"Joy! Wake up! Now!"
Her eyes shot open at the sound of his raised voice.
"That's better," he said. "We need to talk."
"I'd rather sleep." She snuggled against him and let her heavy eyelids drift closed.
"You cannot." His knuckle lifted her chin from his chest. His finger stroked her lips. At that gesture she had to look at him. "It's too cold to sleep. We must stay awake." His arms closed around her and he lifted her as he sat up, then pulled her into his lap and adjusted the coats around them both.
"I'm sure help will be here soon, but in the meantime we must stay awake."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
He gave her a long look, as if mentally weighing something, then shook his head. He was silent, his face unyielding, his eyes less sure than before.
She looked at the white windows, shivered, and felt him do the same. "You're as cold as I am."
"I am fine."
The MacLean was right. Englishmen were hardheaded.
"Help is on the way," he said again.
"Then why can I not go back to sleep?"
"I don't think it is a good idea."
"Why?"
"Because help will be here soon."
"How long has it been?"
"A while."
"I can help . . . now."
He didn't answer.
"You woke me up to talk. Now you won't speak. Why?"
He rubbed his hand across the bridge of his nose.
"Are we in dire circumstances?"
All he did was breathe deeply.
"Is this a life-threatening situation?"
He sat more rigid in the seat, but said nothing.
"Well, if you are not going to answer me, I shall go back to sleep." She leaned against him and started to close her eyes.
He grabbed her shoulders, hard, and shook her once "You cannot go to sleep. If you do, you might not ever awaken." His expression was almost angry, it was so intense.
She scanned his face, reading the worry in his dark eyes. "Please, Alec, let me help."
"No witchcraft."
"Would you rather die here?"
He continued to pin her with a hard stare.
"Would you?" she countered. "No one is about. No one will know about the witchcraft except you and me."
He looked at her for a minute, then glanced at the white window. The carriage was buried in snow.
She shivered once. "Please."
Frowning, he looked at the other white window.
"I can zap us both to the nearest inn, with one wee incantation." She watched his doubtful face. "Please."
He looked at her, reluctant resignation on his face and said, "I suppose we have no choice."
Straightening a bit, he looked down at her, his face all arrogant duke. "But only this once."
She nodded, her mind already whipping up the words she would use. "Do you know which inn is the closest?"
"No."
She paused for a thoughtful minute. "Then I shall try something general. Here, take my hands."
He pulled his hands out from under the cape and straightened his shoulders, every muscle in his body taut, his jaw set. She gripped his hands. One glance at his stiff, pale face told her that he was about as ready for this as the prince regent was to meet Napoleon and his army in Paris, unarmed, alone.
"Close your eyes, please."
He gave her one last leery look, then did as she asked.
Determined to get her magic right and impress her husband, she raised her chin and pictured a country inn like those they had passed before. Her mind filled with timbered buildings and wide windows that spread a warm yellow glow of welcoming light on the drifting snow. She saw a stone fence that separated the inn from a row of old elms and a clear icy path that wound its way through the meadow beyond.
She stopped, suddenly losing her concentration when she realized that she needed to snap her fingers, something that was impossible while Alec was holding her hands. She opened her eyes and found herself looking at her husband's taut face. His eyes were closed, his expression similar to that of someone who had severe stomach ague.
"You need to hold my wrists so I can snap my fingers."
Eyes still closed he moved his hands to her wrists and grasped them tightly.
Once again ready, she closed her own eyes. Now where was I? She asked herself. That's right . . . elm trees and the winding icy path. "All 'round us is the snow," she chanted. "We must find somewhere else to go. Take us both as quick as a flea to the place that I now see!" She snapped her fingers.
"Bloody hell!"
And she felt Alec's hands slip away.
***
"Alec!" Joy frantically searched for him in the snowy landscape.
"Over here!" came a hoarse shout.
Still huddled in the leather coat, she made an awkward turn toward his voice. A group of snow-covered old beetled elms stood among the huge white snowdrifts; they looked like ghosts clawing their way toward the clouds. The snow-laden elm branches rustled and a flurry of white snow tumbled to the ground. Alec's frosted gray head appeared as he made his way around the huge trees, his leather cape catching on the low branches.
Joy could hear him mumble. His boots suddenly slid in the damp snow and ice, and he grabbed a hold of a low branch.
The sound of wood cracking echoed in the winter silence, followed by swearing.
