Lord Dashwood Missed Out(5)

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Bram said.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Colin agreed. “Take Thorne.”

Thorne glowered at him. But then, Thorne glowered at most everyone.

Colin threw down his cards, pushed back from the table, and stood. “Joking, Thorne. We’ll all go along.”

“I don’t want to ask that of you,” Griff said.

“Of course you don’t,” Colin said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You hoped we’d volunteer. And so we have.”

Griff scratched the back of his neck. It was true that four men could search faster than two. But Colin Sandhurst had a way of complicating even the simplest errands.

“We’ll all go,” Colin repeated, shrugging into his coat. “All the ladies are looking forward to the lecture—­which means they’ll be grateful to whoever saves it. Now and again, I reckon we could all use an opportunity to endear ourselves to our wives.” He looked to Rycliff and Thorne. “When’s the last time you did something heroic for your lady?”

Rycliff smirked. “Last night.”

Thorne drained his tankard and cracked his neck. “This morning.”

“I didn’t mean in bed,” Colin said. Under his breath, he added, “Braggarts.”

Griff shared the sense of irritation. Before this afternoon, he hadn’t spoken—­or lain—­with his wife in three weeks. He was feeling the strain of separation. Intensely. And that was before he’d gone and cocked up her event by forgetting the sherry.

Much as he hated to admit it, Colin was right. He needed a hero’s errand. It had been years now since he’d given up a fortune to be with Pauline, and it seemed like a gesture he should be repeating weekly. But he only had the one fortune to give.

Tonight, he was going to rescue a waterlogged spinster.

“Let’s make ready, then,” Griff said. “We’ll need to be quick.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Rycliff replied, standing. “Otherwise the ladies will solve the problem on their own, as always. Are you with us, Thorne?

In answer, Thorne rose to his feet.

“Then it’s settled,” Griff said. “Gather at my house in thirty minutes. I need to look in on my children first.”

“Make it an hour.” Colin reached for his hat. “I’ve a few things to do. Saddle my horse. Find my greatcoat. And give my wife two screaming orgasms.” He leveled a finger at Thorne. “I tell you, Mr. This Morning, I won’t be outdone by the likes of you.”

Nora gathered her valise. “My trunk?”

“Is staying put unless you carry it,” Dash answered.

“But—­”

He’d already turned away and started walking across a snow-­dusted field, covering the ground in long strides.

Nora hastened to follow. She had no choice. What with the swirling snow, she had no idea where they were headed or what she’d do if she found herself alone.

Together, they trudged through the mud and snow. She stumbled into a furrow that was hidden by a thin crust of ice and the dusting of new snow. Ice-­cold, muddy water came up to her knees.

By the time they reached the cottage, her damp petticoats had stiffened, and her toes were nearly frozen through.

When Dash pressed against the door and found it barred, Nora’s heart became a lump of ice. But he found a small, knotted string to lift the latch and pushed the door open.

He made an ironic bow. “Ladies first.”

“H-­how long do you think it will take the driver to return?” she asked, ducking through the doorway.

“He won’t return until morning.”

“Morning?”

She looked about the tiny hut they currently occupied. It was such a small space—­no bigger than a closet, really. Just a woodburning stove, a lone stool, and simple table. There was one small, high window—­a rough opening with no glass, currently shuttered.

And a single, narrow bed.

She had nowhere to hide. Not from his wrath, and not from her own feelings, either.

“Dash, we can’t stay here all night alone. Together.”

“If you don’t care to stay,” he said, “here’s the door.”

When she made no move to leave, he closed the door and dropped the bar in the latch.

Nora tested the narrow bed with her hand. It creaked, but at least she didn’t feel the straw-­stuffed mattress shifting with vermin. She lifted a rolled quilt from the foot of the bed and unfurled it with a snap of her arms—­just as he turned to face her.

A cloud of dust bloomed, instantly coating his eyebrows and hair with gray powder.

He stared at her, choking on dust. Or possibly choking on his rage.

