What a bother! But looking at the tangle of broken branches and the heaviness of the surrounding shrubbery, she had to admit he was right. The ground was too uneven, filled with holes from the tree’s fall. “Fine. We’ll walk.” She glanced up at the sky, and grimaced when the snow hit her cheeks but didn’t melt so quickly. Perhaps I should have taken the main road, after all.
The thought soured her mood as she hurried to dismount. Her horse, free of her controlling touch, instantly began to back up, snorting nervously. Kenna grasped the reins tightly and held him in place. “Easy.”
Marcus, who’d already dismounted, frowned at her horse. “The groom should be shot for giving you such a nervy beast. It’s obvious it hasna been properly exercised.”
“So I’ve been thinking the last ten minutes. He’s been well enough, but I can tell he’d like to run, with me or without me.”
“Here, I’ll lead him. You take my mount. He’s large, but he’s steady.” Marcus held out his reins.
“That’s kind of you, but I can handle my own horse. I’ve ridden my entire life and—”
“Stop arguing.” He took her reins. “We havena time to argue. The snow is coming faster.”
It was. The flakes were larger now, too. She swallowed the impulse to argue and took the reins of his mount.
Marcus turned and led her horse down the side of the felled tree, carefully picking his way, Kenna behind him.
They walked in silence, their feet crunching on the dead, frozen leaves. At one point, Kenna’s horse shied away from a looming branch, but Marcus held the horse firm and calmed the beast with a stern command.
They were just rounding the top of the tree when the horse Kenna led stepped on a rock that rolled beneath its hoof, throwing it off balance. The horse whinnied and backed up. Though Kenna clung to the reins and held him in check, the noise and confusion set off the mount Marcus was leading, and it reared up.
Kenna’s heart thudded to a halt as Marcus struggled to control the horse. It bucked, then bucked again, yanking its head this way and that. Finally it reared wildly, lashing the air with sharp hooves.
“Marcus!” she gasped.
He turned in surprise just as the horse reared again. Before Kenna’s horrified gaze, one of the horse’s hooves glanced off the side of Marcus’s head and he fell to the icy ground, deathly still.
Chapter Four
Marcus awoke slowly, roused from the deepest of sleeps by a sharp pain in his forehead. He clenched his eyes tightly, his head aching like Satan’s swordfire. Bloody hell, how much whiskey did I drink last night?
He reached up to press his fingertips to his forehead and unexpectedly encountered a bandage. He cracked his eyes open. What’s this? How did I— Memory flooded back.
Kenna. The horse rearing. And then . . . nothing more. He carefully looked around and realized he was lying on his side on the floor, facing a fireplace. The fire danced, warming him, but the light worsened his headache. Why am I not in a bed? At least someone gave me a pillow.
Then he became aware of a warm body curled against his back, an arm thrown over his waist, the faint scent of vanilla and rose. Kenna.
Her deep breathing told him she was asleep, so he cautiously looked over his shoulder to find her dark head pressed snugly against his shoulder. She was still dressed in her riding habit, her heavy skirt and cloak draped over them both. They obviously hadn’t made it to her father’s home, nor were they at Stormont’s. So where are we?
Ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes, he glanced about the room. It was a smallish room with one sitting area around the fire and another near two windows. The curtains were tightly drawn, most likely to keep in the heat, since the room was chilly despite the blazing fire.
He carefully lifted Kenna’s arm from his waist and she sighed in her sleep, her warm breath teasing him. Grateful his headache put such wasted thoughts to rest, he carefully arose, fighting a wave of dizziness that made him seek the closest chair.
From there, he looked at Kenna, who was now huddling into herself, obviously cold. He looked around for a blanket. Finding none, he arose, took off his coat, and placed it over her. A faint smile curved her lips as she rubbed her cheek against the wool and then fell back into a deep sleep.
Marcus looked around the small room. Though the house appeared smallish, it was luxuriously appointed. The curtains were of thick, rich velvet; the floor covered with high-quality Persian rugs; the furnishings fine enough for a royal palace; the walls hung with paintings in large gilt frames.
His stomach growled and he rubbed it absently as he went toward the drawn curtains. Turning his head so he wouldn’t look directly into the light, he twitched back the curtain and let the sunlight spill into the room. Then, squinting, he steeled himself and peered outside. A heavy snow fell silently, and he was surprised at how much had already fallen. Two, perhaps three feet of the stuff had piled up, bending the smaller trees and weighing down shrubs. A brutal wind blasted the snow into swirls, depositing it against the house, and he looked down to see a drift so deep that it had already reached the bottom of the window and was threatening to begin covering it. It had to have taken hours for the snow to fall so deep.
A noise behind him made him drop the curtain and turn around. Kenna had just arisen from the floor. She was sleep-mussed, her thick brown hair falling about her face, her cheeks pink from sleep. Her gaze flickered to him as she hooked the loop of her riding skirt over her wrist. “Good morning. How do you feel?”
“I have a headache, but nae more.”
“Good. I hoped you’d feel more the thing when you awoke.” She started to pick up a pillow from the floor but winced and put her hands on her back. “I’m so stiff.” She stretched, her arms twined over her head, her now-wrinkled riding habit pulling tightly across her breasts. “What time is it?”
