chapter Twenty-four
Darkness. Quiet. Miranda reveled in it for a moment, breathing hard, holding the earth as though an anchor. Dirt crumbled beneath her fingers, and dead winter grass prickled her nose. She sneezed and the back of her head slammed into something hard. The carriage was on top of her, she realized with a start of terror. She flopped about, desperate to be free of her prison. It would not budge. Her chest squeezed painfully, her throat closing. Breathe! She took a slow breath, and another.
Tentatively, she wriggled her toes, fingers… all working. Everything ached, but there were no sharp pains that she could detect. Other than the horrible pounding in her head and a slight throbbing on her elbows and knees, she felt perfectly fine.
She had room, not much of it, but enough. No sound of horses. Which was all fine save there was no one around for miles, and she was assuredly out of sight of the main road. The image of bugs and vermin crawling in to taste her flesh loomed high in her mind, and she started violently. Then the ominous sound of strained timber creaked overhead. She froze, the pounding of her heart filling her ears, when another sound broke through the muffled silence of her tomb—a man shouting. She pressed an ear toward the carriage body. Another desperate roar of terror, the sound of which went straight to her core.
“Miranda!”
“Archer,” she whispered, tears blurring her eyes. A whimpering sob broke from her lips. He’d come. He was alive.
“Miranda!” His shout was clearer now. He was by the carriage, obviously looking around for her and failing.
“I’m here.” Her voice sounded pathetically small and weak in the dark space. He wouldn’t hear.
“Archer!” she called louder, filling the space with her voice.
Pounding footsteps reverberated through the dirt, then came a jostling of the carriage above. The wooden body of the carriage sunk down an inch and pressed into her bottom.
“Stop!” she screeched. “You’ll bloody crush me.”
Odd, she thought as the pressure instantly ceased, one could always tell when another was cursing violently, even when the words were unclear. The thought of Archer in a temper rallied her more than anything. He’d find help and get her free.
She could only gape in a stupor when a loud groan ran through the wooden carriage frame and the pressure upon her back began to ease. Surely he did not mean to lift the bloody thing himself?
Surely he did. The carriage slowly rose, pale moonlight seeping in as it ascended. The toes of muddy boots came into view. Another groan shot through the night, this one altogether human and strained. A cacophony of splintering wood, squeaking springs, and Archer’s shout rang in her ears as the carriage toppled back onto its broken wheels to land in a rattling heap next to her. Cool fresh air filled her lungs.
“Thank God. Miri… ah, stop!”
Archer jumped to her side the instant she began to wobble to her knees.
“Don’t bloody try to rise! Damn fool, woman… Your spine may have been injured,” he lectured as he knelt before her. “Not to mention…” His words faded from her hearing as she drank up the sight of him—alive and whole.
His usually gentle upper lip was set firm, a sure sign of irritation. The squared-off line of his cheek and jaw was pale blue in the moonlight but unmarred.
“Your ankles appear unharmed…”
Dimly, she felt the gentle touch of fingers running up her calf. He’d retained his silk mask, but a large rent ran along the shoulder seam of his fine suit coat, and a lapel was gone. On the whole, however, he did not look like a man who’d gone head first off a speeding coach.
“Can you turn your head? I say, can you turn your head!”
“Pardon?” She blinked and found his eyes narrowed on her.
“Can you turn your head?” he asked with forced patience. “Slowly.”
She turned her head from side to side.
“Good.” He went on with his examination. “Lift your arms?”
She did as asked, only half listening. The skeletal form of the carriage’s wreckage had caught her eye when she turned right. Black scars of turned-up earth and grass marked the carriage’s trip down the slope. It had landed on a streambed. Only luck and dry weather had made it possible for her to fall within the deepest crevice of the dried-up bed, with the carriage landing on its side above her. A shiver of gratitude rent through her.
Such a blessing brought her back to her senses and, with it, the realization that Archer’s big hands roamed over her hips, scarcely covered by her thin drawers.
“Hold on!” She slapped at his hands.
His lips curled grimly, but he did not look up from his work and brushed her hands aside. “Be still. Of all the stubborn…” He broke off into mumbled Italian, which she could not follow, her Italian being limited to fencing terms.
His large hands moved up to her ribs, his touch light yet assured. The same could not be said for her breathing, which rapidly became unsteady as he put a hand on either side of her rib cage and gently felt along each bone with his fingers.
One thumb brushed the soft underside of her breast, and she froze. And so did he. Archer lifted his eyes to hers, focusing on them with such frowning intensity that she could only stare back wordlessly. His eyes narrowed further, the hands at her sides unmoving. Then his stern mouth broke into a lopsided smile.
“You’re unharmed,” he said thickly.
“Well, of course I am,” she said rather sharply, fearful that the slightest movement would cause his hand to slide upward. “I could have told you as much if you’d have let me.”
“You’re unharmed,” he said again and then closed his eyes with a sigh of relief.