She stared at him. "You want me to drive them?"
"No. But it's the only way not to leave them out all night. It'll freeze before dawn and they've run for hours and haven't been rubbed down."
It was only then that Amanda noticed the temperature. She glanced around and shivered. "Where are we? Where are we going?"
Martin's already grim expression turned grimmer. "We're in the Peak district-it's high, so it's cold, and will get a lot colder through what's left of the night." He drew in a breath, his eyes meeting hers. "Reggie's not out of the woods. If we can tend the wound, keep him warm-with luck, he'll pull through. But shock combined with blood loss compounded by serious cold… we have to get him to shelter soon."
She got the distinct impression he was convincing himself, not her. "So where…?"
It suddenly occurred to her that he knew where they were. He confirmed it by nodding to the lane leading west. "We go that way." He grasped her waist, lifted her to the curricle's seat. She settled her skirts; he untied the reins and handed them to her. "You can drive a team, can't you?"
"Of course!" She took the reins.
"Follow a good ten yards back, just in case I have to stop suddenly."
As he turned away, she asked, "What lies that way?"
He didn't look back as he strode to the coach. "Hathersage." He took another two strides before adding, "My home."
In daylight, it would have been an easy drive; in fitful moonlight, every nerve was taut as she urged the tired horses along in the coach's wake. At least the lane was wide. It led due west, dipping, then rising, winding onward and upward between wood-covered hills.
They reached a river; the coach trundled slowly, carefully, across a stone bridge, then turned north. She followed, easing the horses along. Hired nags, they were not as responsive as she would have liked, but she managed to keep them plodding.
A village lay sleeping, scattered cottages standing back from the lane. A church stood at the end; as they passed it, she felt a rising breeze. Looked up, sensing a change in the landscape-and discovered the countryside open and spread before her. Rising up all around her. Twisting on the curricle's seat, she marveled at the towering cliffs hovering darkly over the valley, over the patchwork of fields and coppices, at the river tinkling softly beside the lane, moonlight reflecting in silver ripples.
Stark and dramatic in the moonlight, the scene would be even more impressive by day when it would be possible to appreciate the colors and the sheer magnitude of the wild expanse encircled by the massive bluffs.
The coach rumbled on. The lane dipped, wound around. Some sixth sense had her looking up, searching ahead… then she saw it. A house-a large, long mansion-stood halfway up the slope directly ahead, veiled in the shadows cast by the cliff behind it. The river curved westward; the road followed it, but she felt sure their destination lay directly ahead.
So it proved. Martin turned the coach up an overgrown drive; a little way on they passed through a pair of heavy gates left wide. The trees closed in, monstrous oaks and elms and others she couldn't be sure of in the night, a silent corps of guards watching their arrival. Leaves shifted; a soft soughing filled the trees, not frightening but gently mournful.
Otherwise, all was deathly silent.
She was accustomed to country estates at night, to private parks that extended for miles, yet the sense of emptiness here was profound. It touched her with a wraith's fingers, again not to frighten but to plead…
The drive ended and the house appeared before them, silent and shuttered-deserted. She could feel it. A short lawn lay before the house, rudely tended; a fountain and shrubs stood further down the slope, the remnants of a parterre to one side. The view back down the river valley was breathtaking even now. Wild, rugged, heartbreakingly beautiful.
Martin didn't stop before the front steps but followed the drive around the side of the house, into a large courtyard behind it. Reluctantly turning from the view, she kept the curricle rolling in the coach's wake, drawing rein so the horses finally stopped, hung their heads, a yard from the back of the coach.
She applied the brake, wound the reins around it, dragged in a relieved breath, and only then noticed how chilled she was. Her breath misted before her face; her gloved fingers felt frozen. She flexed them, then climbed down and hurried to the coach.
Martin had already checked the occupants; he was striding to the back of the house. She looked into the coach, received a nod from Onslow, then followed Martin.
He pounded on the back door as she neared the covered porch. There was no lamp burning anywhere. Stepping aside, she peered through one window, and glimpsed a spark of light.
"Someone's coming." She joined Martin in the porch.
"Aye?" came from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"
Martin opened his mouth, hesitated, then stated, "Dexter."
"Dex…" The sounds of bolts being drawn back reached them, then the door was hauled open. A wispy-haired old man stood holding a candle high, peering, wide eyed at Martin. "Praise be! Is it really you, Master Martin?"
"Yes, Colly, it's me." Stepping forward, Martin turned Colly and guided him back inside. "We've two injured men to tend. Are you the only one here?"
"Aye-just me. It's been that way since… well, Martha Miggs went back to her brother's farm, and I stayed on to keep the place tight."
A few steps had taken them through a small hall into a cavernous kitchen. Martin stopped; on his heels, Amanda stared. Cobwebs hung in the corners; only the area before the main hearth looked lived in. She blinked, then stepped forward. "We'll need the fire built up, first. Then we'll have to see about a bed."