Chapter1
Benedict Asterly kicked in the door to the Longmans’ empty farmhouse. Despite the crash of splintered wood, the chit slung over his shoulder was as silent as a sack of last season’s grain.
Lady Amelia Bloody Crofton. Half dead, soon to be all dead if he couldn’t warm her up.
He lowered her onto the cold, uneven stone floor before the fireplace.
Damnation.There was no fog of breath, no flicker of pulse, no sign of life at all.
He’d almost ridden past the snow-covered carriage in his effort to get out of the storm. He’d been an idiot for traveling in this kind of weather but apparently not the only idiot on the road.
Why the devil was an earl’s daughter alone in a carriage all the way out here?
He pressed two fingers against her neck. Nothing. He pressed harder.
Th-thump…th-thump. It was faint. It was slow and erratic. But it was there.
Thank God.
He sagged with relief. The ropes around his chest, that had drawn tight the moment he’d seen her pale and unconscious, loosened.
He turned to the hearth and struck flint into the brush with shaking fingers. The scrape, scrape, scrape of steel on stone faint against the howl of the wind.
It caught, and he began the methodical task of building a fire. With each carefully placed stack, his racing heartbeat slowed. Thank God, Aldrich had restocked the wood supply before taking his children to visit their grandparents. Benedict had no desire to reenter the tempest.
Behind him, Lady Amelia muttered.
“I’m here. I’m with you.” He turned back to the woman who’d previously declined to acknowledge his existence. After all, a man like him was beneath her notice.
He tossed aside the coarse traveling coat he’d thrown over her and removed her gloves and pelisse, struggling with the weight of her ragdoll body.
Bloody hell she was cold.
How long had she been trapped in that broken-down carriage? At least she’d had the good sense not to leave it.
He took her soft hands in his calloused ones, bringing them to his lips, but his breath did little to warm them.
Unbuttoning the cuffs of her sleeves and rolling the fabric up her arms, he exposed as much of her bare skin to the seeping warmth as he could. Her skin was more than pale. It had a blue pallor that caused his heart to skitter.
“Just stay with me. Please.”
In a cupboard by the bed, he found some blankets. He pulled a knife from his boot to cut a piece and wrap the ends of her sodden blond hair. The rest he tucked behind her head and shoulders.
He untied the laces on her ankle boots and pulled the boots off, pausing at the sight of her stockings.
They were cold and damp. They needed to come off too. But a footman’s son had no place touching a lady. And this particular lady? The ice princess would skewer him with the poker if she knew what he was contemplating.
He turned his head aside, giving her all the modesty he could as he reached his hands under her skirts, fumbling with the ribbon of her garter.
“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t hear him, but just saying the words made him feel less of a cad.
He tugged the dark wool off her toes. The skin was red and like wax to touch—but it was only frostnip, not yet frostbite.
“You mustn’t…giant calling.” Her words were so slurred he struggled to understand them.
“I’ll bear that in mind, princess.”
Of all the idiotic things he had done, tonight’s escapade was the worst. The carriage had barely made it to the posting house. Instead of thanking God for the solid roof and warm fire, Benedict had left the carriage and its driver to go the last mile home on horseback.
