The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  His shivering gradually eased. She wished she had something warm to give him to drink but their only food and drink was strapped atop the coach. Thank God it was protected by oilskin covers, but there was no possibility of heating anything.

  She leaned over and pulled one of the blankets closer around him. Her fingers touched his arm, and they were ice cold.

  Janet wanted to rail at him—far more out of concern for him than for themselves—but then, none of them would have been able to predict how heavy and steady this rain would be. Still, they could have waited.

  He had wanted her away from Lochaene. That much was clear. She still was not sure of his reasoning. Had it been for her sake or his? But now it did not matter. For these minutes or these hours, he needed warmth. Would it ever be thus? Whenever she thought she could dismiss her feelings for him, something reached down and battered her heart.

  Was that love? Did it truly never die? Even if it was not returned?

  And how did one love a man she believed dishonorable? Who had proved himself dishonorable?

  Looking at him now, her heart contracted. His hair was plastered to his head, his face was red, his mouth a grim slash of pain. She saw him wince as he shifted his legs, and she knew the price he must have paid in working the brake. Annabella’s weight must be agonizing. And yet his hands were firmly around her, and when Janet reached to take her daughter, he shook his head.

  She sat back. Apparently, Annabella gave him more pleasure than discomfort.

  His eyes closed for several moments as Annabella snuggled closer to him. Kevin looked immensely uncomfortable, squeezed tightly between the marquis and Lucy who obviously adored him. Grace had moved to sit between Janet and Clara, who held Colin, while Janet held Rachel. Samson was trying to find a place between feet.

  Rain pounded down at the chaise. It was late afternoon, and it was going to be a long afternoon and longer night. A chill had seeped into the carriage and small legs—and large ones—would soon become cramped.

  Worse of all was the enforced intimacy. She had welcomed Braemoor’s decision this morning to ride his horse rather than ride inside the chaise. But now their legs touched, their bodies were inches apart and when he had taken Annabella in his arms her heart had started to pound erratically.

  She tried to turn her thoughts away from his dominating presence in the chaise. There were problems other than stiff legs and a lack of privacy … and the problem of Braemoor himself. He had been far too weak to make this journey at all, much less tolerate the rain and cold winds.

  He opened his eyes just then and gazed at her. “This was no’ the way I intended to travel,” he said dryly.

  Her heart lurched again at the admission. Though she had considered him arrogant to the extreme in demanding she accompany him to Braemoor, those odd little occasions of self-deprecation took her by surprise. They touched something deep inside her, made her wonder whether she had been wrong about him. He was far more complex, she had learned, than she had ever expected.

  How complex? How clever?

  She looked down at his leg. Blood was seeping through his trouser leg, and still he kept Annabella close against him. She eased Rachel from her lap and reached over for Annabella. “I’ll take her for a while,” she said.

  Annabella protested slightly but was soon sound asleep in her arms.

  Braemoor tried to stretch out his legs, bumping into Samson who protested with a bark. The marquis gave her a wry look and tried to fold them again. Janet noticed the bloodstain was spreading.

  “You’ve opened the wound,” she accused.

  His gaze met hers, and he seemed to be asking a question.

  But she had no idea what it was. The dim light from the lantern shadowed his eyes. “’Tis nothing,” he said.

  “It may be nothing, but it will ruin the coach seat,” she scolded, using the cushion as a mask for her real concern. “Kevin, can you hold Annabella?”

  “Aye,” he said and took the lass, holding her much like a piece of glass.

  Janet leaned over. The trouser leg was snug over his leg. She felt no bandage there. “I hope you have a knife with you, my lord,” she said.

  He raised one eyebrow in that inquisitive way he had. God’s truth, she wished it was not as appealing as it was.

  “I want to see how much has torn open,” she said, “and unless you wish to discard your trousers …”

  He grinned at her. It was a roguish smile, full of mischief, though the lines around it showed both weariness and pain. She had never seen that particular smile before, and it was as beguiling to her as a sunrise or sunset. A surge of emotion rushed through her as the air thickened between them and the interior of the carriage became as charged with expectancy as the storm outside.

  No. She was not going to let it happen again.

  She was not going to let him slide back into her thoughts, her heart.

  “A knife,” she said calmly.

  “’Tis on my saddle, along with my pistol,” he said, as if he had just remembered he had left all the means of defense out in the storm. That simple confession told her how weary he was. If nothing else, she knew Neil Forbes to be a soldier, one respected by Cumberland.

  She started to leave the carriage.

  Instead, his hand stopped her. His fingers wrapped around her wrist as strongly as if it were a bracelet of iron. “No,” he said.

  Kevin was shifting in his seat. “I will get it, my lord.” Awkwardly, he set Annabella on the seat and inched his way out the door.

  “Take this, lad,” Braemoor said, and took the lantern from the hook and handed it to him. “Bring my saddlebags.”

  Kevin took the lantern and opened the door. Cold driving rain rushed in, and Janet shivered. The lasses had heavy cloaks and so did she, but still the interior of the carriage was very cold.

  The thunder seemed to be receding, however. Mayhap if the lightning went with it, they could try to proceed. The horses would not be as skittish.

