Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Adrian Fitzhugh could not believe he was doing this.

She’d been sobbing her heart out when he stepped into the inn, and that must have aroused some spark of protectiveness, perhaps pity, in him.

Or madness, more like.

She was a complete stranger to him, despite naming the same village that was his own destination. Her clothes were respectable but plain, and he’d heard the hesitation in her voice as she inquired about a room. He’d also heard her refuse a meal, though with a thread of longing that snagged in his mind like a burr in his collar.

But buying a meal for a penniless young woman was one thing. Offering to take her home was another.

All right, she was a very attractive young woman. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed that, as he’d covertly watched her from across the room. Large hazel eyes, shiny curls the color of honey. She’d chosen a quiet corner of the room as her own, a rather chilly spot near the door, rather than trying to press in near the fire as most people had done, and she’d looked so woebegone.

But his travel chaise was not large, he was desperately tired, and he had to reach Blackthorpe as soon as possible. Why on earth was he doing this?

She stared up at him with those wide hazel eyes, her pink lips parted in surprise. See , he chastised himself, even she thinks you’re mad. If she had any sense, she’d say no, of course she wasn’t going to get into a stranger’s carriage and let him carry her off…

“Oh, sir, that is… ex-exceedingly generous,” she stammered. “I couldn’t possibly…”

Nod and walk away , he told himself. “I am also flying home to see my grandfather,” he heard himself say instead. “He is ill, like your grandmother. I couldn’t abide being forced to delay an entire day.”

Slowly she closed her mouth. She studied him, then nodded once. “Yes, please.”

Adrian’s heart leapt even as he told himself he was ten kinds of fool. He stooped to collect her worn valise.

“Oh—Oh dear.” She was on her feet now, clutching a large basket, but hesitating anxiously. “I have a cat,” she blurted. “I can’t leave him…”

Not a cat. Cats made him sneeze. He looked at her hopeful but worried face and said, “Collect him quickly. The horses are waiting.”

The smile that blazed across her face landed like a blow to his chest, and she whirled around him and out the door without another word. He caught the flash of trim ankles as she hiked up her skirts to run. The landlady saw, and she gave Adrian a narrow-eyed look. He touched his hat to her, and pulled the door closed behind him.

It was several miles still to Blackthorpe. He surveyed the sky as he walked back to the chariot, his boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that had fallen since he arrived. In fine weather, he’d expect to be home by dinner. Today, he wasn’t so sure.

He put the valise into the carriage boot. “A moment,” he told the postilion who stood, hands tucked under his elbows, next to the horses’ heads.

“Can’t wait long in this cold,” the fellow warned.

Adrian looked around and finally caught sight of the young woman, down on her hands and knees in front of the stable. She seemed to be pleading, and finally a large orange cat strolled out and jumped into her basket. Adrian tore his gaze away from her nicely-shaped bottom. She was still fumbling with the straps on the basket when she hurried up beside him.

“I’m ready,” she said breathlessly. The cold had brought spots of pink into her cheeks and her eyes were bright with eagerness.

“Very good,” he told her, and handed her up into the chariot, trying not to allow his hand to linger on her back. He nodded to the postilion, already in the saddle, and climbed in. He was still pulling the door closed as the horses set off, shaking their heads and snorting against the cold.

Gwen could not believe she was doing this.

She’d just got into a carriage with a strange man and set off, alone with him, bound for who-knew-where. She’d only his word that he was going to Blackthorpe; she hadn’t even thought to ask the postilion where they were headed. Not that the postilion could be considered a truly objective or even benign presence, as he was being paid by the stranger.

But she’d hardly have been better off refusing, left to spend the night alone in an unfamiliar inn, possibly sleeping in the public taproom. In the morning, she would still have little money and no companion, and she’d learned that a public coach was no protection against being groped, leered at, and generally harassed.

She glanced sideways at her companion. The chaise wasn’t large, but he was keeping to his side of the carriage as much as possible. He was currently wrestling with a thickly folded blanket, and having an awkward time of it, in the cramped quarters.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I probably ought not to have accepted, but… I am desperate to get back to Gran.” She cocked her head. “How did you know she was ill?”

He was frowning fiercely at the blanket. “You were weeping,” he said absently. “At the delay. I guessed it must be an urgent reason spurring you to make a long journey at this time of year, in this weather, and that seemed a likely one.” He put his arms straight out and gave a mighty shake, and the blanket finally fell in loose folds. He cleared his throat, then gingerly moved it toward her. “Here,” he told her. “The hot bricks will be cold before long.”

Oh yes; she hadn’t even noticed the hot bricks under her feet. Feeling even more kindly disposed toward him, she tucked the blanket around herself, realizing then that it was the only one. “Oh no,” she said in alarm. “You’ll be cold.”

He wrapped his long gray cloak around himself. “Nonsense. After sleeping in a tent in the mountains of Spain, this is remarkably cozy.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “I don’t even know your name. I am Miss Guinevere Barrett.”

He gave her that fleeting little smile again. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barrett. Captain Fitzhugh, at your service.”

She blushed as he caught her fingers and gave them a brief press.

