Page 37 of A Merry Christmas
He pulled her out into the yard. The pale light was dimming fast. His horse waited near the fence, stamping impatiently, its flanks lathered as though it had been ridden hard. He threw her over the saddle like a sack of potatoes.
“Stop!” she cried. “You will regret this!”
Her words were swallowed by the wind. Tremaine mounted behind her, his arm clamping around her, trying to force her upright. The rope cut into her wrists as she struggled. He jerked the reins, and the horse lurched and then plunged forward down the lane.
Cold air lashed her face. The trees blurred. She could hear nothing but the pounding of hooves and the rasp of his breath close to her ear.
“Barnaby, please,” she gasped. “This will ruin us both!”
“Better ruin than to lose you,” he shouted over the wind. “They will understand when we are wed.”
She twisted, trying to throw herself free, but his grip was iron-hard. The rope bit deeper. Panic rose sharp and blinding—if she fell now, she might break her neck.
“No!” she cried once, the sound lost to the empty fields.
The lane curved and branches whipped at her cloak. The village lights were a distant smear of gold far behind them. Dawkins would not return for an hour at least. Who would think to look for her before nightfall?
Her mind raced uselessly, searching for anything that might save her—a rider on the road, a gate left open, the mercy of a startled horse. The only answer was the wind and the cruel rhythm of the gallop.
The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed the fields was the flicker of Wychwood’s chimneys through the trees—warm and safe but impossibly far away.
CHAPTER 13
The cold wind had seeped deep into his bones by the time Joshua and the other men reached Wychwood. Their boots tracked melting snow across the flagged floor as they shrugged out of their coats, laughter fading when they saw Mrs. Roxton standing by the hearth, her face tight with unease.
“Where is Merry?” Mr. Roxton asked, his brow furrowing as he glanced around the hall.
“She went to the home farm after visiting Mrs. Hargreaves,” Mrs. Roxton said. “Dawkins was to bring her back. I thought she would be here by now.”
Mr. Lennox was already reaching for his gloves again. “Then we will ride there and fetch her. The roads are turning slick. She ought not be out after dark.”
Roxton turned to the butler. “Have the grooms saddle fresh horses and light lanterns. Lennox, you and I will take the lower road to the home farm. Fielding—stay here, will you? She may have come another way.”
Joshua hesitated only a moment before following them to the stables. Nevertheless, even as he tightened the girth on one of the horses, he forced himself to think. Panic never served anyone.
The men moved quickly, the sound of hooves and harness echoing in the bitter air.
Joshua knew Merry—she would have stayed near the lambs, perhaps lost in thought, but she would not have ventured back alone on foot. There was no reason to assume danger yet.
The odds were slim of Tremaine looking for her there. He would know she was spending Christmas-tide at Wychwood, surrounded by family and servants. Even a desperate man would hesitate to strike when she was surrounded.
Roxton and Lennox would bring her back within the hour, he told himself. He would laugh about his worry later. And when Tremaine’s debts came due, his troubles would end one way or another, either by his father’s intervention or that of the moneylenders.
Joshua stayed near the front steps, pacing up and down while listening for hoof beats. The minutes stretched. The snow fell harder, muffling all sound. He glanced at the great clock in the hall as the hands crawled toward eight.
Then, at last, horses clattered up the drive. However, when Mr. Roxton and Mr. Lennox dismounted, their faces were grave.
“She is not there,” Roxton said. His voice, usually a deep and jovial rumble, was as tight as a bowstring. “Dawkins met us on the lane in a near-frantic state. He said he returned to find the shed in disarray—a pail overturned, straw scattered, and one of the pens unfastened. There were tracks. It looked as though a horse had bolted—or been ridden off in a hurry.”
Joshua’s stomach dropped, though he kept his expression steady. “There was no sign of her?”
“None. Only her cloak. Dawkins said it was lying by the door.”
Mrs. Roxton gave a cry and pressed her hand to her mouth. The room erupted in confusion—orders, half-formed plans, the scraping of chairs. Joshua moved to the window, staring into the snow as if he could force it to give up its secrets.
“Dawkins was gone less than an hour. She told him to go home to his family, bless her,” Mr. Roxton explained.
The room grew very quiet. The only sound was the hiss of the fire and the distant ticking of the long-case clock.
