“Ho!”
The carriage lurched, horses screaming in protest as the wheels skidded along the damp gravel. The sudden halt sent Benedict careening along the bench. His shoulder smacked against the wall, and the interior lantern swayed threateningly on its hook, casting angry shadows throughout the space.
Wayland caught Benedict’s gaze, his eyes wide, startled.
When the lantern stilled, no longer teetering ominously, both men released a simultaneous breath.
“What the devil was that?” Wayland asked as he shoved his head out the window. “Fuck!” He tucked back inside. “Downed tree.”
From outside, Benedict caught the murmurs of the driver struggling to calm the terrified horses.
“Fuck!” Benedict was surprised to see his hands shaking as he reached for the handle. He stumbled from the carriage, Wayland tumbling out after him.
“Is everyone alright?”
“Yes,” the outrider called back as he made a circuit around the carriage. He bent down, inspecting the wheels and axles.
“Horses are spooked, but they’re all fine too,” the driver said as he worked to unhitch them.
Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Benedict and Wayland approached the downed tree. The scents of earth and decay met Benedict’s nostrils first. It was wet, heavy wood and nearly three feet in circumference. When it fell, it had ripped clean from the boggy earth, the gnarled nest of dead roots and soil clinging to the base.
The damned rotting tree he’d never found the time to clear.
“How far is it?” Wayland asked hopefully.
Benedict shook his head. “Seven, perhaps eight miles.”
“Better to go over, you suppose? Or through?”
Benedict eyed the width of the trunk. Even with four of them, it would be a struggle to get the luxurious—heavy—carriage over. This part of the road carved through the moorland. Scaling the mossy, miry ground to round the tree may have been workable for the men on foot. But the horses… And lifting the carriage over the log…
“Through if we can. You there,” he directed to the outrider. “Is there an axe?” Benedict stripped his waistcoat and cravat, his outercoat long abandoned on their drive.
The outrider searched for a moment before freeing an axe from under the driver’s box. “Aye,” he said, handing it out to Benedict. The driver, sensing the plan, moved the horses away.
Benedict’s hands shook so violently he could barely grip the axe. He ground his jaw until it hurt—he could not afford to fall apart now. With every ounce of worry and fury in his body, he drew the axe back and brought it forward.Thunk.It carved deeper than he had expected but not as deep as he had hoped. Again, he brought it up, bracing his abdomen as he slammed it down into the wood. Splinters and chunks of sour timber flew, cascading like raindrops.
Again and again, his axe fell with a dull, unsatisfyingthunk. He reared back again, and?—
The split was agonizing—white-hot lightning shot up his spine. One of his wounds had ripped open. Copper perfumed the air, blending with the salt of his sweat. For one mad second, he imagined it was the lash again, his father’s voice barking orders, the boy he had been cowering under the blow.
His swing didn’t falter.
“You’re bleeding, you are,” the driver said.
“Aye.”
“Sinclair, what on earth?” Wayland asked.
With a growl, Benedict handed the axe off to the outrider to continue hacking. “It’s nothing.”
“Why are you bleeding?”
Benedict rolled his eyes before yanking the shirt over his head and offering the older man his back.
The driver gasped. Benedict neither knew nor cared why.
“Switch when you tire,” he ordered.
