eyebrows narrowed. “You want to take this splendid woman to a room that isn’t the best?”
“I—”
“Because this tavern ain’t the place to go for second-rate rooms. You’d be battling the bed bugs enough as it is in the best room. But there’s a bloody blizzard out there, and cripples can’t be choosers.” The man chortled. “Get it? Like beggars, but you’re a cripple, see, so—”
“I get it.” Percival’s voice was flat, and Fiona’s chest twisted.
“I think my husband was hoping we could have two rooms,” Fiona said finally.
“When you should be busy reuniting? Absolute nonsense.”
Mr. Potter leaned toward Percival and winked. “You can’t worry about getting with child if one’s already on its way.”
The other men roared, and Mr. Potter downed the rest of his cider before slamming it against the bar.
“Besides. This place is filled. None of us are leaving tonight. So you’ve gotta share. Better for love-making anyway.” Mr. Potter elbowed Percival, and the man stumbled, jabbing his cane into the floor to regain balance.
Percival frowned. “You’re right. Naturally, my marvelous wife and I will share a room.”
Fiona stilled. Women did not share rooms with men. Women like her weren’t even supposed to stay in places like this. “Wait. Maybe—”
“Come on, dear,” Percival said.
“Don’t worry. We’ll notice if he tries to escape again, love.” Mr. Potter grinned.
“Th-thank you,” she stuttered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Give her a kiss,” one of the men shouted, and Fiona stilled.
“Can’t have you upset at each other before bed.” Mr. Nicholas’s eyes softened. “That’s what me wife always said, bless her soul.”
“Aye, aye,” someone said. “A kiss.”
Fiona’s eyes rounded, and she was careful to avoid meeting Percival’s gaze. “I think we require a bit more privacy for such an action.”
“Nah, those rules are just for unmarried people.” Mr. Nicholas laughed. “No formality here, right boys?”
“Aye, aye!” The men roared their assent.
“The way I see it,” Mr. Potter said, “We reunited you. So we need to make sure you’re happy.”
“How gallant of you,” Percival murmured dryly.
“Now if I was she,” Mr. Potter said, “I wouldn’t be hanging around with a man without a leg. But that’s me. People are different.”
“That’s big of you,” Fiona said.
“Nice, that’s what it is.” Mr. Potter flashed her a toothy grin.
“Half an hour ago, you were trying to kill me,” Percival said.
“Threatening to kill you,” Mr. Potter corrected. “It’s different.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Nicholas said. “Mr. Potter threatens to kill people all the time. It’s his way of making conversation. Practically.”
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 7
