The maid made a sound of impatience. She had apparently heard the condescension in his voice. “I mean, do we bury them?”
“Too wet for that. And soon it will be too dark.” Kit lifted the body up onto the coach and climbed up beside it. “I’ll store them inside until we can report what happened.” He gently lowered the man into the vehicle. “Sorry, man. Wish we could do better.” The coachman had been a proper ass, but he hadn’t deserved this death.
Kit had also best hurry with this grim task. The storm was rapidly rebuilding. The clouds were gathering to block out what little of thefading day was left. He jumped down from the coach and walked to the guard’s body.
“What of us?” the maid asked. “Where will we go?” She paused, and then, as if admitting a great failing, confessed, “I don’t know if I want to weather the storm inside the coach with dead men.”
“I know I don’t.” Kit boosted the guard onto his shoulders. “Especially since more rain is coming. We need to find somewhere drier.”
He’d managed not to look at the dead men’s faces. This was grisly work. A year ago, he would have been too fastidious to do it.
Reaching the coach, he climbed onto it with his second burden. He was about to lower the guard inside when, in the oil lamp’s weakening flame, he caught sight of his hat. It had fallen off when he’d stood up and now rested precariously on the edge of the seat.
Kit had grown fond of the wide-brimmed hat. It made him feel like a man of the people.
Rolling the guard’s body aside, he reached until he could catch the leather brim between two fingers. It gave him great satisfaction to slap it on his head. He then eased the second body into the coach. One man lay on the other. It couldn’t be helped. Tomorrow, when he had light and, hopefully, more help, he would see to giving them the dignity they deserved.
He straightened. The mist was rapidly changing to rain. “I suggest we seek shelter.”
The maid stood to the side of the vehicle. “And how shall we do that?”
“We are on a main road. There must be a cottage or a manor close by.”
“I don’t know,” she answered, her voice worried.
“I do,” he replied with confidence. This was England. Certainly, there would be someone living close to the road.
“Maybe we should stay here?” she suggested.
“With the bodies?” he reminded her.
Her face was a white oval tight with concern in the gathering darkness. “Which direction shall we take?” she asked at last.
“Does it make a difference?” He hopped down. The bottoms of his socks were thoroughly soaked now and it was damn uncomfortable. “Come,” he said. “We shouldn’t have to walk far.” He offered a gloved hand. “Are you dry beneath that cloak?” He was thankful for his oilcloth coat.
“Dry enough,” she answered, ignoring his hand. She started walking back in the direction the coach had traveled.
So much for friendliness. With a shrug, Kit followed, a bit relieved to not have made the decision on direction. Hauling bodies was not only unsavory work, but a reminder of how close Kit and the maid had come to death. He was more than willing to put distance between him and the accident. He hoped they could find a safe haven quickly. A friendly fire and a warm toddy would mellow the hard edges of this day.He began scanning the forest for any sign of civilization.
He was so taken with that task, he almost walked right over her.
“Would you watch yourself?” she demanded.
“Would you move a little faster?” he snapped back. “I’d like to find shelter before we receive another drenching.”
Her response was a huff. She pulled ahead of him, head up, shoulders back. A queen couldn’t hold her nose so high in the air. Her feet made sloppy sounds in the mud.
Kit grinned. Wasn’t it said Irish lasses were too headstrong for their own good? His companion was giving truth to the statement.
Except at that moment, the skies opened. Rain poured down and from off in the distance came a crack of lightning.
Enough of games. Kit reached for the maid, grabbed her arm, and dragged her into the shelter of the forest.
Chapter Three
Any man can lose his hat in a fairy wind.
Irish proverb