Nora bit her lip. “Sorry.”

“If,” he said tightly, standing still as a statue, “you think I’m happy about this turn of events . . . I assure you, I am not.”

“I can see that.”

Nora struggled not to laugh. With those dust-­frosted brows and his stern expression, he looked like a grumpy old hermit. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and held it out as a peace offering.

He took it and angrily swabbed at his face. “I would much rather this weren’t our situation. Once, while we were sailing around the Cape of Good Hope with Sir Bertram’s expedition, a squall came up. We had to lash ourselves to the masts and cling for dear life as massive waves swamped our ship. It was the most wretched, harrowing night I’ve ever experienced.”

“Are you saying you’d rather be there than here?”

“No. I’m saying I’d rather you were there than here.”

“Really. There’s no need to be cruel.”

He made an amused sound. “Perhaps there isn’t a need. But there’s a powerful desire.” He swept a look down her form. “You need to undress.”

“What? I will not.”

He ignored her protest. His hands went to the row of buttons down the front of her traveling frock, yanking them loose, one by one. “Those boots and skirts are soaked through. I’d imagine your stockings are, as well. I can imagine it now. Lord Ashwood Gave Me the Ague.”

“I’ll do it myself, thank you.” She put her hands over his, stopping his progress. His fingertips were freezing. By instinct, she rubbed her palms up and down his chilled skin. “Oh, Dash. These hands are ice. You need to warm yourself, too.”

Their eyes met and held for a tense moment.

Nora silently cursed herself. Here was the root of all her problems. No matter how poorly he treated her, no matter how little he returned her feelings—­her silly heart insisted on caring for him, just the same.

He released her. “I’ll make a fire.”

She turned away, trying to remove her wet frock, petticoats, and stockings with as much modesty as possible. Dash was right, her legs were soaked to the skin. It was only when her feet started to warm that she realized how cold they’d been. Her toes felt pricked by a thousand needles.

When she was down to her stays and her relatively dry chemise, she wrapped the dusty quilt about her shoulders and sat down on the bed, tucking her feet under her thighs.

Dash had removed his own coat, waistcoat, and cravat, hanging them on a peg near the door. As she watched, he banged about the cabin in male, violent ways. Slinging splits of wood about, jabbing the ashes in the stove with a poker, slamming the woodbox open and shut. So physical. Strong. His broad shoulders strained the damp, nearly translucent fabric of his shirt.

Nora cleared her throat. “Could you—­?”

“Could I what, Nora? Cease making a fire? Let you freeze here alone? Don’t tempt me.”

She set her chin. “Could you let me know how I might be of help? What are you searching for?”

“Tinder.” He turned a look about the tiny cabin, and his eyes landed on her valise. “I don’t suppose you travel with copies of that wretched pamphlet?”

Nora ignored his baiting words. She removed a flat wooden box from her valise and set it on the table. “I do have blank paper. I’ll shred some while you pile the wood.”

She opened the travel desk and looked over the contents: Paper, quills, ink, penknife. Taking a piece of paper, she folded it back and forth, again and again, until it resembled a paper fan. Then she took her knife and began to slice it into shavings.

Having piled the wood in the stove, Dash took the results of her little crafting project and strategically heaped it beneath the wood. He struck the flint, sending a spark into the stove. The paper caught easily, and the cheery flame gave Nora hope—­but then it dwindled and died. The wood hadn’t caught.

“More,” Dash said.

Nora took out another sheet and repeated her process. Dash struck the flint and managed a spark. But the flames soon died, just as before.

“Again,” he demanded.

This time, as he blew steadily into the tiny paper-­fueled blaze, Nora bit her lip. If they didn’t get a fire before nightfall . . .

It would be a long, dark night—­but not a lonely one. They would be forced to huddle together for warmth.

Nora would rather be lashed to the mast off the Cape of Good Hope.

She rose from the bed and went to his side, crouching next to him, adding her lungs to the effort. They took turns feeding the blaze with their breath, until her sides ached and her head was dizzy.