padded to the window. Sight of the snow swirling down depressed her. Would it never cease? She was anxious to be on her way. But where would she go? Her world, as she knew it, had been turned wrong-end-to when that coach was bogged down in the snow. She hadn’t thought about it until then.
Pulling the draperies closed, she drew a ragged breath and padded to the dressing room door. It was ajar, as Joss had instructed. Amy had gone downstairs with her dinner tray; Grace was feeling too poorly to come and fetch it. The dampness had gotten into the housekeeper’s bones, so said Amy, and she couldn’t climb the stairs. Besides, there was some sort of fracas going on below. The racket filtered up the stairs from the Great Hall, and the silly chit would have the particulars. It was all right. Cora had bolted the door after her when she left. She was mildly curious about the commotion, but not enough to dress herself again in order to find out. Amy had prepared her for bed in the thin butter-colored nightdress. There was no wrapper, but there was a paisley shawl, and she’d slipped that over her shoulders for warmth. She certainly couldn’t godownstairs like this.
He
might have returned, and she hadn’t forgotten how hungrily he stared at her in that nightdress before.
Prowling the length of the carpet, she stepped lightly so as not to dislodge the linen strips that bound her feet. The sounds below grew louder, and she crossed to the door and laid her ear against it. Her hand hovered over the door handle. Should she crack it open just a little? What would it hurt? She was just about to do so when a rapid knocking against the wood backed her up a pace. It was about time Amy returned. Now, at least she would find out what all the ruckus was about.
Without hesitation she unlocked the door, but it wasn’t Amy who pushed past her, rushing over the threshold; it was a strange man dressed in coachman’s garb. She recognized the uniform, the wide-skirted green coat with the large brass buttons, cord knee breeches, and painted top boots. His crimson scarf was sopping wet, as were the rest of his togs. But he wasn’t her coachman. Had her strange host sent for another?
“W-who are you, sir?” she shrilled, backing away from him. “You aren’t my coachman. Where is Mr. Sikes?”
The man made no reply, advancing. His eyes were like live coals burning into her, holding her gaze relentlessly. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing look. They were transporting her to a place far away—a dark place crimsoned with blood; he was covered with it. The room swam around her as he approached, and she groped for the foot of the sleigh bed for support. This didn’t seem real, yet there was no question.
Whoever he was, his presence meant danger. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. That feeling she could trust. It took all her strength toresist the man’s stare, and even tearing her eyes away from his left her weak, her head spinning. Screaming at the top of her voice, she tore the yards of gauze curtain draped over the sleigh bed, and threw it over the advancing man. Then, screaming again in multiple spasms, she raced through the door she’d left flung wide—right into the cold, wet arms of Joss Hyde-White.
How safe she felt in those arms. That struck her at once, and it shocked her given the circumstances. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the impact that took her guard down. He was soaking wet, his fine woolen greatcoat spongy where she gripped it. He wore no hat, and his dark hair was scattered across his brow, combed by the wind. He smelled of the clean, fresh North Country air. She inhaled deeply, but the indulgence was short lived. Screams from below funneling up the staircase called her back to the urgency of the moment, and she strained against his grip.
“No!” he said, holding her at arm’s distance. “Do not go down there. Do not move from this spot.”
“The coachman!” she
Pulling the draperies closed, she drew a ragged breath and padded to the dressing room door. It was ajar, as Joss had instructed. Amy had gone downstairs with her dinner tray; Grace was feeling too poorly to come and fetch it. The dampness had gotten into the housekeeper’s bones, so said Amy, and she couldn’t climb the stairs. Besides, there was some sort of fracas going on below. The racket filtered up the stairs from the Great Hall, and the silly chit would have the particulars. It was all right. Cora had bolted the door after her when she left. She was mildly curious about the commotion, but not enough to dress herself again in order to find out. Amy had prepared her for bed in the thin butter-colored nightdress. There was no wrapper, but there was a paisley shawl, and she’d slipped that over her shoulders for warmth. She certainly couldn’t godownstairs like this.
He
might have returned, and she hadn’t forgotten how hungrily he stared at her in that nightdress before.
Prowling the length of the carpet, she stepped lightly so as not to dislodge the linen strips that bound her feet. The sounds below grew louder, and she crossed to the door and laid her ear against it. Her hand hovered over the door handle. Should she crack it open just a little? What would it hurt? She was just about to do so when a rapid knocking against the wood backed her up a pace. It was about time Amy returned. Now, at least she would find out what all the ruckus was about.
Without hesitation she unlocked the door, but it wasn’t Amy who pushed past her, rushing over the threshold; it was a strange man dressed in coachman’s garb. She recognized the uniform, the wide-skirted green coat with the large brass buttons, cord knee breeches, and painted top boots. His crimson scarf was sopping wet, as were the rest of his togs. But he wasn’t her coachman. Had her strange host sent for another?
“W-who are you, sir?” she shrilled, backing away from him. “You aren’t my coachman. Where is Mr. Sikes?”
The man made no reply, advancing. His eyes were like live coals burning into her, holding her gaze relentlessly. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing look. They were transporting her to a place far away—a dark place crimsoned with blood; he was covered with it. The room swam around her as he approached, and she groped for the foot of the sleigh bed for support. This didn’t seem real, yet there was no question.
Whoever he was, his presence meant danger. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. That feeling she could trust. It took all her strength toresist the man’s stare, and even tearing her eyes away from his left her weak, her head spinning. Screaming at the top of her voice, she tore the yards of gauze curtain draped over the sleigh bed, and threw it over the advancing man. Then, screaming again in multiple spasms, she raced through the door she’d left flung wide—right into the cold, wet arms of Joss Hyde-White.
How safe she felt in those arms. That struck her at once, and it shocked her given the circumstances. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the impact that took her guard down. He was soaking wet, his fine woolen greatcoat spongy where she gripped it. He wore no hat, and his dark hair was scattered across his brow, combed by the wind. He smelled of the clean, fresh North Country air. She inhaled deeply, but the indulgence was short lived. Screams from below funneling up the staircase called her back to the urgency of the moment, and she strained against his grip.
“No!” he said, holding her at arm’s distance. “Do not go down there. Do not move from this spot.”
“The coachman!” she
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