“Stay,” she said. She interrupted his words so that he might go back to the start, and explain everything to her.
But then he was kissing her and called her his darling, and somehow she knew she had arrived in heaven. Certainly, it was too cold to be that other place.
But why was he setting her aside? And why could she not move her limbs? The memory of the accident, of Mimma screaming as the coach crashed onto its side, of the driver calling for her when she could not answer, shocked her out of her dream. She had been abandoned and left to die once, only hours before.
It could not happen again.
She reached out and grasped hold of warm, damp woolen cloth, and held on as if her life depended on it.
WILL STUDIED THE scene in front of the Captain and Mermaid Inn and deduced that Christmas had arrived early in East Sussex. Despite the snow and continuing shower of ice, men and perhaps a few women were jumping about, behaving like a rowdy bunch of children. Or, more likely, partygoers who had had a few too many glasses of ginever.
He would enjoy one himself, but this was England. A scotch would do fine. Perhaps some rum. Both, in fact.
But hot tea sounded even more enticing.
Will enjoyed a good time as much as anyone else, but he doubted he had much energy for carousing this night, no matter the occasion. And of more concern, he guessed that with so many people about, the inn might not have enough rooms for his small party.
He looked down at the woman bundled in his lap, fitfully sleeping. She required a room, preferably close to his own. And he thought of Milton, who somehow managed to deliver them safely to the Captain and Mermaid, and deserved something better than the shared rooms in the attic or in the loft of the stable. Will was prepared to pay whatever was needed, but both his coins and he would grow cold if the innkeeper declined to receive them.
Milton was at the door within a minute but opened it cautiously.
“Does she live, my lord?”
“She does. You merit a bonus for this night’s word, my man,” Will said and stretched his legs under the blankets.
“I would be glad of a night’s rest, my lord, if such a thing is still possible.” Milton reached for the lady bundled in the blankets, so that Will might extricate himself from the coach.
“I thought very much the same thing myself,” Will said. Several grooms already approached to relieve them of the care of the horses and secure the coach. “What do you say to our chances of actually getting one?”
Milton laughed, and Will could not help but share in the sorry humor.
“I wonder if our missy has ever spent a night in the hay,” Milton said.
Will thought of her fair and soft skin and unblemished features. “I doubt it. But come to think about it, I don’t think I have ever spent such a night myself. Coming at the end of this perilous day, I am prepared to sleep in the water closet, if it is the only place available.”
Milton grinned, and Will noticed an icicle hanging from the driver’s hat. He took Lady Frost from Milton’s undoubtedly weary arms, and they made their way into the bright lights and warm air that smelled a bit too pungently of hops and spirits.
They were greeted at the door by the innkeeper, who somehow seemed to expect them. Will took that to be a good sign.
“We require three rooms,” Will said without preamble. “Dare we hope that you have them available? It seems to be a busy night.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “These fellows are out for a night of carousing before their wives demand that they attend church services and spend time with relatives. Most are local boys. I have two rooms of good size, above the kitchen.”
Will did not need to be a housekeeper to know that such rooms were the warmest in the house.
The innkeeper looked curiously at Will’s bundle, though there was little to be seen but the lady’s pink nose and her upper lip.
“One room is attached to a small dressing room, where a valet might stay, or perhaps a driver.” He glanced pointedly at Milton who, by now, was dripping water onto the rug. “Your lady wife will be comfortable in the room opposite.”
Will looked down at his lady wife, and though she was neither, felt a rush of affection for her. And certainly a sense of obligation; having taken her this far, he would not have her die during the night.
“I believe Mr. Milton here requires a room of his own. He has fearlessly led our horses through this storm,” Will said. “I will sleep in the dressing room and give my wife the bed. She is exhausted from her journey, as you see, and may require my help through the night.”
The innkeeper chuckled and Milton looked ready to protest.
“Lead us to the rooms, good sir, so we may sooner reap our reward of hot food and a soft bed.”
The innkeeper was a man of business, and reassured them on both counts, and several others, as he jingled his keys on the way up the narrow stairs. When he opened the door to a clean room with a good fire crackling in the grate, Will thought no place ever looked more elysian. Behind him, he heard another door open and Milton’s sigh of pleasure echoed his own. They were safe and—just as important—they were warm.
Will took the several steps to the large bed, where a worn quilt had been turned down for anyone foolish enough to travel through the storm. As gently as possible, he settled Lady Frost down on the mattress and pulled the rough wool blanket away from her face.
She slept on, her breathing deep and regular. He pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and was satisfied that it was neither as cold as it had been, nor flush with fever. For the first time since he pulled her out of the coach, he dared to hope she might survive her misadventure in the snow. And he realized how much it mattered to him that she do so.
