At the Highwayman's Pleasure(20)

She had left the road at the very first gate into a field, hoping that  her tracks would soon be obliterated as the wind whipped up the lying  snow into fresh drifts. At least the rising moon provided her with  sufficient light to see her way. The wind snatched at her cloak and  hurled icy flakes into her face. When she had driven out this way in the  gig she had passed several hamlets and hoped that she would find  shelter at one of these before too long, although the lie of the land  meant she could see nothing but a hedge some way ahead of her.                       
       
           



       

A white blanket disguised the uneven ground and she struggled to keep  her balance as she sank into snow up to her knees. She was holding her  hood closely about her face with one hand, the other trying to keep up  her skirts, but it was impossible, and the edge of her travelling cloak  was already caked and heavy with snow. Her feet were achingly cold and  she felt every uneven bump in the ground through the thin kidskin soles  of her slippers. She was not a great lover of breeches parts, where the  role dictated she should dress up as a man, but now she thought fondly  of the top boots and buckskins folded away in one of her trunks at the  theatre. She also wished for her thick leather gloves-the silk ones she  was wearing were soaked through and chilling her hands. A treacherous  memory returned of Ross Durden covering one gloved hand with his own as  he had escorted her to the Assembly Rooms. How long ago that seemed, and  how naive she had been to think it a gesture of gallantry.

Tears started to her eyes, brought on by the fierce biting wind, she  told herself as she prayed she might reach a dwelling, and soon, before  she succumbed to the cold.

I could die out here.

The thought made her press on even harder. She had known the risks when  she had climbed out of the window. She had decided then that the  chances of surviving were greater out here than if she remained at  Wheelston. The thought of Ross's sizzling kiss haunted her, but she was  not such a fool as to think it meant anything to her captor. She might  offer herself to him-that might buy her a little time-but the outcome  would be the same. He could not risk her denouncing him as a highwayman.  And since highway robbery was a hanging offence, what had he to lose by  killing her?

Something, a sound, a vibration through the ground, caught her  attention and she looked around to see a huge dark shape approaching.  She knew it must be a horse and rider, but fright magnified the shape  into a monster rearing up behind her, hunting her down. In a panic she  began to run, but the flat expanse of snow ahead covered deep ruts and  she quickly lost her footing. She fell headlong into the snow with a cry  of frustration. Something cold and wet pushed into her face. The hot  breath of a dog blasted against her frozen cheek.

‘Back, Samson.'

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and Ross hauled her none too gently to her feet.

‘Let me go!'

‘Don't be a fool.'

‘I'll not go back with you. You cannot make me!'

‘Oh, can't I?' The grip on her shoulders tightened. ‘If you don't cease  struggling, I'll knock you unconscious and put you over my saddle.'

Charity felt the tears welling up.

‘You are a monster!'

‘You have already told me that, but I am trying to save your life. Come  along now, let's get back to the house. Once we are indoors you can  vilify me as much as you wish.'

As he turned her she caught the icy blast of the wind in her face and  reeled away. Ross pulled her against him. He gave a low whistle and the  horse came closer.

‘If I throw you up into the saddle, can you hold on?'

Charity forced her mind to work. ‘N-no. I cannot bend my fingers.'

‘We must keep you moving. Robin shall walk alongside and protect us from the worst of the wind.'

Charity allowed herself to lean against Ross and tried to match her  steps to his as they trudged back through the snow. The dog, Samson,  trotted ahead of them and seemed to have an instinct for finding the  easiest path. With a strong arm helping her along and the great horse  sheltering them, the going was definitely easier, but every step was  painful. It seemed such a long way. Had she really come so far? As if  answering her unspoken question her companion muttered, ‘We are nearly  there.'

Then the house was in sight, a dense black square against the night.  The front door opened as they approached, spilling golden lamplight onto  the snow-covered drive, and a figure appeared.

‘I built up the fire in the bedchamber, like you said, Cap'n.'

‘Thank you, Jed. Stable Robin, if you please, then make two hot drinks, as I instructed-only no grog for the lady!'

Ross helped Charity across the threshold. He kicked the door closed  behind him and with a curt command to Samson to go to his box, he swept  Charity into his arms.

Ross climbed the stairs, taking care not to get his feet caught in the  trailing skirts of her voluminous cloak. She lay passively against him,  her head resting on his chest, golden curls tickling his chin. He tried  not to think about that, nor the fragrance of her perfume, a light but  heady mix of flowers and citrus that assailed his senses. It had been a  long time since he had held a woman in his arms and he could not recall  ever carrying one up to a bedroom before. In other circumstances he  might have dropped a kiss upon that smooth brow or moved his hand to  cover her breast that swelled just beyond his fingers. He dragged his  mind away from the pleasant thought-the lady would not appreciate such  gestures and right now his concern must be to make sure she did not  suffer any ill effects from her imprudent escapade.                       
       
           



       

The door of the bedchamber was closed and he was obliged to set her  upon her feet before he could open it. Gently he drew her inside. Jed  had done a good job. A hearty fire now blazed in the hearth and the  heavy curtains had been pulled across the windows, shutting out the  night and adding considerably to the comfort of the little room. There  was even a warming pan standing in one corner, ready to fill with coals  later to warm the sheets before gently laying this beautiful creature in  the bed. Once she had been undressed, of course. Most likely she was  soaked through to her soft, ivory skin.... Ross felt himself growing  hard at the thought of it.

He uttered up a silent prayer. This might be the place, but it was  certainly not the time for such thoughts. He summoned up all the years  of naval discipline to his aid.

‘Well, now,' he said crisply, ‘you must get out of those wet clothes.'

* * *

Dazed and exhausted, Charity pulled at the strings of her cloak and  allowed it to slip unheeded to the floor. She was aware of Ross scooping  it up and throwing it over a chair, together with his own greatcoat.  Slowly she peeled off her long silk gloves. They were wet from the snow  and she thought in a detached way that they were quite ruined.

‘Now your gown and petticoats. Your skirts are saturated.'

She wrapped her arms across her chest, shaking her head.

‘I have n-nothing to put on.'

‘I'll fetch you something.'

He went out. Charity moved closer to the fire and sank down before it,  shivering. The flames were hot on her face, but she was aware that her  back was cold, as were her legs, wrapped up in damp skirts. She should  do something, but it was as if the cold had numbed her brain. All she  wanted to do was stay here before the fire.

‘By heaven, haven't you undressed yet?'

The rough male voice roused her a little, but not enough to do more  than shrug. With a sigh of exasperation he pulled her to her feet.

‘Come here, let me help you.'

He dealt quickly with the buttons at the front of her gown. His hands  were surprisingly deft and in a matter of moments he pushed the heavy  material off her shoulders and it slid to the ground with a whisper.  Next he untied the strings of her petticoats and she stood before him in  only her stays and her shift.

‘Well, thankfully your undergarments are dry,' he muttered.

The part of her brain that was still working told her she should be  embarrassed, but she could not summon the energy. She noted dully that  those dark eyes did not linger on her near nakedness. Instead he turned  and picked up the wrap he had brought with him.

‘I'm afraid it will be a little large,' he said, helping her to put it  on. ‘It is my banyan.' He wrapped it around her and tied the belt. He  ran his hands up over the sleeves until they came to rest upon her  shoulders. ‘At least it will keep you warm.'

There was a knock at the door. He released her and turned away.

‘The hot drinks you asked for, sir.'