by Jo Ann Brown
“Do you think I will agree to such an absurd offer?” He clenched his fists, ready to defend them.
The smugglers swarmed forward. He pushed Cat behind him but heard her scream. He whirled to see her in the clutches of a stocky man. He leaped forward to drive his fist into the man’s face.
He stopped when he saw something flash behind Cat. A knife! A deadly knife aimed at someone he would give his life for.
Instantly the cold vanished, and sun blinded him. Shouts battered his skull. He could not grasp the words but recognized the sounds of panic and fury. Guns firing. Men screaming. Men dying. The odors of blood and death sickened him. He coughed, but the reek tainted every breath he drew. The roar of cannon fire escalated until he thought his ears would burst.
But he focused on the blade. He raised his gun to knock it away. Where was his gun? He did not have a gun! With a roar, he launched himself at the man holding it. This time, he would not trip over his own feet. This time, he would keep the blade away. This time, he would be a true hero.
Something struck him from behind. He heard Cat’s scream. What was she doing on the battlefield? Cat! Cat, run away! Her horrified expression went with him into a black nothingness lit with bright flashes of pain.
* * *
Pain.
Flashes of red-hot pain.
Even thinking hurt.
He had to get out of there. Before the French overran their position and killed them all. He could not be dead. Not yet. He hurt too much.
“Slowly,” a soft voice crooned. “Don’t make any sudden moves until you are wide awake.”
Sudden moves were the last things Jonathan would consider doing when his head was wrapped with fiery iron and someone was striking it with a hammer.
He faded in and out of consciousness, but the pain never diminished. Each time he was slightly awake, the soft voice offered comfort and never prodded him to do more than listen.
A soft voice that spoke in English.
A soft voice that belonged to a woman.
Then he opened his eyes.
He blinked, trying to make sense of what he saw. A low dark roof that seemed to be at an angle. He shifted his eyes and stared at a snowy branch sticking through a window. He raised his gaze to see Cat’s pretty face above his, barely lit by the faint glow from the flickering lamps near the roof. He was lying with his head on her lap.
He pushed himself up to sit as memories burst into his head. Memories of the smugglers. Memories of the French. Memories that seemed to be a mixture of both. What had happened? Was any of it real? Pain rippled in the wake of the memories, and he had to support his head on his hands. Icy hands. The cold as much as anything else stripped away the last of the cobwebs in his mind.
The battles against the French were in the past. Not today. Yet he would have taken an oath that a knife had been aimed at Cat by a Frenchman. He remembered how Northbridge suffered from horrible nightmares. Had Jonathan had a waking one? Was that even possible?
He had no answers for that, and Cat would not, either. But there was one question he had to ask her.
“How long?”
Cat said, “At least a couple of hours. I have lost track of time, but the sun went down some time ago.” Her words were bitten off by her chattering teeth. “I don’t know how much longer the lamps will last.”
As if on cue, the lamp closer to the hedgerow sputtered and died.
He looked outside the carriage. It was snowing so hard that he could not see the hedgerow on the other side of the narrow road. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He glanced around the carriage, then wished he had made the motion more slowly. “Where is your sister?”
“They took her. Just as they said they would.”
He moaned. Less from the pain than from his failure to protect those who depended him.
Again.
“They shoved you back in here,” she went on, “and left after reminding me that Sophia’s life depended on us complying with their orders.”
Jonathan rubbed his cold hands together near the heat box which gave only a faint ghost of warmth. “Will you be all right here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I am going after them.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She seized his coat sleeve so hard that he heard threads snap. “You can’t go after them.”
“Cat, I know how to take care of myself. I survived the war, after all.”
“But I want everyone to survive this. Don’t go after them. If you do, they will not hesitate to kill both Sophia and you.”
He stared out the door. It would be simple to track the smugglers. Even though the snow had filled in their footprints, there were other ways to track them. He had refined his skills by creeping up on French camps to reconnoiter before a battle. So many men could not travel without leaving some signs of their passage. All he had to do was follow them to find the smugglers...and Sophia. He could rescue her, making sure she was uninjured, and he could unmask the smugglers.
At last, he would be the hero everyone already believed him to be.
He heard a sob and swiveled with care on the seat to look at Cat. She had her hands over her face, and her shoulders quaked with fear.
Putting a hand on her arm, he brushed her loosened hair back beneath the crushed brim of her bonnet. When had she put her bonnet back on? How had her bonnet been damaged? “Cat, I will be careful. I promise you. I will—”
“Didn’t you hear them? If we give chase, they will kill her.” With a sob, her voice broke. “On her wedding day, they will kill her. Please, Jonathan, I know you are a brave man and a great hero, but you are only one against all those smugglers. They mean what they say, just as they did when they hung that effigy of Jobby in the wood.”
He almost told her that he must go after the smugglers, so he could prove he truly was a hero.
