Of course, it started bloody raining.
What had he expected? That he could sit sedately beside Margo and await the arrival of fresh horses and a well-sprung carriage?
Of course not. He was withMargo,which meant that whenever he made a rational plan, it promptly exploded in his face. He could not tell if he was glad the carriage accident had interrupted his lust-addled assault on Margo’s person or if he was heartbroken.
“I’m sure it will stop soon.” Margo had to half-shout to be heard over the downpour. “Perhaps we can shelter under the remains of the post-chaise!”
Henry gave a groan that he was fairly certain was muffled by the rain. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s find the crofter’s cottage.”
Margo tipped her head back to stare up at him, her hair already dark with damp. “You mean—go out to the road? In the weather?”
“Better than sitting here in the weather, don’t you think?”
Her lips quirked in a smile—only Margo wouldsmileas they froze to death in northern Derbyshire—and she nodded, hooking her reticule strap over her shoulder.
He wanted to laugh. At least they’d have cheese.
Some indefinite amount of time later, Henry no longer felt like laughing. He felt like locating the postilion and murdering him in cold blood.
Where thefuckwas the cottage? They’d been walking for—well, Henry didn’t know how long they’d been walking for, because his pocket watch had been smashed in the carriage accident and no longer kept proper time. It felt like hours, though it had probably only been ninety minutes or so.
Margo was struggling. She’d started to limp about twenty minutes in, and when he’d asked her what was wrong, she’d tipped her chin up like a queen and admitted that she had a blister.
A blister. That wasn’t so bad. He tried to tamp down his worry.
But it was growing abruptly dark, and Henry felt cold, which meant that Margo—though she was wrapped in his greatcoat—was probably much colder. A blasted tree—the postilion had told them to look for a blasted tree. Henry wanted to shove a blasted tree right up the man’s blasted arse.
“Henry?” Margo’s voice sounded a little strained, and he looked down. Christ, she was pale. Her freckles stood out against her skin like tiny bruises. “Do you think we can stop?”
He froze. “Is it your foot? I’m so bloody sorry—we’ll stay warmer if we keep moving. I’m sure we’re almost there.”
They had to be almost there. Surely the postilion could not have been so far off in his estimate of the distance.
“I’m only—short of breath,” Margo said. Raindrops clung to her hair, clustered at the corners of her mouth. “Sorry. I suppose I should take more exercise.” She gave him a ghost of a wry grin. “Poor timing for that revelation.”
“How’s your blister?”
Her expression went slightly bemused. “Fine, in fact. I don’t seem to be able to feel my feet.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. He did not like that at all.
He put his hand at the nape of her neck, meaning to draw her closer, though he was wary as always of touching her too intimately. But when his palm closed on her bare skin, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
She was cold. Her skin was frigid. And she was shivering.
“Goddamnit, Margo.”
Her teeth had started to chatter. “W-what’s wrong?”
He pulled her into his body, then bent down and scooped her up beneath her knees. She squeaked, but didn’t resist, only turned in to him, pressing her icy face into the curve of his neck.
Which only made himmoreworried. When he’d last done this, six years ago, she’d shrieked and laughed and pretended to struggle. Now she was stiff and silent in his arms.
Panic settled into his body, and he walked faster along the rutted track, cold rain snaking down his back. He had to find the cottage. He had to get her warm. If he did not—
He could not think about what could happen if he did not. Even now, shivers racked her body so hard that it was difficult to keep his hold on her.
“A bit longer now,” he murmured into her ear. “You’re doing so well.”
