Page 15 of Make My Wish Come True
“Yes,” said Gwen, wrapping it around her. Her bonnet, left to dry by the fire, was stiff and deformed, but she didn’t have another one, so put it on. The sky blazed a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the air was sharp with cold. “Thank you, Mrs. Kittridge, for everything?—”
“Of course, my dear. It was our pleasure.” The woman patted her hand. The vicar was waiting to help her into the carriage. Gwen tucked her small bundle down beside her and spread the thick carriage blankets securely over herself. With a wave to the Kittridges, the captain lifted the reins and the sleigh leapt forward.
“Good morning,” she said as he drove back out toward the road. The bells were louder here, and she had to raise her voice to be heard.
He grinned. The sun was blinding off the snow, and his hat was pulled low while his scarf was pulled high. All that was visible was a narrow piece of his face, eyes to mouth. “Good morning.”
“I’ve never ridden in a sleigh,” she went on, chattering nervously as she tried to think how to broach the unmentionable. Those lips had kissed her last night, all the way down to her breasts.
“The snow is only six inches deep, and it’s firm. A carriage would flounder in it, but the stable master was persuaded to part with this sleigh. I was fortunate enough to be the first to ask. I daresay many a guest rising late will be disappointed, as this was the only one.”
She laughed, then remembered why he had risen so early. He turned the horses into the main road, and she realized they weren’t going back to the Black Hart. “Oh no,” she exclaimed. “Reggie!”
“At my feet,” said the captain.
Gwen lifted the blankets and peered down to see Reggie’s basket next to his boots. She tugged it out and opened the lid. Reggie’s orange head popped out, swiveled around to take in the snow, then lowered back into the basket. Gwen reached in to scratch his ears. “Poor Sir Reggie! I should have asked for some scraps for him.”
“He’s had a bit of gravy and fried egg from my breakfast at the Black Hart,” said Captain Fitzhugh. “I daresay that will tide him over to Blackthorpe.”
Gwen looked down, torn between being charmed that he had remembered her stolen cat, and unreasonably disconcerted that they were almost there. “We shall make it there today, then?”
“Yes, barring a washed-out bridge or other calamity.”
“Surely we’ve had our full share of calamities already,” she tried to joke, but it sounded flat.
“One hopes,” he agreed.
Gwen didn’t think he’d looked at her once since she got into the sleigh. Her heart sank. It was too difficult to talk; the air was bracing and her eyes ached from the glare, which the misshapen brim of her bonnet did little to block. The wind kicked up as they drove, and she had to pull a bit of her cloak over her face to protect herself from the fine mist of snow thrown up from the horses’ hooves. The captain, similarly muffled, concentrated on driving. The horses seemed restive, and more than once she realized he had barely kept them on the road, or whatever passed for a road under the mantle of snow. It was impossible to tell, to Gwen’s eyes, where the road even was. After an hour they stopped to change horses, but aside from a quick walk around the yard to stretch her stiff legs, they were off again.
When she spotted a sign marked Blackthorpe, she screwed up her courage. “Captain Fitzhugh,” she began.
“Adrian,” he said. “My name is Adrian.”
She stole a peek at him. He still faced forward, eyes squinting at the horses and the road. Was she supposed to call him Adrian? Or did he merely want her to know? “I want to thank you again for taking me up yesterday. It was very generous and kind of you, and I deeply appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it.” He flashed her a brief look. “I was hardly able to offer you the quick and direct journey you wanted.”
“I think it’s been as quick and direct as it could have been, given the storm.”
He gave a nod as he turned the horses into a narrower lane. The snow lay deeper here, slowing the horses. “It’s remarkable how thoroughly a storm can divert your plans.”
She took a deep breath. If she was daring enough to make love to a man, she must be bold enough to speak to him about it. “And I wish to assure you that last night was?—”
He coughed. “Yes. Last night.”
The way he said it made Gwen’s entire body flush with heat. It was the same tone he’d used when he murmured her name in question, as his hands moved over her with devastating skill, when she’d pleaded that he not stop. That he carry on and make love to her. “Yes, that,” she said bravely. “I only wanted to ask for—for your discretion.”
“That seems the very least you should ask for.” He reined in the horses again, slowing them to a slow amble. A neat little stone cottage stood in front of them, smoke puffing from the chimney, but no other sign of habitation. He stopped the horses near the door, and finally turned to her.
To Gwen’s astonishment, he reached beneath the blankets and took her hand. “It was my very great pleasure to bring you north. Never feel yourself in my debt for that, as the journey was greatly improved by your company.”
She felt herself turning pink. “I think I must have been a terrible burden!”
He smiled, his faint, fleeting smile. “The very opposite.” He hesitated, then opened his mouth to speak just as the cottage door creaked. “I know there is much to be said, after last night. Miss Barrett—Gwen—I wish—that is, I hope—Might I?—?”
Gwen gasped, recognizing her Great-Aunt Maisie peering out, a shawl around her shoulders. “Oh! Are we here already?”
“Larkspur Cottage, didn’t you say?”