  But Braemoor could no longer drive. That much was obvious. Neither should he be riding until the wound was restitched. And Kevin was still only eighteen.

  Minutes passed. Janet glanced down at the trousers. The bloodstain was still spreading. If the wound had indeed opened, it might need cleansing. And she was restless. She worried about Kevin in this storm. She worried about the rest of them. After the storm had descended upon them, there had been no place to stop. They’d had some bread at noon and nothing since.

  She thought about the food basket above. It was indicative of Braemoor’s exhaustion and pain that he had not thought to get it before entering the carriage. She prayed the oilcloth had done its job and kept the food dry. Even if not, there would be spirits to warm Braemoor. He needed that, and so would Kevin when he returned.

  Braemoor had released her hand. She gathered her cloak around her and put the hood over her head. With the lantern gone, he could not see what she was doing.

  He was not quick enough this time when she opened her own door and stepped out. She remained on the step. She looked out but did not see any light from the lantern. The night was black, the rain still falling heavily. But the thunder seemed farther away.

  With no lantern, or lightning, she could not even see the hills that rose on one side of the road, nor the edge that fell away on the other side. The interior of the carriage was totally dark.

  Kevin, where are you?

  At least there were candles in the basket along with food. If she could reach them. She stood on the step of the chaise and stretched upward to reach the top of the chaise and feel underneath the oilcloth.

  Her hands touched cloth, but not the basket. She regarded the problem for a moment, then stepped down and, holding to the side of the carriage to keep her feet from slipping in the mud, reached the step leading up to the driver’s seat. She climbed up, then peered under the oilcloth, finally finding the basket.

  She worked it free and lifted it to the seat next to her, then tried to figure out
next how to get it down with the contents intact.

  She looked around again and finally saw a bobbing light distorted and fogged by the rain. It was obvious Kevin was having difficulty finding his way back. She stood and shouted as loud as she could, then saw the light approach.

  Kevin climbed the step and peered at her. The lantern showed wide eyes in a white face.

  “My lady,” he said in a shaking voice. “I couldna find the way back till I heard your voice. I couldna see anything through the rain.”

  “Well now we are all safe,” she said. “But I need help with the basket.”

  He nodded. “I will put the lantern and saddlebags inside,” he said.

  Kevin disappeared for a moment, then was back and reached up for the basket. “I will be back to help ye down,” he said. She decided not to wait for him. She moved to the side and started to climb down. She had removed her gloves in order to find the basket, and now she could not find them. Her fingers were icy cold as they clasped the side of the coach. She felt the hood of her cloak fall away and her fingers slipping, then found herself wrapped in arms and clasped tight to a hard male body. Braemoor.

  Despite the rain, they remained there for a moment, bodies locked, his heat warming her. Her heart beat a tattoo and her breath caught in her throat as rain splashed around them and plastered her hair against her face. For a fleeting instant, she felt alive, electrically alive. She looked up at him. Despite the darkness, she saw the angles of his face. She closed her eyes as rain washed over them. It should have brought sense to her, but it did not. Instead, it seemed to fold around them, embracing them.

  Then Braemoor let her go and, limping badly, hurried her to the door of the carriage.

  Everyone had shifted positions to make way for the basket and the newcomers. Grace was her usually cautious, quiet self. Rachel was squirming, and Annabella was whimpering at having been moved so many times.

  Colin was trying to squirm out of Clara’s arms and screaming to raise what dead might be out on such a hellish night.

  Janet was not quite sure which need required the first attention. One more look at Braemoor’s leg decided her. She saw him try to stretch it again, then draw it up quickly. Blood had mixed with rain, and now pink water dripped from his trouser.

  “Grace, you take Annabella. Lucy, give Colin a cracker from the basket and the lasses a fruit pie. Kevin, can you find a knife in the saddlebags?”

  The lantern was again inside and she saw Braemoor’s bemused look as she issued orders. She glared back, challenging him to argue.

  “I would no’ dare disagree,” he said.

  Curses on the bloody man. He had an uncanny way of disconcerting her.

  Colin was not appeased by the cracker. He continued to scream. She still had milk in her breasts, and she knew that since they had no cow’s milk, her own would be the only thing that would quiet him. Her eyes met Neil’s, and he seemed to understand.

  “Kevin and I will wait outside,” he said.

  She looked at his soaking clothes, the exhaustion in his eyes. She shook her head. “Just … turn away,” she said.

  Both men did, and she untied her cloak, then the ties to her dress. Thank God she had worn this gown. In minutes, Colin was greedily sucking.

  The closeness in the coach was daunting. She knew he could hear every sound, and she felt every part of her body grow red with embarrassment. At last, her son finished. In minutes, she and Clara had changed him and Clara took him in her arms.

  The lasses were finishing their fruit pies and quenching their thirst with drinks of water which would, she knew, create still another unfortunate demand. Braemoor was eating a chunk of bread and drinking brandy.

  She wondered whether the marquis had ever before traveled with four children, much less three women. But when she looked at him, the dim light of the lantern showed a wistful yearning that made her heart skip. Immediately he looked away. But she knew she would remember that expression.

