Page 39 of A Merry Christmas
He no longer tried to deny his feelings for her. It came to him as plainly as breath in his lungs. He had crossed countries for his king, faced cannon fire without trembling—but the thought of what might happen to her, stripped him bare.
When Bruton called a halt to check their bearings, Joshua turnedhis face upward into the snow. The flakes struck cold, but they hissed to nothing against the heat of that new, consuming truth.
He would find her. Whatever it cost, whatever road it took, he would find her.
For the first time in his life, war seemed easier than peace—because in war, at least, you knew the enemy. Here, the foe was distance, and darkness, and the unthinkable possibility of arriving too late.
He gritted his teeth and set his heels to his horse’s sides. The storm swallowed him whole, but he did not falter. Somewhere ahead, Merry waited, and he would not stop until she was safe in his arms again.
The world had becomea blur of snow and motion. The horse’s hooves struck hard and fast against the frozen road, throwing up clods of ice. The wind tore at Merry’s skirts, and the raw rope cut deep into her wrists. She had long since stopped feeling her fingers; they hung useless and frozen by the icy chill.
Her body ached from the awkward way she was pinned against Tremaine, every jolt of the saddle sending pain through her spine. She was not dressed for riding—not in thin half-boots and a gown better suited for morning calls than gallops through winter fields. Her bonnet had flown off miles ago. Her hair, loosened by the wind, streamed against her face like a whip.
The horse stumbled once. The poor beast was breathing hard, its coat dark with sweat despite the cold. “Barnaby, for pity’s sake!” she cried, her voice hoarse from the cold air. “You will kill us and the horse if you keep this pace!”
He said nothing at first, his jaw clenched and his hands white on the reins. Then, with a curse, he pulled up sharply. Trembling, the animal stopped in a storm of snow.
“Very well,” he said, panting. “We should have enough of a start to stop—but not for long, mind you.”
Merry sagged in the saddle, her legs shaking with relief. She couldbarely feel them. The cold had gone beyond biting—it had become dull and steady, the kind that crept inward. She flexed her hands, trying to bring back sensation.
Barnaby turned in the saddle to scan the road behind them. The pale fields stretched on forever, empty and still. “No one yet,” he muttered. “Good.”
Merry wanted to speak, to reason with him, but her voice came out faint. “Where are you taking me?”
He glanced down at her, a flash of impatience in his eyes. “You know perfectly well. To be married. Where else?”
“I thought—” She swallowed hard. “I thought you meant Gretna Green.”
He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “A fool’s journey, that. Scotland is several days’ hard ride, and I’ve no wish to freeze my bones on the road. London will do. There are parsons enough there willing to overlook the niceties.”
London. The word struck her like a blow. London meant hiding places, crowds, and her family’s pursuit delayed by distance.
Her mind raced even as her limbs refused to move. She must delay him—somehow, any way she could.
The horse shifted uneasily, blowing steam from its nostrils. Merry touched her lips to speak again, but the sound that came out was little more than a whisper. “I am frozen.”
“You will survive,” he said shortly, swinging down to the ground. “We will change to a carriage. You can warm yourself then.”
She nearly slid from the saddle, her body too stiff to obey her. When her feet touched the ground, they buckled. Tremaine caught her by the arm—not gently—and half dragged her toward a low-roofed inn where light flickered through shuttered windows. She could see little else around, and had no idea where she was. He untied the ropes with a warning. “Do not try anything or I will tie your feet as well.”
Inside, warmth hit her like a slap, painful after the frost. The landlord hurried forward, blinking at the sight of her tangled hair and pale face. Tremaine’s look was enough to silence any question. “A privatecarriage,” he said, tossing down coins. “Now. Hitched and ready within the quarter-hour.”
The landlord bowed and disappeared. Merry stood swaying, numb from cold and fear, her mind working furiously.
“Sit down,” Tremaine ordered, gesturing toward a chair by the fire. “You look ready to swoon.”
She obeyed, more from weakness than compliance. The heat stung her frozen fingers until she nearly cried out. She rubbed them together, hiding the returning pain behind her sleeve.
“I told you that you had no business defying me.”
“I did not defy you,” she managed to say, looking up at him. “I refused you. That is not the same thing.”
His eyes darkened, but before he could speak, the landlord returned. “The carriage is ready, sir.”
Tremaine nodded curtly.
Merry tried one last approach. “I need something warm,” she said faintly, “and perhaps—perhaps I could rest a moment longer?”
