Snowbound With The Baronet

by Hale Deborah

  It was clear he disapproved of the ways she had changed during the past four years. That hurt more than she cared to admit. The hurt struck against her fear for him, igniting her temper. “I grew up! I learned that my actions have consequences and that I must consider them before I jump in with both feet.”

  “Are you saying I am heedless as well as foolhardy?” His tone sharpened to match hers.

  “You are certainly not heeding me.” Her stomach churned and her eyes prickled ominously. They threatened a mortifying burst of tears if she did not soon get her emotions under control.

  Before Sir Brandon could reply, his footman interrupted their argument. “Begging your pardon, sir. The two of us can go fetch the luggage if you need to stay behind.”

  Cassandra could have kissed the young man. Then she reminded herself it was too risky an errand for anyone. She should be concerned for all of them—not only Sir Brandon.

  “Nonsense!” he snapped. “I would never order anyone to do what I would not do myself. We are going to do this, all three of us, and that is final.”

  He made a curt bow that was dismissive rather than respectful. “Pray excuse us, Lady Cassandra. The sooner we go, the sooner we shall return and the more light we will have to find our way.”

  There was no lack of light outside. Cassandra had found the glaring whiteness almost blinding when she’d waded out to the barn to collect eggs for Mrs. Martin. That would not make it easier for Brandon and the others to find their way.

  The door opened and the other two men trudged outside. Sir Brandon turned away from her to follow them.

  Cassandra lunged toward him and grasped the sleeve of his coat, tugging with all her might. “Please Bran—I cannot let you do this!”

  Had she addressed him in such a familiar way? The intensity of feeling her actions betrayed shocked Cassandra. But if it kept him from harm, surely it would be worthwhile.

  But her final desperate plea availed no more than the others. Instead of hesitating, Brandon swung his arm with fierce strength, wrenching his sleeve from her grasp. His blue eyes blazed with the frosty intensity of a blizzard that raged inside him. “Enough, Cassandra! Do not pretend you care what happens to me!”

  She staggered back as if he had driven a jagged shard of ice deep into her heart. Pretend to care? No indeed. She had spent years pretending to the world, and most of all to herself, that she did not care anything about the suitor she’d spurned. In truth she did care, far more than she could afford to, about what had happened to him in the past and what would happen in the future.

  Now all she could do was to watch helplessly as he strode out into the storm and slammed the door behind him.

  Should he have swallowed his pride and heeded Cassandra?

  As Brandon waded through the snow straining to spot the stagecoach and maintain his bearings, he began to think it might have been the more prudent course. But he found it impossible to behave prudently where she was concerned, as he had almost from the moment they met.

  It had not been prudent for a mere baronet to aspire to the daughter of a future duke. Yet once they were introduced, he could not rest until he’d made an effort to win her. He hoped today’s rash decision would end better than that.

  Dash it all! He was doing it again—mooning over Lady Cassandra when he most needed to keep his wits about him. Even the faint sting of snowflakes the winter wind whipped against his face could not chase the lady from his thoughts for long.

  “I have never seen so much snow at one time,” his footman, shouted to be heard over the wail of the wind. “Everything is just white mounds. How will we tell the stagecoach from anything else?”

  “It will be a very tall mound, Edward!” Brandon called back, ending with a loud laugh that he hoped would ease the young man’s obvious anxiety.

  He was doing enough worrying for all three of them. Not that they would become lost, for there was still a shallow trough visible in the snow that marked the way they had come yesterday. As long as they followed that, it would lead them to the coach. Coming back, the path would be clearer still, as he had tried to reassure Cassandra.

  What he had not reckoned on was the effort it took to wallow through the snow that had drifted waist-deep in places. Though he believed himself to be in reasonable condition after all the riding and marching he had done in Spain, the exertion was beginning to take its toll on him. The muscles in his legs and torso cramped from the strain. His heart pounded hard against his ribs. When he gasped in the raw winter air, it seemed to slash through his lungs. Edward and the coach guard were in no better shape. What if there came a moment when they could not stagger another step?