  Still, she tried to dismiss it as she tended to his own needs. She used the knife to cut his trousers, laying back the material to reveal the wound. The top end of it had opened, the stitching torn away. It looked raw and sore and was bleeding steadily.

  She wished she had a needle and thread, but that would have to wait. Now it was important to stop the bleeding. She leaned down and pulled up her skirt and cut a strip of her petticoat, then tied it tightly around the wound. It was damp, and she was chilled, but that was not important at the moment. She carefully wrapped the cloth around the wound and tied it snugly. It was the best she could do at the time.

  That and keep Annabella from crawling back up on him.

  She prayed that the rain would subside.

  But it seemed intent to continue.

  Annabella wriggled some more. She did not have to say what she needed.

  Janet glared at the marquis, pushing away that warm feeling she had moments earlier. She must look a fright. Her hair had fallen from the neat knot Lucy had so intricately entwined, and her cloak smelled of wet wool. The bottom of her dress was ringed with mud.

  She could be warm in bed at Lochaene.

  The tattoo of rain against the carriage seemed to slow imperceptibly. She had not heard thunder for the last few moments. Mayhap …

  She tried to put the blankets back on Braemoor but he shrugged them off. “The lasses need them. And you.”

  “I haven’t been foolishly riding on the seat of a carriage through a driving rain,” she said.

  He half closed his eyes and looked at her lazily. “Aye, no’ one of my greatest accomplishments.”

  “And did you think about four wee children?”

  “Aye,” he said. “And their mother.”

  She looked at the children. Only Grace seemed to be listening.

  Braemoor’s eyes had a glittering intensity. “You were not safe at Lochaene.”

  “Neither am I safe on this road.”

  “Nay, but I couldna predict that.”

  “And you could the other?”

  “Aye. I think so.”

  She sighed. “I have to take the lasses out.”

  He looked startled, as if he’d never considered such an obstacle. “I …”

  “Nay. You will not. And neither can Kevin. She turned away from him and adjusted the hood. “Clara, will you go with me? I will take the lantern and you can hold on Rachel and Annabella. Grace can take my hand. We will have to stay together.”

  Braemoor squirmed. She had never seen him squirm before. Evidently, he had never been around small lasses before.

  It was difficult to be angry at a squirming man.

  She sighed, took the lantern down again, then stepped out. The rain was slackening but still steady. There was no more lightning, but the night was pitch black and the hills were shrouded in fog. Clara stepped out, then swung each of the children down.

  Clara had not uttered a word of protest during the day and several other brief, wet trips. Janet thanked her angels every time she looked at Clara. Lucy was a fine maid, but she was as timid as a field mouse.

  They stepped carefully no farther than behind the carriage. Shielded by both Clara and Janet, each of the lasses took care of their needs, and turned to go back. The door was open, and Braemoor held out his arms. He took each child and saw that they were covered with blankets.

  Then he closed his eyes. Once back in her arms, Colin fell asleep almost instantly. All the lasses were soon asleep as well, and Lucy’s head was nodding.

  Janet would have liked to quench the lantern, but they might need it again tonight, and lighting it again with a tinderbox would not be easy. So instead she closed her eyes.

  She was aware that her knees were nearly interlocked with Braemoor’s long legs—far too aware, just as she was aware of the unexpectedly attractive scent of leather and horses and brandy.

  But he was oblivious to her. Oh, how she wished she could shut him out of her mind as easily, apparently, as he did her.

  It was
going to be a very long night.

  Buffeted by new emotions and reactions, Neil feigned sleep.

  His leg ached from using it on the brake. He had hoped to get them to an inn this night, but he’d been too optimistic. He’d had no idea of the needs of such a family, of the number of times they would have to halt their journey, and then the storm that had threatened all day had been one of the worst he’d ever experienced.

  He’d made a hell of a mess of the whole thing, but he’d lived his entire life depending on his instincts. And his instincts had told him that she was in danger.

  She had, in truth, turned all his instincts inside out. He no longer knew what was emotion, what was his overwhelming sense of protection toward her, and what was instinct. Had the former completely skewed the latter?

  He’d never previously done anything in his life without thinking it through. He had obviously not thought this through.

  All was still in the carriage. He half opened his eyes. Despite the cramped and cold interior of the coach, his companions were nodding off to sleep. Even Janet appeared to be sleeping, her son cradled by both her and young Grace.

  He had tried to look away when she’d been nursing her son—and succeeded, but when he’d looked at her when she’d finished, he’d had a glimpse of her face and saw the tenderness on her face.

  And he understood it as he had never understood anything before. Because tenderness had lodged in his chest when Annabella had crawled into his arms so trustingly and gone to sleep with her head against his heart. His leg had hurt like hell, but that was of little import compared to the other feelings. He felt as if a candle had been lit inside.

  Nothing like that had ever happened to him before he came to Lochaene. He’d been totally unprepared for such feelings and how seductive they were. Not seductive in the sensuous way, but in so many other ways.

  He had handled everything badly. He should have told her why he’d done what he had eight years earlier, that it had been for her sake, not his own.

  But how do you tell someone that? And how do you tell her you come from a long line of madness?

  And expect trust?

  Chapter Sixteen