Snowbound Surrender Page 6

  She pounded on it once, in anger, then felt it slipping away as she began to sink back towards the bottom. Her throat and lungs burned now. But her hands, which should be sore from beating on the ice, felt nothing at all.

  The panic that had been in her mind just a moment ago was blunted by the cold as well. What was the point in fighting, really? Another second or two and she would forget why she had bothered in the first place. This was her world now, and it was growing warmer by the second. All she had to do was take a breath and go to sleep. She could decide what to do next when she woke.

  And then, light. Movement. Cold. And someone shouting, ‘Breathe, Lucy. Just breathe for me.’

  She did, gasping, coughing and retching. Then the shuddering began as feeling returned. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she could not speak.

  ‘I have her. It’s all right. I have her. Blankets. We have to get her warm.’ Her rescuer’s voice was unsteady as well, shaking from the cold of the same water that had almost drowned her.

  She was being carried, but her eyes were too blurred to tell by whom. Her lashes were stuck shut, probably frozen, for the light reached through them like the bars of a cage. And then, everything was dark as something was thrown over her head and she was rubbed vigorously until everything hurt.

  ‘Ow.’

  She felt the person carrying her laugh. ‘Gently. You are hurting her.’ It was Jack. But he did not sound amused. He wasn’t laughing at all. He was trembling, just as she was.

  ‘What about you?’ Her brother was talking.

  ‘Now that she is safe, I will be fine.’

  ‘There is a coal heater in the sleigh. And blankets.’

  ‘We must let her breathe as well.’ A hand swept the rug that had been covering her away from her face and she gasped in another cold breath, instantly regretting it for it burned her throat, making her cough.

  ‘It will be all right.’ The arms about her tightened.

  She wanted to argue that she was not sure it would. She could feel Jack staggering as he carried her, either from her weight or exhaustion, she was not sure. But then she was being lifted into the carriage and Jack fell in after her, sprawling across the seat as Fred jumped up to arrange the blankets around them.

  ‘I must see to the rest of our guests. The ice is not safe.’

  ‘Hopefully, the rest of them have the sense not to stray out of bounds,’ Jack said, with another shudder. ‘But get them off the water. I will see to it that she is taken care of and send the carriage back for the others.’

  The coach started forward with a lurch and a jingle of harness bells, and they were on their way back to the house. Her shivering was not precisely lessened, but Lucy had begun to feel warmth on her legs from the little heater on the floor and Jack seemed to be exerting manly control over his own chills. He slid from the seat, crouching on the floor of the box, trying to undo her skates before letting out an oath. ‘My fingers are still too useless to undo the knots. Damn, but that water was cold.’ He patted at his wet shirt front as if searching for a pocket.

  ‘What happened to your coat?’ she said, confused.

  ‘I stripped out of it before coming to get you. Your brother was drying your hair with it earlier.’ He reached to the seat beside her where it had been abandoned and pulled a penknife from the watch pocket. ‘God knows what happened to the waistcoat. It is probably still on the piece of ice we hauled out of the way to get to you.’

  ‘I am sorry to have caused so much trouble,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do not be foolish,’ he said gruffly and slashed though the bindings of her skates. ‘You were not the one to choose the path you took. Nor do I blame the Vicar too very much. The chunk that broke free and tipped you in was a good six inches thick. It could have happened to any of us.’

  ‘It was most brave of you to go after me,’ she said softly, shuddering again.

  He looked up at her with an expression that warmed her in a way that a coal fire did not. ‘I was never so frightened in my life as when I realised what had happened to you. If I had not got to you in time...’

  She might have died. And he might have done the same in his rush to save her. For a moment, she imagined the pair of them, locked beneath the ice, inches apart, but unable to touch. ‘Let us not think of that,’ she said. ‘Come back under the blanket and get warm.’ They were alive. They were together and, no matter what he thought was best for them, he had risked his life to come to her when she needed him most.

  He still hesitated, so she patted the carriage seat again and lifted the corner of the blanket with a weak, trembling hand. Then she said with the sternest voice she could manage, ‘Do not be an idiot, Major Gascoyne. Sit.’

  He took another unsteady breath and looked up at her with a surprisingly nervous expression. He had reason to be cautious, she supposed. Judging by his treatment of her on the lake, he wanted her to believe that he would rather snuggle under a blanket with anyone else but her. Or perhaps he was just trying to prevent further lapses like the one they’d experienced in the parlour.

  She managed an exasperated huff, before shivering again. ‘Come, now. I am soaking wet, but not so repellent that you must sit on the floor to avoid me. We are both cold, we will both feel warmer if we sit together and I swear I will tell no one at the house what we have done.’

  ‘You are not repellent,’ he said sullenly, steadying himself on the seat and climbing up beside her again, then rearranging the blanket over them. ‘Even drowned like a rat, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.’

  She laughed and relaxed into him, burrowing under his arm when he did not offer to put it around her. ‘You are a liar and I love you for it.’

  It was too honest and she felt him stiffen, ready to pull away again.

