Page 11 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
"Calm them all then, leaders and wheelers. Charlton! Grab this. Let's get the ladies out of here."
There was much cursing and ordering about among all the men. Fifi breathed deeply and waited...and waited for relief.
A man appeared in the window.
Mary clapped her hands, happy to see help.
"Lawton-Bridges falling down!" Mary greeted the gentleman who appeared at the window.
"Birdie!" he replied grinning in the window, happy about this meeting. "God's nightshirt! Don't rock this carriage, my girl!"
"Happy to—Whoa!" Mary braced herself as the carriage wobbled up and down.
Fifi clamped a hand to her mouth. She was going to be ill. Very ill. In front of them all.
Then the coach went still.
"Birdie," warned the man who knew Mary. "Do not move. They free the horses."
The door fell open.
Welles scrambled out.
Mary followed.
Fifi stifled a groan. A large man, an angry one who smelled of clean pine and citrus engulfed her in his essence as he tore apart the ruined innards of the carriage. He murmured comforting words to her as he sought to free her.
"Please get me out of here," she murmured, the pain flames on her ankle. "Please."
"I will, I will. Be still, my lady," said another man with a voice like far-off thunder. "I need to remove the last of this seat and then..."
He yanked and pulled, the wood groaning at his power.
She sat, her eyes closed, gulping, fighting nausea. At once she felt the weight lift from her foot. "Oh, thank you."
"Take my handkerchief." He pressed it to her hand, then drew her into his arms as if she were spun sugar.
He led her to stand but the second she touched her foot to the earth, she yelped. "I can't. My foot."
"Very well," he said and swept her up into his embrace. One arm under her thighs, the other around her back, he slid her against him and carried her from the wreckage. Her knight in armor, her Goliath could lift her as easily as he did a pincushion.
Grateful as well as impressed, she snuggled against his chest and surrendered to the act of a man who treated a woman with tenderness. Curious about such kindness to her, she caught glimpses of him. Once, twice. Daring more and fearing he'd call her rude, she squinted at the gloss of his thick brown hair and the cut of his dashing square jaw. He didn't seem to notice her perusal but took four long strides to the carriage. The conveyance was spectacular, a traveling carriage of black lacquer polished to a fare-thee-well. A blue escutcheon of some noble symbol had been painted on the door, but she couldn't make out its detail. In truth, she cared not if the coach belonged to him or his friend. She could only wish for a respite from the agony of her injury—and the knowledge of her rescuer's name.
He placed her inside upon plush leather squabs and plunked down opposite her. "There, there. Sprained your ankle. I know the signs. You'll be fine. I'll see to it."
She sank to the comfort of the cushions and narrowed her eyes on him to no avail. Without her glasses, she could discern only the wealth of his sable hair, the perfection of his generous mouth and the remarkable glitter of his eyes. She leaned forward and...
Nooo.
She shot backward, a hand to her throat. This could not be...
But hewas.
He most certainly was...dear me...Northington!
