Secrets of a Perfect Night (2 page)

At the bottom of the slope the lane crossed a shallow stream via a narrow ford. The horses reached the wider, flatter area before the ford; Adrian headed them toward where he remembered the ford to be.

Only at the last instant, scanning ahead through the wind and snow, did he realize the ford had been remade.

The curricle rocked, then pitched as its wheels twisted and slid among the icy, snow-covered rocks. A loud crack broke the stillness. The horses neighed, then pulled—the curricle slid and slewed.

“Bolt! Get out!” Adrian held the reins until the last moment, then flung himself from the wildly tipping carriage.

He landed in a snowdrift.

Gasping, shaking his head free, spitting out snow, he heard a crash; turning, squinting, he saw the curricle land almost all the way over on the rocky streambed. One wheel was kindling; the other rotated crazily in the air.

The blacks were still tugging, but were trapped in the harness. Crooning to quiet them, Adrian struggled free of the snow and managed to get to his feet. The ground was icy—it was a wonder they’d got as far as they had.

“Bolt?”

No answer. Adrian strained his ears through the whine of the wind but heard nothing. He squinted against the driving snow, and saw nothing. He started to search.

He found his old tiger facedown in the snow on the other side of the ford. Like him, Bolt had flung himself into the nearest drift. Unfortunately, the drift Bolt had chosen had concealed a large rock. With shaking fingers and frozen hands, Adrian checked for signs of life—and heaved a huge sigh when he felt Bolt’s chest rise. He was alive, and the cold had already stopped the bleeding from the gash on his head.

Bolt was, however, deeply unconscious.

Adrian looked up the slope to the houses of Widecombe, still half a mile away. He could see Mallard Cottage. Old Miss Threave would give him and Bolt shelter. All they had to do was get to the cottage.

All he had to do was get himself and Bolt—and his horses, for he would not leave them to die—up the icing slope. Luckily, the snow was coming down thick and fast—a crisp coating would make the going easier.

Adrian didn’t waste time refining his plan—the longer they remained exposed to the storm, the more likely they were to become its victims. If he collapsed one foot from the cottage door, it would all be in vain—they’d die just as surely as if they stayed here. One foot or one mile, the storm wouldn’t care. Hefting Bolt, he dragged the tiger across the ford and laid him in the lee of a drift. Then he unharnessed the horses, cursing as the ice and his frozen fingers made the task impossibly difficult, impossibly slow. Finally it was done. He tied the reins about his upper arms, then dragged Bolt upright again.

And set out.

How long it took him to cover that last half mile, he had no idea. The mixture of snow and ice on the upward incline made the going treacherous; even the horses had difficulty gaining purchase on some stretches.

But he wouldn’t give up—giving up meant death. Even resting was too risky. With one arm frozen around Bolt, he dragged the tiger along. Bolt was a lot shorter than he but much stockier, nearly the same weight; it was an effort to pull his unconscious form along.

Step by step; he stopped checking his progress—it didn’t matter how far along he was. The only thing that mattered was getting there. Surviving.

He was so cold he hurt—ached—all the way through.
When he could no longer lift his feet, he shuffled them. He refused to think of death.

He thought of his mother, his father…

He staggered and hit a post. Snow fell off it; green paint showed through. Gasping, Adrian struggled to lift his head. Ice cracked down his nape.

Windows glowed warmly through the whirling white. He’d reached Mallard Cottage.

But he hadn’t yet reached the door.

The gate was closed with snow piled behind it. He had to lay Bolt down, then unwind the stiff reins from his arms. He wrapped them around the gatepost, concentrating, concentrating. He didn’t dare stop concentrating.

Shifting the gate took the last of his strength; when he’d pressed it back, he collapsed on his hands and knees. He felt the flags of the path under his gloves. It took the last of his will to push himself back up, to drag Bolt to his side, and stagger up the path to the door.

He tripped on the step, concealed in the snow, and sprawled on the stone stoop. Chill darkness threatened; he fought it back. Silently swearing—anything to cling to consciousness—he reached up, up, scrabbling with fingers that could no longer feel. Pressing himself back from the painted wood, he regained his feet, then lunged and caught the bellpull.

He gave mute thanks when he heard it ring.

There were sounds inside—footsteps hurrying, more light gathering in the fanlight over the door. He swayed on his feet, clamping Bolt to his side as he heard the locks shot back.

