She had hit her head.
It was snowing.
At least Mr Beaumont appeared to be, if not unhurt, then at least alive. That was something.
She looked up at him, at the way his form was already rapidly being covered by the falling snow. They could not remain here.
“Here,” she said, finding the blankets and handing them to him. “We should think about staying warm. Do you know where we are?”
If he was surprised by the way she took control of the situation, he didn’t show it. “I’m afraid not.”
“Never mind. We’ll have to walk until we find something, unless you think we can right the carriage ourselves.”
“No.” There was a trace of pained irony in his voice. “That, I fear, will prove impossible.”
“As I thought.” She put aside all thoughts of freezing to death. That was simply not an option when she had a sister to get back to. Instead, she gathered the blankets and handed them up tohim. “We’ll need these, then. We can put them over the horses. Are they all right?”
“I think so.” He accepted the blankets with one awkward hand, then returned for her. Pistol in one hand, she clambered free with his help. The cold hit her anew, as did the wind. When she jumped down from the upended carriage, her feet sank into several inches of snow.
Mr Beaumont’s face was, for once, utterly grim. And the carriage was ruined—on its side, several splintered pieces of wood jutting into the air. Perhaps, under other circumstances, it might have provided an imperfect shelter, but it would not have protected them against the chill for long.
And then there were the horses to think about.
She turned back to Mr Beaumont, a biting reflection of his driving jumping to her tongue—only to fade in the next second, thanks to the awkward way he held one arm. His lips were pale, and his hair was plastered against his head. Snow coated every part of him.
Her anger dissipated.
“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.
“Broken arm, I should think.” He grimaced. “Hurts like the devil.” His gaze caught on her head, and he swore under his breath, taking her chin with his good hand and turning her head this way and that. “What happened here?”
“I think one of the bricks hit my head.”
He cursed again, and Emily was faintly surprised the snow didn’t melt around the ferocity of his words. His thumb touched her cheekbone, his touch surprisingly gentle, and he wiped away a trickle of blood. “Can you still see straight?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” She wasn’t sure if she was, but they didn’t have the luxury of collapse; with him in that state, he wouldn’t be able to carry her to safety, or even lift her onto a horse.
“No you’re not,” he said, his voice low and ominous. “Neither of us are. We are in a storm and I have no bloody idea where we are, or if we’re even in Scotland or England.”
Emily shuddered, the cold biting at her elbows and nose. The throbbing in her head hadn’t ceased with the chill; if anything, it was worse.
“Lean on me,” he said, still with that grimness in his voice. “Let me get you to the horses.” He wrapped a hand around her wrist to lead her to where the horses stood at the front of the carriage. They were all upright. Oliver had piled the blankets on one, and its pair had a hurt hock by the looks of it. The other two appeared unhurt but unsaddled and obviously spooked, eyes rolling. Snow settled on their backs.
There was no scenario in which they could ride these horses to safety.
To Emily’s embarrassment, she found the simple contact of his hand around her wrist a source of reassurance. They were in this together.
“The first thing we ought to do is secure your arm,” she said, trying to think. When her father had broken his arm, the physician had set the bone and tied it to a splint. There was nothing easily available to set the bone with here, but if she at least pinned the arm to his body, that would keep it still.
Mr Beaumont shook his head. “There’s no—”
“We’ll use a blanket for a sling. It’ll be better than nothing until we can find a doctor.”
“And you will be the one to do it?” he asked sceptically, the sarcasm in his tone belied by the sweat beading on his brow. “Darling, you can hardly stand up straight.”
“Neither can you,” she snapped. “And if we are to traipse through the countryside during a storm, we would be better off doing so in as full health as possible.” Ignoring his irritated huff, she stomped to the blankets and, placing the pistol aside, shookone out. Impossible to get all the snow free, but she did her best, refolding it with shaking hands. He winced, and she winced along with him. “I’m sorry,” she said, tying the two ends around his neck. “But we need to hold the limb in place.”
He breathed harshly through gritted teeth. “It’s fine.”
