Andrew Lord of Despair(90)

Astrid swallowed past the lump of fear stuck in her throat—things were already bad—and opened the drapes enough to see that… she couldn’t see anything, save a white landscape as bleak as it was beautiful. “Why send for Andrew?”

“Gareth will need him if matters continue in the present vein,” Felicity said, fingers plucking at the counterpane. They’d graduated from the embroidered, monogrammed sheets to everyday sometime during the night. “I’m tiring, Astrid, and these children are not nearly close to being born. If anything should happen to me, Gareth will need his brother, but he won’t send for him if he thinks it would create awkwardness for you.”

Astrid left the drapes open, some daylight being better than none. “If anything happens to you, I will need Andrew. But you mustn’t think like this. Sometimes birthing takes its own time.”

“That might be true,” Felicity allowed, smoothing a hand over her belly, “but this birthing isn’t right somehow.”

Gareth came in, not bothering to knock. “What plots have you two been hatching?”

“I have been asking for Felicity’s permission to order you off to bed for a nap, but she won’t give it—yet.”

“Damned right she won’t. The tea tray will be up in a bit.”

He went to the window, the one that had periodically been opened to clear the air in the stifling room, the one that admitted such feeble light, and stared out into the pale gloom.

“Still snowing, and there’s at least a foot on the ground already. We haven’t had snow like this in several years, and now it won’t stop.”

“It will be beautiful,” Astrid asserted. “And the sun will come out, and these babies will be safely born. But right at this moment, I need to excuse myself, so both of you behave in my absence.”

She let herself out into the blessed cold corridor and collapsed against the wall, despair swamping her last reserves of strength.

I am going to have to send for Andrew and hope he can—and will—come here. Even if Astrid could get word to him, and even if he were inclined to come, Andrew would be risking his life to attempt to cover five miles in such a storm.

***

The horse was crazy. Andrew had no other explanation for the enthusiasm with which Magic trotted—actually trotted—down the driveway. Granted, the riding stock had been stall-bound for the past day, and some excess energy was likely to have accumulated, but Magic was churning through the snow like an exuberant colt.

The result for Andrew was a stinging headwind, but he knew better than to try to overpower the will of a horse intent on movement. Besides, they needed to make use of the daylight, or the journey would turn into a suicide mission after all.

Fortunately, the wind was working for them, sculpting drifts on one side of the road, while creating troughs on the other. This boon proved invaluable, and after the second mile, Magic had apparently fixed his internal compass on their destination. Traveling in this direction, they also cleared the longest stretches of open road first, when Magic had the most energy. The closer they got to Willowdale, the more thickly the trees bordered the road.

By the three-mile point, Magic was willing to proceed at a walk, and by four miles, he was down to a plodding crawl through a sea of white. In the saddle, Andrew had lost feeling in all of his extremities, and had begun to consider he might not ever see his wife, his brother, or his mother again.

When faced with the possibility of death, he found dying had no appeal.

None.

This conclusion hit him like the proverbial bolt from the blue when Magic took a misstep and plunged to his knees in nearly four feet of drifted snow. The horse was oddly still for a moment, and Andrew had a sick premonition his flighty, neurotic gelding was about to roll in the snow, complete with saddle and rider.

“Up,” he commanded quietly. Magic heaved himself to his feet and waited for the command to walk on.

In hindsight, Andrew acknowledged that his own fears had nearly drowned his common sense. Magic had merely been waiting for the command—patiently, obediently. The neuroses and insecurity resided with the rider.

But in that moment, when Andrew had contemplated three-quarter ton of horse rolling over his chilled bones, he’d felt a panicked desire to live, and live happily, if that were possible. And if it weren’t, he’d find a way to live contentedly and gratefully. Somewhere, he’d find the courage to face his demons and make peace with them.

The alternative, letting his fears and regrets submerge any hope of a decent future, certainly hadn’t borne useful fruit, he admitted as Magic began to move as if aware he was approaching a familiar stable. The horse kept to a walk, but it was an enthusiastic, businesslike walk that made short work of the remaining mile, despite the gathering wind, stinging snow, and miserable footing.