He pulled his hand away from her face but allowed it to rest on her pillow, not yet willing to relinquish his claim. But she was not his, and he had no fantasies that she might ever be. He recalled his first thoughts in the frenetic moments when they came upon her, and now that his own reason had been restored, he reckoned that she could not truly be alone in the world. She belonged to someone else, a husband or a father, and might herself be a mother, an aunt, a daughter. At this very moment, while they found sanctuary from the storm, those other people might be looking for her, fearful that she had perished in the crash. For all he knew, they might be out there on the road, trying to recover her body from the downed carriage.
The innkeeper would surely know something of that. Why had he not thought to ask him if there were other travelers seeking refuge, or if someone was trying to enlist a group of men to attempt a rescue?
Within moments of feeling a sense of peace for the first time in an hour, Will was agitated anew. He quickly lifted Lady Frost from her cocoon of wool, and settled her beneath the inviting quilt, tucking the cloth around her. He took a quick look at the dressing room where he intended to spend the night, and deemed it adequate for his needs.
And then he was back in the drafty hall, locking the door behind him. No noise came from Milton’s room, and Will hoped his driver was already sleeping soundly.
He was not. As soon as Will came down the stairs and into the dining hall, he heard Milton’s voice above the others at a corner table. He might already know if there were reports of a crash or a lady missing in the storm.
“My lord!” Milton said as soon as he saw Will come towards them. The other men turned around, looking skeptical, as if they could determine a man’s rank by his jacket.
But apparently they could, for they struggled to their feet and bowed as they murmured their deferential greetings.
Will wanted none of that, at least not on this night, for he desired information more.
“May I join you, my good fellows?” he asked and didn’t wait for them to answer before pulling up a chair. The innkeeper arrived at once, with a bowl overflowing with somet
hing steamy and aromatic, and closely avoided spilling it in Will’s lap.
“Have you all eaten?” Will asked politely before dipping in his spoon. They continued to watch him as if his manners were either appalling or very fine, but there was only one thing that concerned him within this company. “Were any of you out on the road this evening?”
Milton shook his head, just perceptibly, and Will nodded. There was no news of an abandoned coach or a missing woman buried in the snow. Whoever worried for her welfare had not come this way.
Will finished his dinner in silence, while the men resumed their lively conversation. With no one to claim the lady, she remained his responsibility. He thought that sustenance was therefore more important for him than learning about the current rumors regarding the relationship between the local vicar and the blacksmith’s daughter.
JULIA OPENED HER eyes and studied a painting on the opposite wall. It took her several moments to understand what it depicted; she blinked a few times and recognized the subject as a bowl of fruit, though indifferently rendered. She did not know what the pink orbs were, but the apples were bright red, and she realized she was quite hungry.
She struggled to rise before realizing she was nearly incapable of moving any part of her body. It was not so much a consequence of the blanket tucked so closely around her that her own weight held it down, but the overwhelming sense that her limbs were incapable of heeding the call of her brain.
But she was warm, and hoped she was safe, and was reasonably sure that she had not yet reached heaven. She guessed she was in someone’s house, which seemed respectable, if not elegant. The soft blanket that brushed against her nose was probably cleaner than she was at the moment.
She preferred to imagine she was back at Gainsmeadow, where she was born and lived when she was just Julia Townshend and possibly would be still, if Lord Leighton Kingswood’s horse had not happened to throw a shoe at their garden gate. She smiled at the sweet memory and settled deeper into her cozy nest, reassured that he looked after her, wherever he was.
As she closed her eyes, she heard a snort and some rustling to her right, and knew he was near.
“Lay?” she asked in a voice so weak, she guessed he could not hear her.
But then she heard something drop and a broken-off curse and heavy footsteps treading towards her.
“You are awake, Lady Frost,” a man said, though his voice was deeper than Leighton’s.
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Someone she had never seen before stood over her, staring down. With his dark blond hair and pale blue eyes, he certainly looked nothing like her husband, and yet he seemed familiar.
“You are awake,” he repeated, and shook his head as if in disbelief. “You are alive.”
That settled it, then. She was neither in heaven nor wherever poor Leighton dwelled, for her mind was now clear on that memory; her husband was dead. She did not know the identity of this man who was somehow entitled to be in her bedchamber, but she was inclined to believe him.
“Yes,” she squeaked. Her throat was raw and dry, and every word she uttered required some effort. Another certainty came to her: she was to sing at a party and entertain the guests. It was an occasion of some sort, perhaps to honor the soldiers of the Peninsula? No, she recalled that event took place last summer, in the Kingswood Chapel.
She remembered she was to wear a green velvet dress with Nottingham lace on the bodice. The fabric was as soft as a baby’s blanket, and the white lace looked like fallen snow on boughs of fir.
It was Christmas.
“Have you a name?” her interrogator demanded, sounding impatient. Who was he?
“Have you?” she asked.