The door was pulled open by a large woman with flaming red hair.

Not Miss Threave, was all Adrian could think.

Then he heard a gasp. A slighter female pushed to the fore. “
Adrian
?”

He recognized her voice, her eyes, and her hair—the rest had changed. His gaze dipped, steadied, then he fought to raise it back to her face. And still he stared. “I was coming home…”

It was the final shock. He went to gesture and felt himself falling. The cold blackness rushed in. He pitched forward at the feet of the sweet innocent who’d seduced him eight years before.

Abigail Woolley muttered a curse and leapt over the fallen bodies. “Help me get them in.”

Her maid, Agnes, joined her on the stoop. “Gracious! Is it truly Lord Dere, then?”

Abigail rolled him onto his back, then waved Agnes to take his shoulders while she stooped to lift his booted feet. “The late Lord Dere is what he’ll be if we don’t get him inside quickly.”

“Tom! Get out here, lad.” Agnes bent and grasped the wide shoulders filling a heavy greatcoat. “Oomph!” Agnes blew out a breath as she hefted him up. “No lightweight, this one.”

Abby said nothing as they shuffled the weight that was far too dead for her liking over the threshold. A vise had clamped about her heart—she could barely breathe. They laid him down on the hall runner. Tom, their boy-of-all-work, came running from the kitchen; Agnes shooed him out to bring in the other man.

Abby knelt by Adrian’s head. She tried to brush back the dark lock from his forehead, only to find it frozen. “Aunt Esme!”

“Yes, dear? Good gracious heavens!” Thin and stooped, Esme stopped in the doorway from the parlor and stared down at the figure lying flat on his back on the rug. “Is that
Dere
?”

“Yes, and I think that must be his groom.” Abby waved as Tom and Agnes brought the other man in. “You remember Bolt?”

“Oh, indeed.” Esme peered at the shorter man. “I always wondered if he was still with Dere.”

Abby succeeded in pulling off Adrian’s driving gloves. She chafed his hands, appalled to find them iced, whiter than white, colder than death. “We’ll need hot bricks and hot water—plenty of it.” Abby scrambled to her feet as Agnes shut the door.

Tom, a thin and gawky sixteen, jigged beside the door. “There’re horses, miss, tethered to the gatepost. Shall I take them around?”

“Yes, do.” Abby looked down at the man prone at her feet. “Knowing Dere, they’ll be worth a small fortune.”

“I’ll take care of ’em…” Tom went to slip out the door.

Abby lifted her head. “Just take them around to the stable and then come straight back here, Tom. We’ll need your help to get these two upstairs. We’ve no time to lose in warming them up.”

“Aye, you’re right there.” Agnes straightened from examining Bolt’s head. “This one’s got a nasty gash on his head on top of being frozen stiff.”

“I’ll put the kettle on.” Esme set off for the kitchen. “Bring their clothes down and I’ll put them in front of the fire.”

Agnes turned to Abby. “So where’ll we put them? Can’t hardly strip his lordship in the hall.”

Abby whirled. “Brandy—that should help.”

She was tempted to take a sip herself. Dere, here, and chilled to death. She couldn’t take it in. Grabbing the decanter from the sideboard in the parlor, she hurried back to the hall. Agnes had disappeared. Easing out the decanter’s stopper, Abby tried to make her lungs work so she could draw in a proper breath. Her gaze roamed the large body spread-eagled in her hall, making it seem cluttered and close. Little rivulets were trailing off him, soaking into the rug and pooling on the polished boards.

“Here.” Agnes reappeared with two medicine glasses. “Easier to get it down if you use one of these.”

Abby sloshed a healthy dose into each glass, then set the decanter by the wall. While Agnes ministered to Bolt, Abby knelt again by Adrian’s head. Setting the glass down, she slid her hands beneath his shoulders. Hefting and wriggling, she managed to get his head into her lap. Leaning over him, she carefully coaxed a little brandy between his frozen lips. It seemed to go in; she tipped in a little more, then tugged at the folds of his cravat. The linen was frozen stiff, but where the impregnated ice was thawing, it was limp and damp.

“No luck here.” Agnes straightened. “Right out of it, he is.” She turned to Abby. “So which rooms should we use?”

“I think the box room next to your room for Bolt—we could move the old trestle bed in there. And Lord Dere we’d better put in the room next to mine. We’ll have to check on them through the night.”

