“It is raining.”
“I’m already wet.” Leorah climbed back out into the cold rain, shivering as fresh drops fell on her head. The trunks had fallen off the carriage, but Leorah located one and dragged it to the door. Sheltered a bit by the carriage, she opened the trunk and pulled out the first things her hands could grab and dragged them into the carriage with her. As she looked down at what she held, she found a black coat, a black pair of breeches, and a white shirt. Didn’t the man have any variety at all? At least she hadn’t pulled out anything unseemly.
She crawled to his side, then folded his coat, lifted his head and shoulders, and stuffed it under him. It was quite strange, she had to admit, touching him, but the poor man was in pain. And if he didn’t object, he must be desperately uncomfortable.
“Can I do anything else for you?” Her gaze kept going to his leg.
“You should dry yourself off. You’re going to catch your death of the ague.”
What did he expect her to use? “Shall I use your shirt?” She held up the snowy-white garment she’d just pulled out of his trunk.
“I’d rather you used my shirt than my breeches.”
Perhaps the viscount had a sense of humor after all. Still, the strangeness of using his shirt to dry her dripping hair made her hesitate, but only for a moment. She used it to squeeze out the water. Then she reached out of the door and into his trunk again. She pulled up some unmentionables and quickly thrust them back. Finally, she found a small blanket and yanked it out with a smile of joy. She immediately wrapped it around her cold, wet shoulders.
Lord Withinghall was staring at her with a look of horror.
“What is it?”
He cleared his throat. “Nothing. Only . . . please have a care with that blanket.”
“This blanket?” Leorah looked down at it. It seemed to be an ordinary silk blanket, pale blue, with colorful embroidery. “It’s quite warm, though rather ordinary. Seems a bit old too.” The embroidered threads were frayed.
“I assure you, it is no ordinary blanket. That is . . .” He closed his eyes, as if frustrated. “It has sentimental meaning, and I would not like it ruined.”
“You told me to dry myself off. It was the only blanket I could find.”
“All I said was have a care.”
“I promise not to harm it.”
He grunted.
The rain seemed to be coming down in steady sheets, harder than before. Leorah sat in the far corner of the carriage, as far away as possible from Lord Withinghall’s head, but it was difficult to even sit without touching him. She was especially mindful not to touch his broken leg. But she soon began to grow quite cold. In a moment, her teeth would begin chattering, and she worried about poor Buccaneer, all alone at the edge of the wood in this rain. It probably wasn’t cold enough to do him any real harm, but he was used to a warm stable.
Poor Mr. Pugh, the coachman, was still lying out on the road in the rain. Should she try to drag his body down to the carriage? He was not a small man, and she had a broken wrist besides. She would never be able to move him.
Would she and Lord Withinghall be trapped here all night? The later it became, the less likely it was that anyone would be traveling down this road. She might have to sleep here in this carriage with Lord Withinghall. Heaven forbid! She would run all the way home in the rain to prevent that. But once night fell, how would she see, with the rain and clouds covering the moon?
She wouldn’t worry about that. Somehow she would get out of here. But at the moment, a nap seemed to be a good idea. She would rest for a few minutes and then try again to catch those ornery horses, even if she had to do it in the rain.
Poor Lord Withinghall. He was terrible company even on a good day, and today most definitely was not a good day. Her gaze was drawn to his broken leg. He needed help, but he wouldn’t ask her for anything. He only lay there looking miserable yet stoic.
“Isn’t there something I can do to help you, Lord Withinghall?”
“I can think of nothing,” he replied. “Unless you have acquired the skills of a surgeon and can properly set my leg.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
He merely blinked in resignation.
She couldn’t help noticing that his hair had fallen across his forehead. If he were a pirate, he’d be one who had been conquered in battle and lay defenseless on the deck, his sword out of reach, resigned to his fate.
Leorah shook her head at the thought. Lord Withinghall was a dowdy viscount and Member of Parliament. That was all. She leaned back against the side of the carriage and closed her eyes, listening to the pattering of the rain.
Leorah opened her eyes, awakened by the sound of horses’ hooves. How long had she been asleep? It was completely dark as she tried to gain her footing. “Lord Withinghall? Are you there?”
He groaned, letting her know where he was. She stood up and hit her head on the top—or rather, the bottom—of the carriage, as she heard men’s shouts and horses’ bridles jingling.
“Thank you, God, we’re saved,” Leorah mumbled, trying to stay still and not step on Lord Withinghall’s leg.
“Who goes there?” Lord Withinghall called in his commanding voice.
Leorah shuffled closer to where she believed the door was. It was so dark, she couldn’t see her hand before her face, and she could still hear the rain falling outside. She took another baby step, then another, as the voices drew a little nearer.
Suddenly, she felt something against her toe, and, afraid of bumping Lord Withinghall’s broken leg, she stepped backward. Her foot immediately entangled itself in something, she lost her balance, and fell face-first into something solid.
“Oof.”
“Oh!”
“What is this?” someone asked from the doorway of the carriage.
Leorah pushed herself up enough to look over her shoulder, but her hair was covering her face. She slung her head to move her hair out of her eyes, and a lantern shone through the door of the carriage. She blinked, trying to see who was there. Then she realized she was lying across Lord Withinghall’s chest, her forearms braced against his body, her long hair falling all over both of them. And staring right at them, their two faces peering through the doorway above their lantern, were Mr. Felton Pinegar and Mr. Dunnagan Moss, Leorah’s parish rector.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Miss Langdon,” Lord Withinghall growled. “Get off me this moment.”
“What is going on here? Who is that?”
Leorah recognized her rector’s voice. “Mr. Moss, I am so grateful you are here.”
“What are you doing in here, at night?” His eyebrows were drawn together, creating a deep wrinkle in between.