Then his shoulders sagged, and he sighed. No argument he could give Cat—or himself—would lessen the risk to both women if he chased after the smugglers. He had no doubts that, if he were caught, the criminals would come back and kill Cat.
He could not risk Cat.
He could not risk Sophia.
He could not be a hero.
The price of making the lie into the truth was too high.
Cat must have seen his decision on his face. “Thank you, Jonathan.”
He ached to kiss her, but the thought of moving brought a fresh rush of pain. He had only enough strength to lean his head back against the tilted seat.
Lord, I hope I made the right decision. Watch over Cat and Sophia and keep them safe. What happens to the lie doesn’t matter any longer.
* * *
Cat said nothing as Jonathan closed his eyes. She gauged the slow rise and fall of his chest. When that beast had struck him with a pistol, she had feared that Jonathan was dead. Her ears still rang with their malicious laughter, as they had tossed him into the carriage as if he were a net of fish. She had resisted when they had ordered her into the carriage, too, and she had paid with more bruises. Her left eye was sure to be black by the morning. She had gotten in a few blows of her own, but no satisfaction, because, while she was forced into the carriage by some of the smugglers, others took Sophia away.
How long would it take those curs to finish whatever business they had? And would they bring Sophia back when they were done? She had no reason to believe their promises.
But she had to believe them. Otherwise, she would have to accept that her sister might already be dead.
Staring at the storm, she leaned her head back against the seat. The wind did not blow so hard when she huddled into a corner of the carriage. It was a bit warmer. Not enough to be comfortable, but enough so that every breath she took was not an icy knife in her lungs. The box o
n the floor gave off so little heat she could no longer feel it through her pelisse.
She drew up her feet beside her and leaned into the carriage’s wall. How much longer before Cousin Edmund and Charles found them? She closed her eyes. It would be for the best if they did not come until Sophia was delivered back to them. Otherwise, the smugglers might believe that the men from Meriweather Hall were hunting them.
How dismayed her family and friends must have been when their carriage never arrived at the church! Mr. Fenwick would have done his best to keep everyone calm, so the children were not frightened. Dear Vera would have sat with Mother, keeping her company while the men debated what to do.
Come now, Cat wanted to shout, but the words never reached her lips. Not that it mattered because her friends and her family were too far away as the storm roared around them. She wished she could see their faces outside the carriage, and they all could return to Meriweather Hall and get warm. Warm beneath a stack of blankets with a cup of hot chocolate.
She imagined holding the steaming cup in her hands. The rich aroma of chocolate made her mouth water. As she raised the cup, she heard, “Cat...”
She waited for the speaker to continue. When he did not, she started to take a sip again.
“Cat...”
Why wouldn’t he just let her have a sip of the hot chocolate? Just breathing it in made her feel nice and warm.
“Cat...” Jonathan! Why was Jonathan keeping her from having her hot chocolate?
“Cat...”
“Cat...”
“Cat...”
At the repetition of her name, she tensed. Why didn’t someone say something other than her name?
“Cat...”
Vexed, she whirled to face the man. Her cup flew from her hand and shattered. She jerked out of her reverie.
No, not reverie.
Dream.
She had fallen asleep. Sleeping in this cold would lead to freezing to death.
Every muscle protested as she tried to sit straighter and found herself held by strong arms. The frigid wind scoured her face, and she groaned.
Her ice-caked lashes fought her as she struggled to open her eyes. She reached up and rubbed her eyes, then wished she had not. Not only was her bruised eye tender, but she could barely open her eyes because the light was too bright. What light was that? The carriage lamps should have sputtered and gone out by now. When she opened her eyes again, tears trickled down her cheeks. She hastily wiped them away before they could freeze on her face.
Or she tried to. Her cold hands refused to move as she intended.
“Cat, stay awake.” A deep voice rumbled beneath her ear along with an uneven heartbeat. Gentle fingers brushed the tears off her face.
She moaned.
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you more.”
That was Jonathan’s voice!
She was sitting with her head against Jonathan’s chest!
That thought pushed aside the tempting tendrils that teased her to fade into the false warmth that she knew led to freezing to death. She started to sit up.
“Don’t move,” Jonathan whispered against her torn bonnet. His breath ruffled her hair. “I have blankets wrapped around us, and I don’t want to chance any cold air seeping in.”
“Blankets?” She sounded witless, but she was confused and so sleepy. She fought to stay awake and not succumb to the cold again.
“I found two in the boot, and I wrapped both around us.” His voice caught. “So you would not freeze to death.”
“But you were out in the cold longer than I was. Are you all right?”
“I am now that we have the blankets around us. Also I have a heavy greatcoat and boots. They have helped protect me from the cold.”
“The lights?”