“True enough.” Agnes turned to the stairs. “I’ll make up the beds.”

Abby nodded, her attention on Adrian. She administered a little more brandy, then wrestled again with his cravat—and was rewarded when he swallowed.

“Here—have some more.” She pressed the glass to his lips again. This time they parted. When she removed the glass, his tongue came out and gingerly dampened his chapped lips. When she offered the glass again, he drank more definitely, then his lids flickered.

Grabbing the end of his cravat, Abby gently wiped the shards of ice from his eyes and brow.

His eyes opened. He looked up, into her face. “Abby?”

It took a moment to gather her wits. Seven years it had been since she’d last seen those eyes this close—close enough to feel their power. Amber eyes—predator’s eyes; they still held that primeval pull. “Yes, it’s me,” she finally managed. Then, realizing the cause of his befuddlement, she added, “I live here now.”

She offered the brandy again and he accepted another sip. “Can you sit?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed and heaved, uncaring of the water splotches darkening her woolen skirt. She helped him raise his shoulders until he was sitting, but he was too weak to sit without her support.

Abby frowned. “We need to get you out of your greatcoat.” Much of it was still heavily encrusted with ice.

Hands and arms and shoulders went everywhere, but with his help, clumsy though he was, she finally pulled the long drab coat, heavily adorned with capes, from him. She flung it aside, balancing him with one hand. His morning coat was also impregnated with ice. “This will have to come off, too.” All of his clothes were affected—all would have to come off.

“Give me some more of that brandy first.”

She obliged. He took the glass from her, but she had to prop him up, her shoulder against his back, one arm around his chest as he sipped. She knew what he—his body, his muscled torso—should feel like; his deeply iced flesh sent a chill of fear through her.

Tom came clumping in; Abby waved him to the stairs. “Get a fire going in the room next to mine. Build it high.”

Tom hurried off; Abby turned back to Adrian.

He handed her the empty glass. “All right. Let’s try it.”

Removing his elegant, closely fitted coat was a much harder task than removing his loose greatcoat. Despite the tussle, Abby was grateful that he was awake enough to help—they would never have managed to get it off him otherwise. When she made the perfectly sensible suggestion, when he was stuck half in and half out, that they should cut the coat from him, he curtly retorted, “Schultz would have my head.”

“I don’t give a damn,” she replied. “Whoever Schultz might be.”

Adrian half laughed. “Sacrilege.” He struggled harder.

They got him out of the coat without ripping it, but the effort drained him.

“Here.” Abby pushed and pulled and shuffled him until he was close enough to the wall to lean back against it.

He did, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”

Abby was seriously alarmed. He was so icy cold, so pale. So uncharacteristically weak. “Have some more brandy.” She grabbed the decanter and filled the glass again, then pressed it into his hand. “I’m going to fix your room.”

She raced up the stairs, chased by a vision of his deathly pale face. She warmed the pillows by the fire as she made up the bed, then hurried up the attic stairs to find Agnes. Tom had just finished building a fire on the small grate in the box room. Agnes pushed the bed as close as she dared. “Have to watch we don’t burn them.”

Abby cast a swift glance about the room and nodded. “Let’s bring them up, then.”

The three of them clattered down the stairs. “I think,” Abby said, her gaze locked on Adrian as they descended the last flight, “that if you two carry Bolt, I can manage to guide Lord Dere up.”

Agnes glanced his way, then nodded. “Right you are. Just you be careful he doesn’t fall down the stairs. Nor you, neither.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Abby left them to heft Bolt between them and went to Adrian’s side. He was leaning back against the wall,
eyes closed, the empty glass at his side. His linen shirt was damp and clinging, displaying the powerful muscles of his chest. As she crouched beside him, he murmured, “How’s Bolt?”

“He’s still unconscious. They’re taking him upstairs.” Abby squeezed his arm gently. “If I help, do you think you can manage the stairs?”

His lids slowly lifted. He met her gaze, then looked past her to the stairs. “Hmm.” His lips twisted slightly, his brows drew down, but his face was too stiff for him to frown properly. “We can but try.”

Getting him on his feet was the first hurdle—it nearly proved insurmountable. Only when Abby ducked her shoulder under his, wrapped his arm over her shoulders, then reached her other arm around him and held tight did he manage to get upright. The instant he did, they swayed and staggered. Abby was glad there was no one about to see them waltz drunkenly about her hall.