  He would not let that happen! Brandon insisted, as if he were addressing Lady Cassandra rather than himself. He would do whatever he must to prevent any harm coming to the others.

  Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he turned toward Edward and the coach guard, who was leading the largest and strongest of the horses.

  “I am certain we have walked nearly as far as we did last night.” He angled his back to take the brunt of the north wind, which roared down from the high ground. “If we do not spot the coach very soon, we must turn back.”

  He could picture the fuss his cousin would make if they returned empty-handed, not to mention Lady Cassandra gloating over being proved right. Or would she? He had accused her of only pretending to care what became of him. What if he’d been wrong and her concern was genuine?

  The other men nodded vigorously. Even the horse tossed its head as if in agreement.

  “The wind is blowing harder than ever,” the coach guard shouted. “If it drifts in our tracks, we may have a devil of a time finding our way back.”

  The man’s words chilled Brandon like a bit of melting snow trickling down his back. If the worst befell him before he’d had an opportunity to sire an heir, his mother’s betrayal would be rewarded. He could not let that happen.

  If any harm befell Brandon, part of the responsibility would be on her head.

  That thought haunted Cassandra throughout the afternoon. She threw herself into every household chore she could badger Mrs. Martin into finding for her. The time still crawled along like cold treacle.

  Seated in a chair near the parlor fire, Imogene Calvert sipped her tea and fretted. “What is taking them so long? I thought they would be back by now.”

  Cassandra fought the urge to fly across the room and shake the selfish little ninny until her teeth rattled. “I tried to tell your cousin it would not be as easy an errand as you and he expected. I wish he had listened to me.”

  Miss Calvert smirked. “If you did not want him to go, you shouldn’t have opposed him so strenuously. I do believe your warnings only spurred Brandon’s determination to go.”

  Cassandra pressed her lips together to stifle a cowardly whimper. Imogene Calvert’s words confirmed her own worst fears. She should have remembered that opposition always strengthened Sir Brandon’s resolve. She should have moderated her response accordingly, giving him an opportunity to reconsider the idea on his own. Instead she had driven him out into the storm. In the process, she had destroyed the fragile truce between them that might have ripened into something even more cordial.

  She did not dare answer his cousin for fear of what she might say. Instead she glanced at the Martins’ mantel clock to discover how little time had passed since she’d last looked. Was there something wrong with the timepiece? Perhaps it needed winding.

  She hurried to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Martin, who shook her head. “Tobias winds that clock every night before bed and yesterday was no exception. The time only passes slowly for you because you’re fretting over the gentleman.”

  Cassandra opened her mouth to deny it but a shrewd look from the older woman warned her not to waste her breath.

  “Sit down, have a cup of tea and calm yourself,” Mrs. Martin ordered in a tone that sounded brisk, but not without sympathy. “I reckon the men will be back before long with no wo
rse harm than a chill. They’re young and fit and Sir Brandon seems a great deal more capable than most gentlemen.”

  The instant the words were out of her mouth, she raised her fingers to her lips as if she wished to stuff them back in. “Begging your pardon, my lady! You’ve been such a help to me, I forgot myself.”

  “No offense taken.” Cassandra assured her, dropping onto a seat at the kitchen table. “I am acquainted with enough noblemen to know you are not wrong in your judgment. It is not Sir Brandon’s ability I question, only the severity of the conditions he faces.”

  She accepted a steaming cup of tea with a murmur of thanks, hoping that conversation with Mrs. Martin would prove a more effective distraction from her worries then her household chores had. She recalled how swiftly time had flown that morning when she and Brandon had talked and sipped tea in the darkened kitchen. Cassandra only wished she could have made it last longer.

  Mrs. Martin poured herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite Cassandra. “Whatever happened between you in the past, you’re still very partial to him, aren’t you?”