He smiled grimly. “I found two lanterns by the back of the carriage. I don’t know if some of the smugglers had a morsel of compassion and left them for us, or if the lanterns were forgotten. Either way, I lit one and set it on the other seat to give us some light, and we will have the other when this one goes out. Too bad they don’t give off more heat.”
“Maybe if we talk, we’ll be able to stay awake until morning.” Her teeth began to chatter again. She was so cold. When his arms tightened around her, holding her closer to his chest, she knew he had felt her shiver.
“What should we talk about?”
She shrugged, then wished she had not when her stiff bones protested with aches. “Whatever you want to talk about.” She peered past the blanket and out the window at the wind-swept snow. More snow had drifted into the carriage, blown onto the branches and then falling on the floor. “Anything except the weather.”
“We could start with why you looked at me as if I were no better than a cur after I kissed you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that, either.” Cat stiffened and pushed her hands against his chest.
“But I do.” He held her tight to him. “Why did you ruin our kiss by running away?”
“I didn’t ruin it. You did.”
“Me? I ruined it. How?”
“By acting as if it were nothing special. You kissed me and then told me, that as tradition requires, you should wish me a happy Christmas. Just as anyone does who shares a holiday kiss under the kissing bough.”
He put his gloved hand on her unbruised cheek. As he gazed down into her eyes, she wondered what he hoped to see. “My sweet Cat, I kissed you because I could not bear not kissing you any longer.”
“But you said—”
“I know how important traditions are to you and your family. I thought saying something about a tradition would make you laugh.” He sighed. “My joke was only on me.”
His voice was so sad that her heart threatened to break in midbeat. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I thought—”
He put his fingers to her lips. “You have no reason to apologize. The truth is that I am envious of how many traditions your family has and how much you enjoy them.”
His honesty gave her the courage to ask, “Doesn’t your family have traditions?”
He leaned her head against his shoulder and made sure the thick wool blanket covered both of them. He stared into the snow that was falling even more heavily.
“We have traditions, but not ones I want to be part of.” His voice hardened. “Our traditions have more to do with obtaining a better place among the ton than spending time together.”
“Oh, Jonathan, that is sad. But surely there must be something that you shared that brought you joy.”
“I thought so, too, then I got a hard lesson from Augusta.”
A pinch of jealousy seared her, but she ignored it. “Who is Augusta?”
“She was my younger sister’s best friend. We were always together as children. Even when I didn’t want them along, Gwendolyn and Augusta found a way to tag along after me.”
“As I did with Sophia.”
“We remained friends as we grew. Even when I went away to university and began to read the law, Augusta sent me letters and was delighted to see me when I visited my mother’s house.” He paused. Each word sounded more difficult to speak than the one before it as he added, “Then one year, after her coming-out in London, I saw her at an assembly during the Season.”
Cat bit her lower lip, remembering how he had disparaged the Season. She remained silent. Was this the secret that made his eyes fill with sadness?
Find a way to open your heart to God, Cat, and maybe you can find a way to help Mr. Bradby open his.
Vera may have had it backward. If Jonathan opened his heart, could he help Cat find a way to open hers? She had to take the chance that it would.
“What happened?” she whispered, her lip cracking from the cold. She put her glove to it to keep it from bleeding.
Shocked, she blurted, “Why?”
“I asked myself that, and it puzzled me. Then I heard that she was going to marry a baron. I wanted to do whatever I could to halt the wedding. When I went to Gwendolyn to ask her advice, she laughed in my face. I can still hear her asking me why Augusta would want to marry a mere solicitor when she could marry a peer. That is what the Season did to my gentle sister and her kind friend. It altered them into fortune hunters.” He put a crooked finger under her chin and tilted her head back. His intense gaze matched his words. “Cat, I don’t want to see that happen to you.”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
She smiled, as she stroked his cheek that was roughened by the cold and his whiskers. “I can. I saw what the Season did to Sophia, and I—” Her breath caught, and sobs overtook her.
Turning her face against Jonathan’s coat, she wept. Would she ever see Sophia again? He let her cry, until she had no more tears to fall. She clung to his lapel as if it were her only lifeline out of the insanity surrounding them. Instead of sitting in the frigid carriage and struggling not to freeze to death while they waited to see if Sophia was brought back to them, they should have been raising toasts to the happiness of the newlyweds.
When her sobs had faded to hiccups, Jonathan whispered, “Have faith, Cat. God is watching over your sister just as He is watching over us. We must keep praying for her safety and ours. God will hear our prayers and protect her.”
Her fear and frustration metamorphosed into rage as she snapped, “That is easy to say.”
“It is just as easy to believe.” His voice remained calm. “All during the war, God never abandoned me. He has a plan for me, and I only have to trust that He knows the road that lies before me.”
“I used to believe that, too.” She looked away from him, embarrassed by her outburst. She was not angry with Jonathan. She was angry with...with whom? God? Herself?
“But your belief in God has been shaken,” he said in a tender tone.
