Luckily, she was small…and quick. Quick enough to dodge Rayne when he emerged from the coach to stretch his legs.
He lifted himself onto the back rail and yanked on the straps securing the luggage.
Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, those hands. Large, but elegant. And oh, how he moved, his long limbs latent with power. Just looking at him melted her female parts.Why such a reaction?
She wasn’t sure.
Katherine had promised to explain…but not before Julia was safely engaged.
And, anyway,whyshe was tingling need not be answered for her to admire Rayne’s thighs. Surely he’d grown more muscular since he’d left. In fact, his upper leg appeared to have a greater circumference than her waist. She lifted her own, small hands, squinting to see if they could span—
Rayne turned sharply toward the trees.
She ducked.
“Ready, guv!” Tommy called.
Rayne frowned in her direction, and then, shaking his head, he made his way back around to the carriage door.
She exhaled, long and slow. That had been close.
The carriage jerked as the great wooden wheels squeaked into a roll. She ran to catch up, hopped back up onto the rail, and grinned like a child who’d pocketed a secret sweet.
As for what she’d do with Rayne, once she had him—intimate exploration of those thighs had obliterated delivery to pirates.
At mile twelve, just before the chariot reached the next coaching inn, Julia repeated her winning strategy—hop off, hide, run to catch up, swing back on, and hold tight.
It took a little bit longer to catch her breath this time, but no matter.
She’d made it to the first change of postilions. Meaning there was little chance this postilion—whomever he was—would recognize her. Two, maybe three more stops, and they’d be far enough away for her to execute her next step.
Only, over the next three postilion changes the skies gradually darkened and the already-cool air turned frigid. Cloaked in complete darkness, her optimism frayed.
PerhapsFarring’s enthusiasm had made her overlook afewpotential difficulties.
She’d known Rayne would ride through the night.
She’d realized holding on to the back of the carriage would challenge her stamina.
The real problem, however, proved to be the cold. She’d fully dressed for December, but none of her preparations proved impervious.
Underneath the livery, she’d donned a thick flannel shirt borrowed from a Southford stable boy. Extra padding in the form of bindings secured her breasts. Markham’s old greatcoat hung heavy off her shoulders. She’d doubled up socks beneath her boots. And even her breeches had breeches, for goodness’ sake.
Still, cold frosted between her wet lashes.
Cold froze her wind-burned cheeks.
Cold wove like smoke through her supposedly impenetrable layers, lapping up against her skin.
And that wasbeforeit began to rain.
Between two and three in the morning—she’d lost all perception of time—a fine sheen coated her clothes, her face, and her gloves. So, when they stopped to water, hiding in wet trees was not an option. If she didn’t move, she’d freeze.
She had to do something and quick.
To her relief, Rayne failed to emerge from the coach. Which meant she could make herself known—useful—and, in the process, warm up.
She approached the front of the traveling chariot, sparing the briefest of glances for the drawn curtains covering the window. She imagined Rayne fast asleep on the cushioned bench within, happily huddled beneath a thick, soft blanket.