  Cassandra considered denying her feelings but sensed she would not be believed. She gave a brief nod only to discover how pleasant it felt to admit her long-concealed emotions.

  “I tried to stop for the sake of my peace of mind.” She sighed. “I persuaded myself I had. When I saw him again, it all came flooding back and I cannot seem to control it.”

  “Then don’t.” Mrs. Martin’s motherly sympathy was balm to Cassandra’s turbulent heart. “No good ever comes of trying to make yourself feel contrary to what your heart decides. What happened between the two of you, anyhow? Are you certain matters cannot be mended now that some time has passed?”

  “Quite certain!” Cassandra’s hand trembled as she raised her cup, spattering hot drops of tea over the rustic tabletop. She could not afford to hope such a thing might be possible. “I insulted and injured him in a manner I cannot expect him to forgive.”

  “Were you untrue?” Mrs. Martin sounded reluctant to pose such a personal question. Yet Cassandra knew she was asking out of more than idle curiosity.

  “Of course not!” Her denial rose instinctively. Yet once the words were out, her conscience grew uneasy.

  Certainly she had not done what Mrs. Martin meant. She had never encouraged another gentleman during her courtship with Brandon—or since for that matter. She had been true to him but she had not been altogether truthful with him.

  Mrs. Martin’s pale ginger brows lowered in a look of puzzlement. “Then what on earth could you have done that would be so difficult to forgive?”

  Long habit tried to seal Cassandra’s lips on the subject. But her recent confessions to Brandon and their hostess had weakened her resolve to keep silent. Besides she needed to impress upon Mrs. Martin the futility of hoping for any sort of reconciliation with her former suitor. Otherwise, she feared their hostess might not be above a little innocent matchmaking.

  “I... rejected his proposal.” She hung her head knowing Mrs. Martin would think ill of her once she knew. “I refused after giving every indication that I cared for him and would be honored to accept.”

  “But why would you do such a thing, my dear?” Mrs. Martin did not sound reproachful, only bewildered and disappointed.

  That secret would require a great deal more effort to confess, though Cassandra sensed the stout wards upon it were beginning to weaken. “I had my reasons and I still believe they were sound ones. If we had wed, I feel certain our marriage would have been most unhappy. He would have come to despise me even more than he does now. At least this way I have the satisfaction of knowing I did the honorable thing... even if he believes otherwise.”

  Mrs. Martin reached across the table and patted her hand. “You believed you were doing what was best for him?”

  Cassandra raised her head and answered in a tone of perfect assurance. “I am certain of it.”

  “It could not have been easy, though, could it?” Mrs. Martin sounded regretful... even pitying. Yet an undertone of admiration made that pity bearable, the way a dose of sweet syrup made it possible to swallow foul-tasting medicine. “It must have cost you a good bit of heartache at the time and ever since.”

  Cassandra nodded. “It was a price I was willing to pay and I would again.”

  “I think you ought to tell Sir Brandon everything you’ve told me.” Mrs. Martin gave a resolute nod and refilled both their cups. “The poor man must assume you were trifling with his affections. He may have thought you didn’t care for him because he wasn’t worth caring for.”

  The thought appalled Cassandra. “Surely he cannot believe that!”

  He was the finest man she’d ever met. It had never crossed her mind that he could possibly think otherwise.

  Mrs. Martin gave a doubtful shrug. “Folk often don’t regard themselves as highly as others do. Why do you suppose he’s never found a wife since then?”

  Had her rejection affected him that badly? Cassandra did not want to believe it. “He served in Spain with General Wellington’s army and only returned a few months ago.”

  That perfectly reasonable explanation did not satisfy her sympathetic inquisitor. “Why do you reckon he joined the army in the first place?”

  “That had nothing to do with me!” It could not have... could it? The possibility distressed Cassandra in spite of her vigorous denial.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Mrs. Martin shook her head. “At least not until you ask him outright.”

