Anne's Perfect Husband. Gayle Wilson
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afraid it’s no use, sir,” the coachman said. His voice sounded hollow and distant as it echoed from beneath the carriage. “It’s the axle. Damaged beyond our abilities to make repairs here, I can tell you. Someone must ride and get help.”
Ian’s lips tightened against the curses to which he longed to give utterance. He had learned long ago that cursing fate was an exercise in futility. And that painful lesson had been reiterated more times than he wished to remember during the past fourteen months.
“All right then,” he agreed. “I’m afraid that expedition will have to be up to the two of you,” Ian said, including the groom in his instructions. “Unharness the leaders and see if there’s a house nearby which looks decent enough to shelter Miss Darlington. If not, then ride on and bring back a conveyance of some kind from the nearest posting inn.”
“On this stretch of road the inns will probably be our best bet, sir,” the coachman said. He had crawled out from beneath the carriage and was beating muddy snow off his knees with his gloved hands. “I can’t remember passing any dwelling likely to offer a proper shelter for the young lady.”
“If the storm hits, I suppose any dwelling will be proper. Better than the coach at least.”
“I can ride,” Anne said.
Ian looked up to find her standing in the open door of the carriage, her breath creating a small white fog around her face. He thought about warning her that she would do better to stay inside and keep the cold out. No matter how well-constructed the vehicle might be, come nightfall it would be vastly uncomfortable, even with the rugs.
There were four horses. Ian briefly debated whether to send Anne off with the coachman. Given the rigors of the day, he was frustratingly sure of his own inability to stay astride for any distance at all. The cold and damp had already taken its toll, although he was loath to make that admission, even to himself.
Riding was another of the pleasures that had been taken from him when he had been wounded. And of course, it was one of the things he missed the most.
“I think we should do better to stay with the coach,” he said aloud, smiling at her as if this were simply a minor inconvenience. “It won’t take long for help to arrive, and the interior of the carriage offers protection from the cold which being on horseback won’t afford.”
“I assure you, Mr. Sinclair, the ride won’t make me ill. I believe I am made of sterner stuff than that,” Anne said, returning his smile.
Obviously she was, Ian thought. She hadn’t dissolved into a fit of vapors or made any complaint about the delay. For that he was eternally grateful. He had quite enough to deal with right now without adding hysteria to the mix. She would probably handle the ride with aplomb as well, despite the temperature.
That was not the reason he had opted to keep her with the coach. He was the problem. Not Anne.
He knew he could trust her to John Coachman’s care, if he sent her off on the third horse. However, if there were no suitable houses on the road and they had to seek shelter at a posting inn, Ian also knew he would be endangering her reputation and possibly even her physical safety. He couldn’t ask or expect his servants to guarantee either of those. As Anne’s guardian, that was his duty. And the demands of duty were something with which Ian Sinclair was very familiar.
“I think we’ll do better to wait here. And better not to allow the cold into the carriage,” he added.
Her eyes met his, widened a little, as quick color stole into her cheeks. She had interpreted that last as a rebuke.
Perhaps it had been, Ian admitted. Or maybe it had simply been the result of the deep ache in his leg that grew more painful each minute he stood in the middle of this infuriatingly empty road trying to decide what the hell to do with his ward. A young woman who had been thrust into his life by the very man—
“Of course,” Anne said.
She stepped back inside, closing the carriage door after her. Closing it hard enough that the entire vehicle shook. Ian heard and ignored the groom’s quickly muffled snort of laughter. Reluctantly, his own lips aligned themselves into a less grim aspect, and he met the coachman’s sympathetic eyes with resignation in his.
“I can’t manage the ride,” he confessed, finding the admission difficult to voice. “And I think that since I am Miss Darlington’s guardian, she should stay here with me. But it’s going to get damned cold when darkness falls, John, and that’s going to happen soon,” he judged, looking up through the snow at the lowering clouds. “Be as quick as you can, man.”
He pulled a small sack of coins out of the pocket of his cloak and opening it, spilled the contents into the palm of his leather glove. “If this is not enough, promise them the moon, but get someone out here before nightfall.”
“We won’t fail you, Mr. Sinclair,” the groom said.
“I’m counting on that,” Ian said, slapping him on the shoulder and smiling.
Major Sinclair had known very well how to get the best from his troops. This situation was little different. Lives depended on these two men accomplishing the task they’d been given as quickly as possible.
“We’ll get someone, sir,” John said. “You stay inside the coach, Mr. Sinclair, and you’ll both be right as rain. We’ll be back before you’ll even know we’re gone. Surely there’ll be a house within a couple of miles. And if not, there’ll a be posting inn only a few farther.”
Ian nodded, wishing he were half as confident as the coachman sounded. Of course, being able to take action always made one more positive about the outcome of any venture. Ian had an intimate if enforced acquaintance with prolonged inaction, however, and he would have to deal with it, just as he had for more than a year.
“Off with you then,” he said. “And good luck.”
He turned and limped back to the closed door of the coach, his lips lifting, despite their predicament, at the remembrance of the bang with which it had been shut. He resisted the urge to knock, opening the door instead and using his cane and the strength of his right arm to pull himself up the steps.
Thankfully, instead of watching that awkward maneuver, Anne Darlington was rather patently engaged in looking out the window on the opposite side of the carriage. Since there was nothing there but snow-covered trees and shrubs, their shapes darkened by the early-descending twilight, her concentration on the scenery likely had less to do with its attractions than with her anger or embarrassment over his supposed rebuke.
“They’re off,” he said, settling himself with gratitude on the seat.
He stretched out his leg, stifling the small groan the resulting relief evoked. Despite the fact that Anne had opened the carriage door for those few minutes, the interior was still far warmer than the frigid air outside. And they were sheltered from the wind.
He turned his head, studying her profile. She still hadn’t looked at him, and right now he felt as if her displeasure were a blessing. It had given him a few seconds to recover from the cold and the climb up into the carriage, as well as a chance to compose his features.
Just as he thought that, Anne turned, her eyes examining his face. As he watched, they seemed to change, the spark of temper fading to be replaced by an expression of sympathy. He found that he much preferred her anger to her pity.
“I’m sorry I opened the door,” she said. “I didn’t think that we might be forced to spend some hours in the coach.”
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that. There will surely be some house nearby that can offer us shelter.”
“And if there isn’t?”
“They’ll bring a carriage from the nearest inn. It shouldn’t take long. I think we shall manage to keep warm enough in the meantime,” he said.
“And you? Are you going to be…”
The soft