The clock on the mantel chimed as if in answer. He glanced it, more to look away from Kenna than to check the time. “A quarter after nine.” Even focusing on the clock made his eyes ache, and he pressed his fingers to the side of his head.
Her gaze darkened. “You should sit.”
“I’m fine. How did we get here?”
She bent down again to collect the pillows from the floor. “You don’t remember?”
“Nay. I remember the horse rearing, but that’s all.”
She tossed the pillows onto a chair and then picked up his coat, carefully folding it before she placed it across the back of the settee. “We walked here. I helped you, because you were dizzy.”
“I— Nay. That canna be right.”
Her brows arched.
“I could nae have walked here,” he insisted. “I dinna remember anything.”
“Well, I couldn’t have carried you. And the trail isn’t close.”
“The horses?”
“They ran away.”
“Both horses ran? My mount is not usually so jittery.”
“Aye, but the beast I was riding took off and charged your mount, spooking him. I tried to hold him but couldn’t. I had hoped the horses would run back to Stormont’s and alert the grooms that we needed assistance, but no one has come.”
“Give them time. If the horses ran straight for the barn, they would have just arrived. A hue and cry will be raised and then they will send a search party.”
“Marcus.”
He glanced back at her, surprised to find her gaze filled with concern. “Aye?”
“We arrived here more than a few hours ago.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Much longer.”
Something in her voice made him look at her. Really look at her. “But it’s only nine in the morning, so how—” He stopped, his gaze flickering back to the clock. “Bloody hell. I was unconscious for a full day?”
“And night,” she affirmed. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up.”
He pressed his fingertips to his temple, trying to accept the astonishing fact. An entire day. I suppose that explains
the deep snow, but . . . He raised his gaze to hers. “Damn it, what will everyone think?” Lila would be furious, although at the moment he didn’t really care.
“You know exactly what everyone will think.” Kenna’s voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away.
Years ago, he’d admired the control she always had over herself. But since he’d first caught sight of her in Stormont’s ballroom, he’d seen a difference in her—an air of vulnerability, of uncertainty, the suggestion that she’d lost some of the cool, calm composure that used to be such an integral part of her.
What caused her to lose her confidence in such a way? Was it Montrose? Had their marriage been difficult for her?
In the past, when Marcus had thought of her marriage, he’d felt nothing but fury. Now he found himself wondering what the cost had been.
She caught his gaze and lifted her chin. “Just so you don’t worry too much over this, even if we are found here and there’s a scandal, I’ve no desire to marry again. Especially not you.”
He raised his brows.
She flushed. “I’m sorry; that sounded ungracious. I only meant that we already know we don’t suit, so I’ve no wish to stir that pot again.”
Which was what he wanted to hear. Until she said it aloud. Then his pride began to sting, as if she’d slapped him. “That’s fine. I’ve nae desire to wed, either.” He didn’t add “especially not you,” but he was certain by the way her lips thinned that she knew he thought it.
“Good.” Kenna turned away to the mirror and attempted to put her hair into a semblance of order, doing more harm than good.
She’s never been without a lady’s maid for a day in her life. He’d traveled, often to faraway reaches, and over the years he’d learned to do without the help of a servant. But Kenna had stayed here, cosseted and protected.
She gave her hair an impatient glance before turning away from the mirror, but not before he caught her expression—worry over their predicament, concern about the reactions they might face, and something else . . . a deep sadness that turned down the corners of her mouth and shadowed her brown eyes. And he wondered about that sadness, even as he reminded himself he shouldn’t care.
And he didn’t care. Not at all.
Suddenly as restless as a wolf in a cage, he walked to the fireplace and regarded the fire. “Where are we?”
“A cottage deep in the woods. We stumbled on it by accident.”
He pinged his finger against an ornate silver candelabra that decorated the mantel. “It’s certainly luxurious. Tell me more aboot our walk here. Maybe it will help me regain my memory.”
“A little while after the horses ran off, I was finally able to rouse you. But you were pale and shaking, and you weren’t making sense.” Kenna shot Marcus a glance from under her lashes.
“Delirious, was I?”
She nodded, remembering those long, frightening moments. Then the long walk here, trying to keep him upright as they trudged through the snow. And the tense hours with Marcus unconscious by the fire, while she had nothing to do but worry whether he’d ever awaken again, as the snow sealed them into the house as surely as boards and nails.
When she’d awoken this morning, she’d been so happy to see him standing by the window that her heart still ached with the bittersweetness of that relief, even as she cautioned herself not to put too much store in it. It was only natural she was glad to have some company while they awaited rescue. It kept her from thinking about other things—Father’s fury, Stormont’s disappointment. Things she had no wish to remember, much less examine.
Marcus broke the silence. “When I was suffering from delirium . . . what did I say?”
“You thought we were in a battle. The one at Salamanca.”
Marcus’s thick lashes dropped low, his mouth tightening. “Indeed.”
She waited, but he offered nothing more. Secretive as always. Well, she was no longer a young innocent who would allow questions to go unanswered. “You were there, weren’t you?”