  ‘A little, at least,’ she said, trying to sound light, flirtatious and harmless. But she had never been particularly good at playing the coquette and suspected that she was even worse now that she was cold and miserable. ‘And I do feel ever so much better with you sitting here.’

  He shivered again, still too proud to admit that he was freezing as well. Then he surrendered and held her tighter, using both arms, and pressed his legs against her skirts, tangling his feet with hers. ‘It cannot matter,’ he said firmly, to himself. ‘It is not dishonourable if I am too cold to be a danger to you.’

  ‘The Vicar was far more of a danger to me than you could ever be,’ she said. ‘He was the one who insisted that we skate past the area that had been tested.’

  He made another dismissive noise, settling in even closer to her, and she felt the first glow of real warmth. ‘Do not worry about him. He skated to safety the minute the ice cracked.’

  ‘And left me to my fate,’ she said, sitting bolt upright.

  ‘Do not be too hard on the poor fellow. Not everyone is good in an emergency.’

  ‘True,’ she agreed, relaxing back against him. ‘But in this case, I am glad that you were there. I should be dead otherwise.’

  He let out another shudder and his arms closed on her for a moment before relaxing again. ‘As I told you before, do not try to make a hero of me.’

  ‘Well, I thank you all the same,’ she said, looking up at his perfect profile. Then she kissed him on the chin. Surely a small reward for her rescuer should not be deemed inappropriate.

  He stiffened. A tremor went through him that had nothing to do with the cold and he surrendered, kissing her with all the passion he had shown her so many years ago.

  Then he had been clumsy and eager, all elbows and energy. After all the times she’d relived that night in her mind, she had come to the conclusion that he’d had little more experience in love than she. But virginal awkwardness was another thing that had changed since he’d gone away. There was mastery in the way he held her and an exhausted confidence in the kiss he gave her, as if he knew just what
it would take to rouse her body and send hot blood rushing from toes to fingertips and several delightful places between the two. Her nipples had been rock hard from the cold, but now they tingled as life returned and, with it, the desire to be touched.

  He pulled away long enough to whisper, ‘How I have missed this. I dreamed of it, you know. What it might be like to come home to you as if nothing had happened so we might begin again.’

  ‘It is yours,’ she said. ‘I am yours. Come home to me, Jack Gascoyne. I have been waiting for you.’

  For a moment, she felt him surrender, to the idea and to her. Then he was gone again, cold and hard as the ice had been and pushing her away from him. As she reached for him to draw him close again, he grabbed her wrists and held them, not in a tender way, but like manacles to restrain her. ‘Do not tempt me further, Lucy. I am too tired to fight you.’

  ‘Then why fight?’ she said with a sob. ‘Is it because you mean to destroy yourself? If that is what you think to do, then you might as well have left me to drown.’

  ‘Do not say that,’ he whispered back.

  ‘I will say what I like,’ she said, the anger she had felt that morning returning. ‘I thought we might still be together, as we used to be. But apparently, I was wrong. I was ready to reject William Thoroughgood for telling me what to think and what to do and how to dress. But you are worse than he is. You think you can tell me what to feel. You want me to turn my love for you on and off again like some sort of machine.’

  ‘Lucy.’ The word was one-part warning and one-part agonised prayer. ‘No more.’

  Perhaps it was because she was cold. Or perhaps it was how near she had come to never speaking again. But now that she had started, she could not seem to stop. ‘You did not know how I hurt the last time you left me. It was why I could forgive you. When I saw you again, it was as if a wound inside me had suddenly closed and I could live again. But by the Lord, if you leave me now, I do not care if you go to heaven, hell or London, you can take with you the knowledge that I will die a little every day from missing you, just as I did the last time.’

  Before he could answer her, the carriage had slowed to a stop at the front door and a footman was ready to help them out. Jack reached to help her, but this time she was the one to push him away, stumbling out of the carriage and into the arms of the servants before he could offer to carry her.

  He hopped down after her, trying to take her arm, and she pulled away. ‘I am quite capable of walking into my own house.’ But even as she said it, her teeth began to chatter and when she tried to stand her legs felt weak. She relaxed against the nearest footman, letting him and his mate drag her towards the threshold.

  ‘Miss Clifton has fallen into the lake,’ Jack shouted a warning past her to the butler. ‘Summon her maid. Heat some blankets. Warm her slowly, mind. No hot baths.’ The doors opened and she was swept into the house, borne up the steps to her room and into the warm towels that her maid held out for her. The girl hurried to undo the wet fastenings of her gown and from behind her in the doorway, she heard Jack’s voice, ragged with distress. ‘Miss Clifton?’

  He sought her instruction. He had jumped into a frozen lake to save her. She did not doubt that now he would do anything she asked.

  Anything except love her.

  She wanted him to hold her as he had, forcing him to give up his warmth and his tenderness, making her feel that she was the most precious thing on earth to him. But what would be the point of it, if he was gone in the morning?

  ‘Lucy?’ It was little more than a whisper.

  But even if she could keep him here, how long would it be before he left again? ‘Thank you for your assistance, Major Gascoyne. I will be fine now,’ she lied.

