As if to emphasize his point, the heavens erupted again: A glittering bolt of lightning lit up the night with garish white, followed by an enormous clap of thunder, which sent the frightened horses plunging wildly ahead.
“Do your best,” she urged, grabbing the strap again as the coach lunged forward.
Thankfully the coachman wrestled his team to a halt, but another delay ensued while the two postilions climbed down to hand-lead the jittery horses through the engulfing tempest. It was heavy going, slogging through the mud and driving rain, and they only managed a snail’s pace.
Pitying the poor servants and animals who were exposed to the violent storm, Arabella muttered a frustrated oath. No doubt Sybil was tucked snugly in bed at an inn, sleeping soundly, while her pursuers were risking life and limb to chase after her.
By some miracle the coach made it safely to the Duck and Bill and limped into the deserted stable yard. The rain still came down in torrents, though, and when the coach door was opened by one of her footmen, it was slammed back by a gust of wind with enough force to take Arabella’s breath away.
Although she drew her hooded cloak tightly around her, by the time she made it inside the inn, she was drenched and shivering. But the innkeeper and his wife were eager to accommodate her, promising to see to her servants and horses and offering Arabella the last empty bedchamber. There was no private parlor available, since the inn was nearly full with stranded travelers.
She explained her lack of baggage similarly, by saying she hadn’t planned on stopping overnight, and giving the same tale as before about her aunt being critically ill. When she asked after her “cousin” Sybil, however, Arabella was gratified to hear that a couple matching Sybil’s and Onslow’s descriptions had changed horses and taken supper there some three hours earlier, which at least gave her confidence that she was on the right track.
The innkeeper’s wife led Arabella upstairs to a small but cozy bedchamber and lit the fire in the hearth, then left promising to bring her some supper and hot mulled wine shortly. Soon a welcoming blaze burned brightly enough to take the chill from the room although not from her bones.
Arabella removed her sodden cloak as well as her mu
d-caked shoes and stockings and arranged them before the fire to dry. Yet she couldn’t sit still. Instead, she paced restlessly before the hearth, feeling utterly impotent. The storm had spoiled her plans to reach Sybil tonight. Now she could only hope that the elopers had been delayed by the dreadful weather as well-and even if not, that she would catch up to them sometime tomorrow.
After a while, however, the lack of activity sent Arabella’s thoughts wandering down a different path, and she found herself dwelling on her own predicament, namely her wager with Marcus.
Rubbing her chilled arms as she stared down at the fire, she wondered if he would demand more time to win, since she hadn’t allowed him to share her company at all today and might not be home by tomorrow. And from there, she started remembering their moonlit tryst last night…how Marcus had taken her standing up, the searing passion-
Realizing where her errant reflections had taken her, Arabella gave a snort of vexation and turned away from the hearth.
Suddenly a wave of exhaustion claimed her. Since there was nothing more she could do this evening, she decided she might as well try to sleep, although the noise from the storm would likely make that difficult. Rain beat against the shutters, while the wind moaned around the eaves.
Trying to ignore the bluster, she removed her gown and petticoats and corset, intending to sleep in her shift, since she had no nightdress. She had just drawn a quilt around her to keep warm when she heard a soft rap on the door. Expecting that the innkeeper’s wife had returned with her supper and wine, Arabella crossed the room in time to hear the woman call out: “Yer ladyship? Yer ’usband is come.”
Husband? Arabella thought with puzzlement.
Pulling the quilt more tightly about her, she opened the door partway to peer out.
Her eyes widened first in surprise, then elation. Marcus stood there in the corridor, his wet ebony hair plastered to his head, the capes of his great coat dripping with rain, his top boots coated with mud. The leather saddlebags he’d slung over one arm were also soaked through, as was the tall beaver hat he carried.
When he offered her a cool smile, Arabella drank in the sight of him, realizing that he had somehow ridden after her. Odd how seeing him not only filled her with gladness but made all her weariness and misery suddenly evaporate.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” he said, pushing the door open and strolling past her into the room. “I am pleased I finally caught up to you.”
Chapter Fifteen
It is deplorable, how few defenses I have against him.
– Arabella to Fanny
After tossing his hat and saddlebags on a table, Marcus turned to survey Arabella’s beautiful face with a cross between anger and relief. Relief that she had made it safely through the fierce storm and that he had managed to overtake her. Anger because she had set out on a potentially dangerous mission by herself, with no thought to her own safety.
At least she didn’t refute his claim of being her husband in front of the inn’s proprietress. Evidently Arabella understood the necessity of endorsing the lie to protect her reputation, for she offered him a smile of welcome. “I did not expect you to follow me, dearest.”
“I disliked you making such a long journey alone without my protection, love,” Marcus replied tersely.
“But I had no wish to put you to such trouble.”
When his gaze narrowed on Arabella, her luminous gray eyes returned his regard steadily.
A throat being politely cleared reminded Marcus they were not alone; the proprietress lingered just outside the bedchamber door.
The woman indicated the tray she carried. “I’ve a pot of hot mulled wine for ’er ladyship, m’lord, and some supper.”