Marcus turned, walked back to the window, and tied open the curtains. Though the sky was gray, the room brightened in the white light. He stood for a long moment, watching snow drift down.
Perhaps he didn’t need to answer, though, for she’d never been so certain of anything in her life. It explained the differences she had begun to notice. He’s harder, and more arrogant. “Your cousin Robert was at Salamanca, wasn’t he? It was where he was wounded.”
A long, deep sigh tore through Marcus. After an obvious struggle, he said, “Aye. I was with him, at the battle. What . . . what did I say?”
“So it wasn’t delirium, but a memory. You thought we were there, that we were on the move during the battle. You kept saying we had to find shelter, to fall back and find a better position from which to fight.” She noted his expression growing grim and she tentatively added, “I’m sorry about Robert’s injuries. I know they were severe.”
“He lost his leg, but he’s doing better than expected.” Marcus placed his hand on the window frame and then rested his bandaged head against his fist, looking out at the snow. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”
She moved to the side of the settee so she could see his profile. “How did you come to be at Salamanca?”
“I’d been assigned to deliver a missive to Wellington from the Oxenburg king—a promise of their best troops and the use of their general, Nik’s brother Max.”
“I’ve heard of Nik’s brother. He just married into the Muir family.”
Marcus nodded. “When I arrived at Wellington’s camp, I dinna realize the battle was aboot to begin. I could have delivered my message and left, but when I met the general, he was with his brigade leaders.” Marcus gazed out the window, as if he could see what he saw that day. “I knew them all. Campbell, Pakenham, Hope, Alten—they were each leading a brigade. My cousin Robert was Pakenham’s aide de camp. So young and so excited. He had no idea what he was aboot to face.”
“But you did.”
“I’d been traveling throughoot Europe for months, gathering information and sending it to Wellington and back home to the Foreign Office. And where Napoleon’s armies had marched, there were miles and miles of nothing but smoke and bodies. It was . . .” He shook his head. “When I saw Robert and his blind enthusiasm, I knew I had to stay.”
“The two of you were always close.”
“He is like a brother to me.” Marcus smiled tightly. “I convinced Pakenham to let me join his forces so I could fight beside Robert. It dinna take much persuasion; they were short on men and I had a horse and weapons. So, I loaded my pistols and joined in. I was there for the charge, at Robert’s side. We won, but it was a costly battle. Thousands killed, injured, and maimed. And Robert—” His voice thickened. “His horse fell on his leg and crushed it. I knew the second I saw it that he wouldna be able to keep it, but he kept hoping . . .”
Kenna noted the shadow in Marcus’s eyes, the deep lines that ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. So much pain. She wondered if he’d spoken about it to anyone else, and decided it was unlikely. Never had she met a man more given to holding himself away from others.
What should she say in this rare moment where he shared something he cared about? While she was struggling to find the words, Marcus’s stomach rumbled.
“I’m famished,” he said shortly. “I dinna suppose there’s food in this empty house?”
And just like that, the rare moment was over. It was probably for the best; she couldn’t afford any additional emotions when it came to this man. Naturally I’m intrigued by his noble actions, and admire him for them. But that doesn’t change anything.
She picked up her cloak from the floor and shook it out. “The larder is well stocked, so we should be able to find some breakfast.” She put on the cloak for warmth and glanced at his bandage. It was still in place, and only a small stain of blood had seeped through. Other than looking pale, he was almost back to normal—which in his case meant dark, restl
ess, and achingly handsome.
It really wasn’t fair. After all these years, he still had the power to make her skin warm with just a glance. No other man had ever made her feel that way.
“Since you put on your cloak, I take it this is the only room with a fire.”
“Yes. And I’m very proud of that fire. It took me almost an hour to light it.”
Amusement warmed his gray eyes. “In other words, it took you an hour to find the flint box. If there is food in the larder, then the fire was likely already laid.”
She smiled. “Yes, but I’ve had to keep it going.”
“You did verrah well. The room is decently warm, considering the temperature it must be outside.” His gaze brushed over her. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“Everything—finding this cottage, walking me here, bandaging my head, starting the fire. All of it.”
He had the longest lashes of any man she knew, and they emphasized the hard line of his nose and mouth. She sighed as she looked at his mouth. Even when he was asleep, it had seemed bold and uncompromising. And he was both.
He picked up his coat from the settee and shrugged into it. “Where is this kitchen?”
“This way.” She led the way through a door at one end of the room, carefully closing it behind them. She shivered in the cold hall and led the way to a set of stone stairs. “Careful,” she called over her shoulder. “The ceiling is low.”
He ducked under the low doorframe and followed her down the narrow steps into the kitchen.
“It’s small, but there’s every kind of food imaginable,” she said.
There were apples in a wooden bowl on a low table, and he took one and polished it on his sleeve. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
He took a bite, his gaze flickering about the room. “I see no dust, but no one was here when we arrived?”
“It was empty.”
“And the door? Was it locked?”
She shrugged. “Yes, but I was able to undo it with a hairpin. It only took a moment.”
What Happens Under the Mistletoe Page 12