“Barrett.” His eyes stayed on her face. They were a deep dark brown, like coffee, and his gaze felt warm. “I don’t know that name. Has your family been long in Blackthorpe?”

She blew out a breath. “No. It’s only my grandmother who lives there, with her sister at Larkspur Cottage. I’ve never been.”

His brow quirked. “I thought you must be very close to her…”

“Oh, I am,” she assured him. “She raised me from the time I was twelve. My mother died, and my father… Well, he was not prepared or able to manage a growing girl. So he left me with Gran in Norwich.” She paused, reminding herself he was a stranger and surely had no interest in her life, but somehow she found herself telling him anyway. “It was best for us all. My grandfather had died the year before, and I think I must have distracted Gran from missing him, though not always for admirable reasons!” She grimaced and gave a rueful little laugh as she admitted it.

Her companion nodded. “It’s a difficult age, even without losing a parent—let alone both of them.”

Gwen’s throat tightened for a moment. Yes, she’d lost her father, too, to the bottomless bottle of gin he’d fallen into after Mama’s death. She didn’t want to think about that now. “I haven’t been able to visit Gran often in the last few years. She didn’t like to be alone, after I was grown, so she went to live with her sister in Blackthorpe.”

“That, I understand.” He smiled again. He had a very warm smile. A beautiful mouth. She found herself smiling back. “My father died when I was about that age and my grandfather had to step in, too, with me and my brother. We were proper little hellions, I think, and would have driven our mother to distraction.” He gave her an impish look, his dark eyes shining, and she knew at once how he must have looked as a boy, trying to evade punishment for a prank. “Thanks to old Boney, I haven’t seen my grandfather in a few years, either.”

“That’s terrible,” she said sincerely.

“No, no,” he replied. “We’ve pushed the French out of the Peninsula. Grandfather will mightily approve.”

“Oh, that was very well done,” she said quickly. “But I’m sorry it had to be done at all, taking so many men like you away from their families.”

“True.” He shifted, turning a little more toward her. “But it’s what the men in my family do. All the second sons, at any rate. We go to war.”

A second son. Not the heir, the important child, but a lesser one. Gwen nodded, knowing what that felt like. Daughters were even less important than second sons. “Does the army suit you?”

The captain looked at her sharply, then his expression eased. “It does—or, did. I wanted to join the army, like my father, from the time I was a boy. He was a captain of dragoons, and I never saw a finer officer. It was the only thing I ever wanted, to follow in his footsteps…”

Gwen guessed from his expression what had happened. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

He looked away. “Thank you.” A pause. “At Bergen, in the Low Countries. They wrote to my grandfather that it was a French bullet that cut him down. From that moment on, I was set on fighting the French.” He smiled wryly. “Who knew we would still be fighting the French, all these years later?”

“Who indeed,” Gwen murmured. “Forgive me if this is too bold, but… It must be awful, to be so far away and know you might never make it home, and that your whole purpose for being there is to kill other men just like you, who must also long to go home to their families.”

His face grew hard. “If those Frenchmen didn’t wish to be torn from their families and sent to kill other men, they ought to have stayed at home to begin with and not followed blasted Bonaparte on his campaign of destruction throughout Europe. The Spaniards and Portuguese did not ask to be invaded, their countries looted and pillaged, their citizens savaged and killed.” He caught sight of her wide eyes and cleared his throat. “I don’t pretend the British army is pure and noble, but in this, we are the lesser evil.”

Gwen didn’t know what to say. Wordlessly she touched his gloved hand, and to her surprise he caught her hand and gripped it, hard, for just a moment before letting go. She’d meant to apologize for bringing up such thoughts, and instead felt as though he had responded with gratitude, as if it gave him comfort.

“Apologies,” he muttered, before taking a deep breath and continuing in an easier tone. “Yes, war is dreadful. The army cares nothing for one’s personal comfort, and often contrives the longest marches through the worst weather. One week you’ll be soaking wet, with biblical downpours and swollen rivers to cross, and you’d swear you would never be completely dry again. Then the next week would be blazing hot, and you would long for even a trickling stream to dampen your handkerchief. There’s rarely enough to eat—let alone anything as delicious as at home—never a comfortable place to sleep, and precious little in the way of entertainment.” He heaved a mock sigh. “All in all, a distressing business.”

“I’m very glad you made it home,” she said in a low, heartfelt voice, not fooled by the forced cheer.

“So am I,” he said with a faint smile as he stretched and shifted in his seat. “Or nearly home, at any rate.” He turned his head to muffle a yawn behind one fist.

They rode in silence for a while, Gwen sobered by his words. Compared to what he had seen, losing a governess’s post must seem like a trifling problem. When she glanced over, it appeared the captain had drifted off to sleep, slumped against the side of the carriage.

Covertly she studied him. He looked exhausted. She’d already noted the dust in the creases of his coat and abruptly wondered if he’d come straight from Spain. He said he was hurrying home to see his grandfather, who was ill. It must be a serious illness indeed to bring a soldier home from war, through winter storms and a naval blockade.

She felt another burst of gratitude that he had offered to take her along, and resolved to be as unobtrusive as possible. She settled herself against the opposite wall and closed her own eyes.