"Scottish!" he shouted. It seemed as if he'd shouted continually for however long it had been since he'd pulled her from the frigid river. He felt her stir, thank God, and slowed his snow-silent steps, finally stopping so he could look down at her face. He pulled aside the cape in which he'd wrapped her.
Her eyes were closed and despite his attempts to cover her face, her eyelids were frosted with snowflakes. Her lips shivered, as did her small wet body. He shifted her so he could touch her face. She didn't move. The snowflakes on her skin didn't melt, she was that cold.
"Wake up!" he shouted to her, the sound all but swallowed by the thirsty winter wind. He shook her once, twice.
"S-s-so co-cold," she said on a convulsive shiver.
The wind howled and keened around them like the wail of mourners.
We're not bloody dead.
Alec went on, shoving his way through the snow, spurred by anger, spurred by sheer will. That same bloody wind sliced like an icy ax through their wet clothing. Snowflakes swirled in a sudden spiral gust, and tree branches swayed and cracked under the weight of the wet snow. He felt her shiver.
"What's your name?" he shouted. He knew he had to keep her talking, keep her lucid.
"Hmm?" she muttered.
"Your name!"
"Scottish." Her voice was little more than a ragged whisper, its sound wind-stolen.
"Who are you?"
"Scottish," she repeated. Then her breathing slowed, grew shallow and even, like that of one who was sound asleep.
"Wake up! Now!" He shook her. She didn't respond. He shook her harder. Still she didn't move.
"Bloody hell," he muttered and scanned their surroundings. Everything was white—cold, icy white. He'd managed to find the road—at least he hoped it was the road. One couldn't see a bloody thing in this storm. He had stumbled in a rut and fallen into a deep drift of snow that all but buried both of them. She had been lucid then, had argued with him to let her walk. He'd ignored her, setting her aside while he dug around in the snow until he felt the impression of wheel ruts.
A few minutes later he had stood and turned to where he'd left her sitting on his cloak in the snow just a few feet behind him. She was not there. Moments later he saw her stumbling down the road, her wet coat undone, hanging off one shoulder, and flapping in the icy wind. He knew she was chilled to the very marrow of her bones. He ran after her, unable to believe someone could be freezing and not doing anything about it.
Since then—a few minutes ago, a few hours ago, he had no idea which—he continued to carry her trembling wet body snuggled against his chest in the hope that she would garner some warmth from him.
A small clump of trees stood to his right, and he moved toward them. He needed to awaken her. In the lee of the trees he found respite from the biting wind and lowered her feet to the ground, his other half-numb arm holding her upright, the cape still wrapped around her.
She sagged against him. He gripped her shoulders and shook her hard. Her head flopped forward like a flower whose stem had broken. But then she moaned. He shook her again. "Joy! Wake up!"
"Not Joy," she murmured. "Scottish. Alec's Scottish."
"That's right. Who's Alec?" he asked.
"Alec?" Her eyes opened, clear and green and so suddenly conscious he thought for a moment that he'd imagined it.
"That's so silly," she said, looking right at him. "You are Alec." She smiled up at him and placed one icy stiff hand on his heart. "My Alec."
He could feel the frost on her glove. It was like ice on his chest. He studied her face for a pensive moment, surprised that she could become clear-headed so quickly. "That's right." Then he tested her:
"Who are you?"
Her chin went up, high. She seemed to be trying to look down at him. "I am the Duchess of Belmore." She struggled to stand on her own and did so with a burst of strength. She gave him a regal nod that would have done the princess of
Wales
proud.
He sagged back against a hoarfrosted tree and wiped the snow from his eyes. Thank God. He glanced down the road, little more than a solid, seemingly endless plain of white. He took deep, cleansing breaths that he hoped would warm him and give him the strength to go on. He had no idea where they were, if help was near, if anyone was near.
Something hit his leg—a shoe!—and he turned around.
His wife stood ten feet away surrounded by cold white snow. She stripped off her one remaining shoe and sent it soaring through the snow-filled air. It hit him in the arm.
"What the devil are you doing?" He stumbled and fell forward when his boot hit the slick wet leather of her discarded coat. A stocking landed in the snow in front of his hands. He got to his knees. The other stocking plopped in front of him.
"Stop!" he shouted and watched in stunned horror as she shoved her soggy dress down and stepped out of it. He scrambled toward her shouting, "Where the hell are your wits, woman?"
She grabbed at her chemise and moved away from him. He slid in the snow and heard the sound of tearing silk. She struggled out of the torn garment. He tried to reach her, but slipped again, cursing. The snow had gotten wetter, heavier, and deeper, and he shoved and slid his way through it.
What rational human being would strip herself naked when she was freezing to death? God Almighty, she wasn't a rational human being. She was a witch. Was this some ritual? He shook the snow from his head. Damn her!
He pushed his way through the thickening snow. "Stand still!"
She turned and smiled at him, sweetly, as if this were some coy game, and stepped away, completely naked, her ripped chemise dangling from one bare hand.
"Scottish! I demand you stop!" He supped and fell again, but was thankful when he heard her voice. He knew now that she was delirious.