He caught his breath and waited before he answered. She took the moment to study him, and try to recall if they had ever met before. She was sensible enough to realize she would have remembered if they had, for even if her dear husband was alive and with her, she would have spared a good look at this man. And yet there was something familiar about him. He was large, and yet his features had a certain delicacy, revealed in his high cheekbones and thin nose. His eyes were pale, and yet full of warmth and curiosity, and were framed with lashes several shades darker than his hair. Even without the advantage of his evening grooming, his unshaved cheeks and tousled hair did nothing to diminish his good looks. Indeed, perhaps they improved upon them.
“My name is Willem Wakefield. Those who do not know me well, refer to me as Lord Willem, and those who do, call me Will.” He scratched his head and his blond hair fell over one eye. Perhaps, like her, he wondered how well they were acquainted. She supposed it had to do with how he came to be in her room and where this room happened to be.
“You are Dutch,” she said, though it did not have any particular relevance to her present situation.
He leaned closer, so close she could smell the smoke on his white shirt. His hair brushed against her forehead.
“Dutch,” she repeated.
He straightened and nodded. “My mother is Dutch, but my father is Lord Edward Wakefield, of Sussex. From the time I was a child, I have been as familiar with the Nord Zee crossing from Vlissingen to Sheerness, as well as most of my countrymen who are journeying on the Great Northern Road.”
Julia was almost certain she was familiar with neither, as she was not a great traveler. And yet somehow she was in this place, which was neither Gainsmeadow nor the dowager house at Kingswood Hall where she now lived under the protection of her late husband’s very distant cousin. Nor did she imagine she was at the great estate in Rye, at which she was expected to perform on Christmas Eve. She smiled, pleased she remembered that much, at last.
“I hope I have satisfied your curiosity, Madam,” Willem Wakefield said. “There is nothing particularly exciting about my life.”
And yet, here he was with her, unshaven and undressed, introducing himself as if they had just met at a dinner party.
“But you have not satisfied mine,” he continued, and she felt a moment of fear. Whatever did he mean?
“Have you a name?” he asked again.
Relieved, she closed her eyes. She was tired and it could wait. She had not the strength to answer.
Chapter 2
WILL REMINDED HIMSELF that Lady Frost had endured a dreadful ordeal and might well have died if they had not come upon her coach when they did. That she already opened her eyes and had the sense to question him before she revealed anything of herself suggested she was not lost to reason or hope. She recognized the foreign origin of his name, a truth about him that often eluded men and women who fancied themselves somewhat worldly.
Though she looked like a lady, even swaddled in her blankets, it was possible that worldliness could be indicative of a rather adventurous life.
Therefore, for all the reasons he had for being patient and allowing her a decent time to recover, he was terribly impatient. Not only did he wish to continue on the way to Rye, but, more compelling, he wanted to know more about her.
He went back to the little alcove where he had spent the night, which reminded him of nothing so much as the cramped cabins in which he had sailed to and from the East Indies. As the cabins were scarcely larger than closets, airless and full of hazards, Will often joined the crew, sleeping in hammocks above deck or gazing up at the starry sky, counting the days until landfall.
Now he could do little more than count the hours before he and Milton might resume their journey, after ensuring the lady would be safe until someone came to claim her here.
He stood at the washstand, assembling the essentials for his ablutions. His fine friends in Rye would doubtless be amused by his somewhat rustic simplicity, though he did not think it a bad thing that a grown man was capable of shaving his own beard. As he began to lather up his rum-scented shaving soap, he started to whistle a song familiar to him from his days at sea. And the
n, reflecting on the season, and the abundance of snow, he somewhat shakily began the first notes of “The Darkest Midnight in December.” It had been many years since he learned it from some of the Irish lads, homesick during the week of Christmas.
But when he paused, he heard an echo of his own whistling, a voice that was both hoarse and strained. He went to the door of the bedchamber, hopeful of what he might find.
She had pulled away her blankets so that her pale throat was exposed, and one finger was pressed against the base of her neck. He thought she would be pleased to be awake and alive, but there was a look of great consternation on her face.
She stopped when she saw him, and studied him for several moments before he realized there was soap on his cheek and he had forgotten to throw on his shirt. Yet she pretended nothing was amiss. “Will, what has happened, and why am I here?”
He smiled, oddly pleased that she remembered his name, if not much else. “My driver and I found you in an overturned coach on the road, nearly buried in the snow.”
She withdrew her hand from her neck and clenched her fist. “Yes, I remember being cold and very hungry. I still am hungry.”
“We managed to get you warm, and I believe we can soon procure a hot breakfast. What say you to porridge and hot tea?”
She cleared her throat and winced. “Warm milk is much better for my voice.”
“Do not say another word. I will have it sent up at once,” he said, and started towards the door to the hall.
“I suggest you wait until you have finished your toilette,” she whispered.
She was distracting him, making him unsteady.
“Of course,” he said, and crossed the room to return to his closet, knowing she watched him.
“I must have my voice restored in time for Christmas Eve,” she explained, plaintively.
He turned back for a moment. She held out her hand to him, revealing a graceful arm marred by an angry bruise. “Fear not. I am certain you will be able to gossip with friends at a house party, when you reach your destination.”
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