  Cassandra scrambled up from the table. Her face felt as if it were on fire. “I have no intention of asking him any such thing! That is all water under the bridge. No good can come of stirring it all up again.”

  But what if Mrs. Martin was right? What if she had driven Brandon to the perils of the battlefield just as she had driven him out into the storm today? In her desperation to protect him, had she only forced him into greater peril?

  “I do not mean to tell him about anything we have discussed just now,” she repeated for emphasis, “I must insist you treat it as a confidence and say nothing to Sir Brandon, either.”

  “Very well, my dear, if that is what you wish.” The tone of Mrs. Martin’s agreement told Cassandra she would like to meddle if permitted. “I promise I will not breathe a word to the gentleman about what you have told me.”

  “It is what I wish,” Cassandra confirmed, so there could be no possible doubt.

  She chided herself for fretting so much about what Mrs. Martin might say to Brandon when she should be more concerned about his safe return.

  “What can be taking them so long?” She echoed his cousin’s question, but in a tone of anxiety rather than annoyance. “They should have been back before this, even if the going was difficult.”

  It haunted her to think of Brandon out there in the cold, unable to find his way, with every step a struggle. If any harm befell him out there, how would she bear it? She would have to grieve in secret, for no one would understand her feelings. She would have no claim on the sympathy due a grieving widow or even a bereaved sweetheart.

  Then she heard the Martins’ dog bark. It had been a welcome sound last night, but was a hundred times more to Cassandra at that moment.

  Just... one... more... step. Brandon urged his exhausted body and frostbitten extremities with a litany that was half exhortation and half promise. His body had long since ceased to believe the promise.

  “Are we still going the right way, sir?” Edward called. He clung to the horse’s girth on the right-hand side while the coach guard held onto the left. Brandon led the creature by the bridle, his eyes fixed forward.

  The wind had blown snow into their tracks, making the trail harder and harder to follow. The only saving grace was that it gusted down from the north, leaving a slight hollow on one side. It was not always easy to spot, but it was better than nothing.

  “We are!” he shouted back, trying to infuse his voice with optimism. “It cannot be much farther.”
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  That was what kept him staggering forward—the dogged determination to get the others back safely... and the prospect of seeing Cassandra again. At first he had tried to dismiss that thought. But as step followed labored step and other inducements failed, the image of her continued to draw him on.

  “Do you hear that?” The coach guard cried. “I think it’s the Martins’ dog.”

  Brandon could not hear anything over the shriek of the wind. That did not stop him from crying, “You see? I told you it could not be far!”

  He feared the effect on their spirits if it turned out to be wrong. But after a few more steps, he could hear the dog quite clearly.

  Then Podger came bounding toward them, followed by Mr. Martin, the coachman and Brandon’s driver.

  “Back at last!” called the farmer. “We were beginning to think you might have kept on going all the way to Marlborough.”

  The coachman took Brandon’s place leading the horse and they all trudged back to the barn.

  “Get into the house and thaw out,” Mr. Martin ordered Brandon and his companions. “We’ll unload this lot. The trunks can stay here in the barn. They’ll be dry and folks can fetch what they need.”

  Brandon was too tired to do more than nod. He lurched toward the house, grateful beyond measure to whoever had made a path to the door.

  As he pushed it open, a wave of warm air billowed over him, fragrant with the aroma of new bread, roast meat and spiced apples. Even better than those mouth-watering smells was the sight of Cassandra, flushed and smiling with a suspicious glint of moisture in her dark eyes.

  For an instant Brandon thought she might throw her arms around him. His heart leapt at the prospect. But she only seized his arm and drew him deeper into the entry hall to make room for the men behind him.

  He could not be too disappointed, however. For when she spoke, the relief in her voice seemed to embrace him. “Come in, come in! You must be frozen. We were growing quite worried about you.

  She took his hat and brushed the snow from it, then helped him out of his greatcoat with brisk but attentive movements.