Lifting the hem of her skirts from the forest floor Catherine turned and started back towards the estate, her forehead set in three fine lines as she worried what to do next. There was no telling how long Marcus would remain at Woodsgate. The man was stubborn as an ass, and she had no doubt he would stay away just to spite her. In fact, she was certain of it.
“But he cannot stay away,” she mused, a smile dawning slowly across her face, “if I go to him.”
Chapter Two
Catherine was soundly regretting her decision to travel halfway across Scotland when, two weeks later, she found herself stranded at the foot of a mud strewn hill with a broken carriage and an irate driver who barely spoke decipherable English. It was also raining, great big buckets of rain that had soaked her clear through to the skin in a matter of seconds after she left the carriage to investigate why they had stopped so suddenly.
“Sir, excuse me. Excuse me, sir!” she called into the rain, and when that failed procured a white handkerchief from the pocket of her cloak and waved it wildly in the air to get the driver’s attention.
A short, squat man with a shock of red hair and a bulbous nose, the driver had barely spoken two words to her since she had hired him in Carlisle to take her all the way to Falkirk, the closest town she could find on a map to Woodsgate.
“Woot do ye want?” the driver asked, looking up crossly from where he was crouched next to one of the back wheels.
Unfamiliar with carriages and the reasons as to why one might stop working, Catherine took a hesitant step forward and, careful to keep her skirts out of the ankle deep mud, ducked her head to get a closer look at the wheel the driver was hovering over. It just looked like a plain wheel to her, a little muddy around the rim but certainly usable.
“Are you certain it is broken?” she asked. “Perhaps it is merely stuck.”
Shooting her an incredulous look beneath his bushy red eyebrows, the driver reached out and grasped one of the large inner spokes. He gave it a good yank and when it popped free he waved it angrily in the air, advancing on Catherine with deliberate steps and shouting something she could not hear above the pounding rain.
“I… I see it is broken! I shall certainly pay to repair any damages and if you would be so kind as to call me another carriage I will – oh! HELP!” she yelped as, in her haste to back away from the infuriated driver, her ankle caught around a root and she went flying backwards into the muck. Unable to save herself, she landed with a loud “oomph” and looked down at her dress in shocked dismay. Splattered with mud and dirt and other brown things she did not even want to contemplate, her maroon traveling habit was ruined beyond repair. As were her leather ankle boots, fine silk gloves, and brand new lace and satin trimmed bonnet. At least, she thought with a grimace as she pulled one hand free of the muck, the three trunks she had filled to the brim with dresses, bonnets, and unmentionables were safe and dry inside the carriage.
Climbing awkwardly to her feet, she shoved a lock of hair behind her ear and lifted her chin to look back at the driver – just in time to see him taking her last trunk out of the carriage and heaving it to the side of what Scotland laughably called a road.
“What in the world are you doing?” she shrieked. Her arms waved madly as she stumbled down into the ditch after her trunks. Managing to grasp the brass handle of the smallest one she gave it a mighty heave, but the mud had taken hold of it and the trunk refused to move.
“Get back down here this instant!” she demanded, rounding furiously on the driver who was now sitting atop the carriage. Plunking her hands on her hips she tossed him her haughtiest glare, a glare which had never failed to send servants scurrying to do her bidding, but this odious man was not so easily cowed.
“Yer bluidy trunks are too heavy, ye wee daft lass. Meh horses canna pull wit em,” he shouted down at her. Giving his team of matching bays a sharp crack with the reins, he hooted something in his native tongue and the carriage began to move.
“What? What did you say? Stop, I say. Stop RIGHT NOW!” Unable to believe she was being stranded in the middle of Scotland, Catherine tried to run after the carriage, but her rain soaked skirts and the deep mud held her captive in the ditch and by the time she managed to haul herself out, the driver and carriage had disappeared over a hill.
“Oh damn and blast,” she cursed, stamping her foot in pure frustration. More mud splattered up, covering her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “Perfect,” she muttered, her shoulders drooping in defeat. “Just absolutely perfect.”
The rain was not relenting, and it was starting to get dark. Soon the sun would set completely and although Catherine did not know very much about Scotland, she did know that even in the middle of summer the nights got very cold. She would have to find shelter before she caught a chill and, with her luck, pneumonia.
Promising her trunks she would return for them soon, she gathered up her water logged skirts the best she could and struck out down the road in what she prayed was the right direction.