"Her Grace is going to see Prinny. Spoiled, demanding Prinny. My husband Alec is demanding, too."
She gave a little nod, apparently to emphasize what she said.
Alec tried and failed to reach her in the slippery snow.
"What else did he say about Prinny? Oh, yes! He's fat." She shook her head. "Alec isn't fat. He's imperious." She held one finger to her lips, then whispered, "Alec is imperious, too much so. But . . . back to superstitious old Prinny! He went to
Paris
alone, you know, Prinny did. But I shall save him from Napoleon. Then he won't lop off our heads. Alec needs his old gray head."
Alec regained his footing and eased his way toward her.
She threw the chemise at him. "Here, catch!"
He ducked and lunged at her, falling deeper into the snow and grabbing her legs. She went down with him, kicking.
"No! No! I'm a good witch!" Her eyes looked through him, unseeing. Her breathing was raspy, haggard, and loud, getting louder because she was fighting him, squirming in the snow. Her bare foot slammed into the side of his head.
"Damn!" He grabbed her flailing foot in a tight grip. "Stop it!"
"It burns my skin! Don't burn me! The fire! My skin is on fire! They're burning me, Alec! Help me!"
Despite her delirium she squirmed to get away, kicking out at him with the other foot. "Help me, please help me. Don't let them burn me, please." Her breathing changed to sobs.
"You little idiot! You're going to freeze to death!"
"Can't freeze. On fire, on fire . . . ”
"Hold still!" He pinned her down with his body. "You're not on fire!" She kept twisting beneath him, then as suddenly as her sobbing started she was still, quiet—deathly quiet.
He shook her. "Wake up!"
She flopped in the snow, limp, her skin cold.
"Scottish! Wake up!" He pulled her against him, wrapping his own wet arms around her and rocking her.
"It's me, Alec."
She didn't move.
"Your Alec." He spoke softly, but he shook her again.
Still nothing. He placed his cheek against her bare breast. It was as cold as ice. He held his breath, listening for a heartbeat. All he could hear was his own racing heart. He tried again. Nothing. He closed his eyes, concentrating hard, listening for a sign of life.
There was a slow, shallow beat, and a trace of what he prayed was a breath.
He struggled toward her clothes, awkwardly, on his knees, the Duke of Belmore with his limp, naked duchess clutched with one cold and fast-weakening arm against his heaving chest. The snow grew thicker, quieter—as eerie and frightening as the silence of his frozen wife.
He wondered if she was going to die, then if he was, too.
He forced that thought from his head. A duke didn't die while lost in the bloody snow. At least, not the Duke of Belmore. Neither would his duchess. He grabbed her snow-covered and torn chemise, and shook it so hard it snapped like a gunshot in the air. He slid one of her arms into the chemise and then struggled to get the other one through it. Grasping the ragged edges, he pulled them together.
Next came the sodden wool dress. He slipped it over her head and tried to get her arms into it. Her hair was soaked and little more than a lump of thick brown ice. Her skin had a blue tinge to it.
Get her covered, he thought, and quickly. He wrenched the leather cape from the snow and wrapped it around her small body. Now he was shivering so hard he could barely hold her and still remain on his knees. It was then that he realized she had stopped shivering some time before. Instinct told him that was not good.
He crawled with her to where her stockings lay—limp frozen rags in the snow. He shook them out and tried to get them on her feet and up her stiff legs. His hands shook.
He searched for her shoes. The snow fell harder, faster, thicker. He couldn't see those shoes. She needed her shoes . . . he knew that. He crawled near the tree, sat back on his heels, and laid her across his lap. Then he bent over her, pinning her between his chest and thighs while he dug in the powdery snow.
The hole grew, three feet deep, four feet wide, before he found one small leather shoe, emptied it, and tried to slide her stiff foot into it. He cursed his shaking hands, sure that was reason he couldn't do something so simple, so important.
It was then that he noticed her feet and legs. Though her body was limp, flaccid, like a rose wilted by the wind and weather, the muscles in her legs and feet were inexplicably taut. He rubbed them over and over, trying to get them to relax, then tried again and managed to put the shoe on.
Once again he dug in the snow in a frenzied, desperate search, as if the lost shoe symbolized their chances of survival. He had to find it . . . he had to . . . had to . . . .
The wind whipped the snow from the trees. It tumbled down, filling the hole. He swore, loudly, a shout in the sharp air, at God or at the Devil, he didn't know which. All he knew was he needed that shoe.
His clawing hand closed over it, and he almost cried out in relief. He dumped out the snow and massaged her small foot again, then forced it into the hard, frozen leather. He pulled back the cape and looked down into her face, so still.
"Don't die. You cannot die. You are the Duchess of Belmore. Do you hear me? You will not die." He struggled to his feet, shifting her in his arms, and a frigid moment later he stumbled down the road, wading through enough snow to bury all of
London
.
The flurries ceased. Alec moved up a hill, the snow now waist high. His teeth chattered, he shivered, yet the exertion of plodding half frozen through the deep snow had him sweating. He could feel the sweat seep down his head, his arms, and his back. It froze on his skin and made him even colder.