Rosie was pulling his gloves from his near frozen fingers—one hand crushed a sodden bill, and she shoved the wad of paper into her pocket. Then she lifted his knuckles to her lips to press warm kisses to them, pouring her relief onto his fingers.
“Can you walk? Oh, please say you can walk—I can help you.” The road was close—they could find a tavern, a hotel, someplace to take care of him.
He didn’t answer, but when Bull threw his arm around her shoulder, she could feel how hard he was shaking.
“I have you,” she whispered, stooping to grab the briefcase. “Come on, I have you.”
As they stumbled back toward the road, Bull muttered something. She glanced up at his pale jawline—his hat was long lost, his auburn hair plastered and frozen to his temples and cheeks. “What?”
“Came back,” he managed passed chattering teeth. “To ye.”
Rosie’s arm tightened around him, although she wasn’t sure how much help she was actually being. “You did,” she choked, stumbling onward, legs burning at his almost dead weight. “You came back to me. Thank you, Bull.”
“…m-m-matter. M-My Rose.”
She wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, so she merely shook her head, swallowed down her sob, and did her best to increase their speed.
Alnwick was a sleepy little village, but Lord Tittle-Tattle lived far enough from the center that she was panting with exertion by the time they reached it. She remembered seeing a few hotels near the train station, with restaurants and shops. But that was miles away—out here…
An inn! Rosie directed their shambling steps toward the building, back aching but determination propelling her, and when they pushed through the front door she felt the stares of the locals who were sitting around the tap room.
“A room,” she gasped to the proprietor, as Bull’s fingers—shaking as they warmed—reached for the edge of the counter. “Please. He has—my betrothed has fallen into the river.”
She was frightened enough for Bull that she was having trouble remembering her role. Betrothed? Yes, yes, she had his ring. They were supposed to be engaged, but then they wouldn’t be able to share a room.
And she was most definitely sharing a room with him. If she didn’t help him get warm, he could very well die.
No. No, she would not allow that to happen.
Thank God, the proprietor was a no-nonsense sort of man. He took one look at Bull, dripping all over his floor and shaking violently, and nodded once. “Upstairs, third door on the left.” He handed Rosie a key. “I’ll bring up hot water and food.”
“Thankyou,” she said gratefully, pushing her shoulder under Bull’s arm once more and tightening her hold on the briefcase. “Our luggage is at the station under the name Lindsay. I would be most grateful if you could send someone to fetch it.”
He nodded again, and was already moving toward the back of the taproom—hopefully to fetch the hot water—as Rosie led Bull toward the stairs.
“’ank ye,” he managed, gripping the railing and trying his best to help lift himself. “C-C-Cold?—”
“Hush,” she warned him. “I have you.”
And she did.
Somehow, she got him up the stairs and into the room. The briefcase went beside the key on the bureau and she began to strip Bull of his overcoat. He was shaking so violently, she wasn’t sure how he could stay upright.
A knock on the door heralded two maids who entered with steaming hot water, towels, and a tray with some sort of soup and bread and cheese. A young man followed, heaving Rosie and Bull’s luggage. As he stacked it in the corner, she breathed a sigh of relief.
But he was still in danger—she had to warm Bull somehow.
As the others filed out of the room, offering her advice she didn’t hear, Rosie’s attention was focused on the man she—the only man she’d come to care about. The man who’d said all those incredibly sweet things to her. The man who had helped so many for so long.
It was her turn to savehim.
CHAPTER 10
Rosie’s hands shook—not with cold, although she was now quite damp, thanks to draping the soaked Bull across her—as she stripped out of her own winter wear and hung it beside his near the blazing hearth. Now the others had left, Bull had stumbled toward the fire and sunk to his knees in front of it, reaching for the warmth.
Her heart was pounding against her rib cage. Not just in fear for him, but determination too.
Rosie sank to her haunches beside him, and as Bull almost toppled forward, spreading his palms against the stone of the ancient hearth, she reached for his boots. Oh, why were these knots so tiny, so frozen? Her fingers felt leaden, the shoelaces impossibly tight?—