"Oh, my goodness!" Joy covered her mouth with a shivering hand and watched him skid the rest of the way down the embankment on his ducal posterior, the tree branch still gripped in his hand and the cape dangling from the tree branches above him.
He sat there for a moment, apparently stunned. Then his eyes scanned the area, finally stopping to glare at her. "Where . . . is . . . the inn?"
Joy looked around, seeing only white hills of drifting snow, frosted trees, and the icy path on which she stood. She bit her lip and peered upward, over the clump of trees in the hope of seeing a roof, a chimney, or smoke. There was nothing but a snow-clouded gray sky. "I'm not sure."
"What the hell do you mean, you're not sure? I thought you were going to zap us to the closest inn?"
"I was," she said, her teeth beginning to chatter.
"Then where is the bloody inn?"
"Well, you see, Alec, sometimes my spells get just a tat mixed up."
"What?" he shouted, bringing down a clump of wet snow on top of his head.
She winced and watched him shake the snow off his head with all the vigor of a wet hunting hound.
"A tad mixed up?"
She nodded.
His breathing became very controlled, very deep, and very loud. After a tense moment he glanced down at the tree branch clutched in his fist and tossed it aside with a look of disgust. The look was still there when he turned back to her. "Explain this, wife."
"Sometimes I make mistakes."
"Mistakes?" He struggled to his feet.
She nodded.
"Did it cross your mind that this is one devil of a time to tell me?" He appeared to shiver and looked around at the endless drifts of white snow.
"I wanted to please you."
He rubbed a gloved hand over his forehead. "I see." It looked as if he was counting, just like the
MacLean. He stopped counting and Joy thought she saw him shiver. "You thought to please me by zapping us in the middle of nowhere?"
"I'm s-sorry," she whispered, the cold seeping into her skin too. "I'm sure the inn is-is nearby. I pic-pictured it perfectly before."
"Pictured it?"
"Well, you s-see . . . uh . . . ” She rubbed her arms and looked at all the cold wet snow with a sense of dread.
"Speak! Now!"
One look at his face and her words spilled forth in a rush. "I have to picture the place I'm going to in my mind first and—"
"Bloody hell!" he shouted, dusting the snow off him with angry strokes. He looked at her, then at the snow around them and muttered, "No wonder we're in this fix. A Scot's mind."
"I resent that."
"And I resent being subjected to this . . . this . . . ” He waved his hand around in the air and hit the hem of the cape. He glanced upward, scowling, and jerked the cape out of the tree with a fierce tug. "I'm the Duke of Belmore. The Duke of
Belmore!"
"'Twas only a mistake. I was trying to save our lives!"
He flung the cape over his shoulders, shivering again. "Now, why don't I feel saved?" He took a threatening step toward her. "Are we in a nice cozy warm inn? No . . . We're in the middle of a—"
Another loud cracking sound pierced the quiet air. It wasn't wood this time. It was ice.
Alec sank up to his thighs in icy water and swore.
Another crack sounded and his head shot up, his gaze following the ice crack that etched a path toward where Joy stood.
"Don't move, Scottish!" He raised a hand. "Whatever you do, don't bloody move!"
Joy watched in horror as the icy path on which she stood began to break away, piece by broken piece to reveal the deadly water beneath.
In desperation she closed her eyes, pulling the leather coat closer and trying hard to picture the bank and Alec.
"Don't!" he shouted. "Do not try your magic!"
It was too late. She snapped her fingers.
The ice beneath her cracked, loud and sharp.
She opened her eyes wide. The ice gave way.
His hand reached toward her. His other held the tree branch, inches away.
She sank into the icy water, her coat catching on the ice, her gloves slippery as she tried to grab something— anything.
Freezing water rushed through her clothes to burn her skin with an icy fire. She couldn't feel her legs, her arms, her body.
"Alec!"
Icy water licked at her chin.
She reached out . . .
Oh, God!
The last thing she saw was her husband's panicked face.
Chapter 12
As if called forth by the Devil himself, the wind came up, icy, cold, flecked with snow that rimed the tall, cloaked figure trudging through a wet white sea of knee-high snowdrifts. The Duke of Belmore hunched over, protection for himself but mostly to protect his duchess—the shivering wet bundle in his numb arms.
"Talk to me, Scottish. Do not go to sleep." He shifted her weight, and his boot slipped. He stumbled, slipped again, instinct making him pull her damp, shivering form even tighter against him. He managed to regain his footing.