He gave a rueful grin. “My damned honour,” was all he said as he closed the door behind her. A minute or two later, the carriage lurched into motion, and they left the inn behind them.
Every part of Oliver was cold. He had paid a coachman a handsome sum for his oiled leather greatcoat, which deflected most of the precipitation—snow, call it snow, you fool—but his hands had clawed into icicles around the reins, and he wasconfident his nose was half a thought from departing his face entirely.
He ought to have just left her there despite her protests, marriage or no. He’d offered—it was entirely on her that she had refused him. Not exactly how he’d envisaged his first proposal to go, but never mind.
But no. She could not be prevailed upon to marry him, and for reasons beyond his understanding, he had agreed to brave the storm to return her home.
Henry would approve. And the thought made Oliver want to rebel. He was not a man who did the right thing for virtue’s sake alone.
Damn it all.
More to the point, he had lost any desire to marry Isabella. If the girldidlove him, that would make the entire thing uncomfortable. He had been certain she didn’t, but Miss Brunton’s insistence she did had shaken him.
Or, perhaps worse still, she might tell Emily she loved him so he would be forced to marry her, all while merely coveting the prospect of his inheritance.
He ought to leave the lot of them behind.
The wind blew drifted snow across the road, and Oliver squinted. Was that a corner coming up ahead?
The curve finally appeared to him, and he swore, hauling on the reins. The horses reared, trying to desperately to correct their course, but the wheels skidded against the slick ground, and momentum shot them forward. Too fast.
His fault, for thinking he might beat the storm.
His fault, for not seeing the approaching corner past the blizzard.
The horses tossed their heads, and the air burned his lungs as he drew in a deep, snow-filled breath. The countryside lookedforeign, covered in white as it was. It was impossible to know where the road stopped and the verge began.
He cursed again, hands numb as he gripped the wooden bar before him.
The carriage shuddered. Tipped.
He knew the second it was beyond the point of no return. Time seemed to slow, thick as honey, as the carriage tipped. Past the howling wind, he thought he heard a scream. The horses whinnied, and gravity took hold of him, tossing him from the hard coachman’s bench and headfirst into a snowdrift.
Chapter Six
Emilycametoinaching, ringing silence. Her head throbbed. When she put a hand to her temple, her fingers came away damp. Dim light filtered through the window, which, she thought, gazed up at the sky. Already, snow covered the glass.
She, along with the brick—she suspected the source of the wound on her head—and the blankets were lying against the side of the carriage, which now faced down.
Everything felt too quiet, sound dampened by the falling snow. Her breath came in juddering fits—the only thing she could hear. Slowly, moving in a daze, she reassured herself that no other part of her was hurt. Arms, legs, torso. Only her head ached, sharp stabs of pain every time she moved. Her thoughts moved fuzzily about her head.
They had crashed. That was it. The carriage had tilted, and they had landed hard, and—
“Emily!” The sound was distant, but it cut through the ringing in her ears, and she moved her head, searching for the source of the voice. The door opened, letting snowflakes drive inside, anda head poked through. “Are you all right?” Mr Beaumont asked a little desperately, his voice tight.
“I—I think so.” She sounded as dreamy as she felt. Surely, any second, she would open her eyes and find herself rattling back along the snowy countryside.
“Give me your hand.” He opened the door wide and extended a hand, his entire demeanour thick with strain.
No, not strain. Pain.
When she didn’t move, he added, “I’ll pull you free.”
She exhaled sharply, forcing away the fuzziness with sheer force of will. This wouldnotget the best of her. All she needed was to approach the situation with a modicum of logic. A few truths were undeniable.
They had been in some form of accident.
The carriage lay on its side, presumably in a ditch.
