Through the Smoke

“Are you coming?” Lord Druridge asked.

She blinked against the snow clinging to her eyelashes as he extended his hand to her. She hesitated, but she seemed to have little choice in traveling companions—unless she wanted to ride with the corpulent doctor, who was having a devil of a time controlling his mount.

Raising a tentative hand, she allowed the earl to pull her up in front of him.

“Don’t worry about Timothy,” he said, following her backward glance. “He’ll manage.”

“I am more worried about us,” she admitted and leaned to one side to stare at the ground, which seemed too far away for comfort. “I have never ridden such a large horse and certainly not one that is more accustomed to pulling a carriage than bearing riders.”

The earl’s voice came as a low rumble in her ear. “It is far more comfortable than riding astride a donkey. You have nothing to fear.”

Except, possibly, the man behind me.

Rachel tucked her face into the thickness of her borrowed cloak as they started out. Progress was slow even without the carriage. In places, they had to plow through drifts up to their thighs, and although the earl’s horses were fine animals, they had minds of their own. The stable was the other way, and well they knew it.

Fortunately, Druridge wasn’t a man to have his actions dictated to him by man or beast. Rachel could feel the muscles of his thighs bunch as he squeezed the gelding’s heaving sides and spoke to it in a low but firm voice.

The doctor didn’t fare quite as well. Jacobsen followed in their wake, his journey a bit less difficult because of the path they forged, except that his own mount tried to bolt several times.

“Damn this animal!” he cursed when it lowered its head as though it would buck.

The earl turned back and shouted out instructions to the doctor on how to control his mount. Then they had only the storm to delay them.

The wind played havoc with their clothes, pressing against them like an invisible hand until Rachel began to wonder why the earl didn’t give up and turn back. Grudgingly she had to admit that she had, in some ways, misjudged him. He was honest, so far as keeping his commitment to her, and, obviously, capable and confident, especially when it came to pursuing his goals.

She studied his gloved hands as they worked the reins in front of her. He will never give in to the miners’ demands, not if they are contrary to his own will. In that moment, Rachel knew it as surely as she felt the heat of the earl behind her. Mr. Cutberth and the other unionizers didn’t fully realize what they were contending with. They thought, if they could only unite, they could press Druridge to their advantage. But Rachel finally understood just how much the earl would resist any type of coercion. He wouldn’t allow himself to be overpowered by anyone.

The minutes passed with Druridge’s hard, unyielding chest brushing against Rachel’s back and one sinewy arm encircling her waist. He was touching her for a very practical purpose—if he didn’t hold her she might fall—but he was also making her inescapably aware of him.

Despite her misgivings about that intoxicating moment in his drawing room, it wasn’t long before she was tempted to sink against the support of his body. She’d gotten little sleep since her mother’s illness and so was incredibly tired.

But Lord Druridge was her enemy, and not an enemy to esteem lightly. She held her body rigid until his arm tightened, and he murmured, “Relax.”

Much too cold to fight him, she allowed herself to lean back, a little, and immediately felt the added warmth and comfort his body could provide.

The snow stopped falling about a mile outside the village, but the wind kept up, plastering their clothes against them and making Rachel’s ears ache. Even the earl’s cloak couldn’t ward off the chill that had invaded every part of her body.

“Have you survived the journey?” he asked when they emerged from the moors and could see the rooftops in the valley not far below.

Rachel managed to mumble a reply, but she had never been so exhausted in her life, physically or emotionally. Only the thought of her mother, waiting for them, kept her heavy eyelids from closing.

Dr. Jacobsen had long since fallen silent. He sat as rigid as a statue, a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, until they began the gradual descent into town. Then the colorful grumbling and cursing that had punctuated the beginning of their venture from the carriage started up again.

“Damn winters. I don’t know why I traipse so far north. I won’t do it again.”

Lord Druridge twisted around to look at him. The earl had turned up the collar of his coat to keep his neck warm, but he wore no scarf, and Rachel could see tiny, frozen crystals clinging to the shadow of a day’s beard growth. “I believe you said that last winter, Clive.”

“I should have listened to myself. If you had any idea what you were missing, you would leave this godforsaken place and come to London with me, lands or not. But look who I am preaching to! You haven’t the slightest inclination to visit the city these days. Forget the Season. You won’t even come for business.” The doctor’s scarf muffled his words, but the wind had changed course and was now at their backs, easily carrying his voice to them.

“It’s my good sense that keeps me away,” the earl shouted.

Rachel listened to their banter, feeling the shift in their moods, the gradual lessening of the tension that had stifled their progress as surely as the blizzard. The worst was over. She would soon be back with her mother. But… what would she find?

As if sensing the cause of her reticence, the earl covered her frozen hands with one of his, surprising her with his gentleness. “Just a few minutes more,” he said.

At last, dawn began to streak across the sky. The storm was now little more than a few drops of rain, but the McTavish cottage remained shuttered and dark. For a moment, Rachel squeezed her eyes closed. She was almost afraid to look for fear she would see some sign of her mother’s death.

Eventually, she opened her eyes to find all as it normally was—not that “normal” gave anything away. I won’t last long. Had Jillian lasted long enough for Rachel’s efforts to make any difference?

Lord Druridge slid off the horse and helped her down, at which point she forced her frozen feet to lead them through the small, fenced garden she tended for her family.

At the door, she stood aside and waved them in. Her unsteady legs wouldn’t carry her beyond the threshold for fear of what she might find.