  He turned and left her.

  Chapter Eight

  Miss Clifton could not come down to dinner.

  Her brother assured them that it was only a precaution. She was chilled, but otherwise well. But she should not stress herself with presiding over the table. A tray had been sent to her room with shank jelly and saloop, so she might build her strength. If all went well, she would be seen at breakfast tomorrow.

  ‘I visited with her when I returned to the house,’ Fred assured them all. ‘She is in exceptionally good spirits, considering what she has gone through.’ All the same, he discouraged others from visiting and flatly refused to allow the repentant Mr Thoroughgood to come anywhere near her ever again.

  Jack, however, was viewed as the hero of the day. He was pressed with an extra glass of claret before dinner and sides of liver and lights and calves’-head pie, which Cook assured him would strengthen both body and mind should he be feeling any adverse effects of his swim. Even Miss Forsythe had temporarily forgotten her beloved and was looking at him as if he had abilities far above those of normal men.

  None of it meant anything to him. He had been Lucy’s hero when they had entered the carriage. Then he had ruined it all. Now she was hiding in her room, refusing to see him, or anyone else.

  He doubted she was ill. He remembered her as a girl of uncommon strength and stamina, climbing the highest trees, beating him in foot races and shaking off the direst childhood illnesses in record time. He had assumed that such vitality would keep her safe into adulthood.

  It was why she had survived beneath the ice without panicking. And she had seemed well enough in the carriage. More than fine, his body reminded him, thinking of the kiss. That had been a mistake, as had the one in the parlour.

  He had given her false hope and himself as well. She had called to the very heart of him, acting as if it was possible to turn back time and be young and innocent again. While he was kissing her, he was ready to believe it could happen. Then bitter sanity had returned and he had pushed her away.

  But this time, he had made her angry enough to strike back at him. He’d had no idea that words could hurt so much. Perhaps it was because he had never truly believed that she would forsake him. She had waited for his return, just as he’d hoped. She had forgiven him, though he had not asked for it. Even his rival was so clearly wrong for her that Jack had not taken him seriously.

  It did not matter that he was sure she’d be better without him. He had always imagined that whatever happened would be his decision, not hers. Instead, she had sent him away after making him feel the hurt she had felt at his absence, adding it to his own pain like a pile of bricks laid on his aching heart.

  But what was he to do about it? If, against his own better judgement, he declared himself and offered for her, even she knew that he would be no better than marrying Thoroughgood. She would end up with a man who was far less than she deserved.

  It hurt to be with her, but it hurt even more to be without her. And though he had imagined that there might be peace in death, what if he felt her loss of him, even on the other side of the veil?

  The delectable dinner had no flavour for him. Wine held no attraction. The idea of gaiety and parlour games was an abomination, if she was not there to share in them. He retired early, claiming fatigue, though he felt more agitated than tired. Once in his room, he paced nervously, unable to sleep, but too tired to stay awake.

  At last, after hours of fruitless activity and even more fruitless thought, he fell exhausted into his cold and empty bed.

  * * *

  Lucy started awake from a deep sleep. Despite her maid’s fears that there would be nightmares about the accident, she had been far too tired to conjure demons that would plague her slumber. It had been a blessing, really, to go several hours free of thoughts of Jack. He had been the primary player in her dreams, both good and bad, for as long as she could remember. But now, when he should be lying beside her in flesh and blood, she had finally managed to banish him.

  Then she realised something was wrong. Why was she awake at all? She forced herself to lie perfectly still, watching, listening. The shadows distilled into form as her eyes became
accustomed to the dark. There was someone in the room with her.

  It was a man, she was sure, for the silhouette was far too tall to be a maid. In her own home she had nothing to fear, for a robber could never have made it so far into the house without a servant noticing. That left only two choices for the identity of the dark silhouette at the end of the bed and she doubted her brother would behave so strangely.

  ‘Jack,’ she said softly, sure of his identity even though she could not see his face.

  She was relieved to see his head incline a fraction in a nod.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to see...your feet.’

  The statement was so unexpected that she pulled herself up to a sitting position, fumbling for the candle at her bedside. ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Do not use such language,’ he said, striding to her bedside table to grab the taper and light it off a twist from the fire.

  ‘You taught me to swear when I was a little girl. Given the day I’ve had, you can hardly blame me for cursing when I am frightened awake by a man in my room.’

  ‘I am used to soldiers’ language, but that does not mean I like to hear it from you.’

  ‘And I told you before that I am tired of people ordering me about. If I wanted someone to scold me over language, I would seek out William Thoroughgood,’ she said.

  He winced at the comparison to the Vicar. ‘I am sorry if I sound overly critical of you. And sorry that I frightened you as well. And sorry for everything else,’ he added. He was holding the light aloft now, staring down at the lump under the coverlet that indicated her feet. Then he gave her another significant look and added, ‘If you please.’

  She was more curious than annoyed at the way he was behaving. She drew up her knees and inched her legs out from under the blankets, smoothing her nightgown back over her calves and showing him what he wanted.