Part 3 (1/2)
As she pulled the door open, she heard MacLean on the other side of the coach: ”We'll have to watch for falling snow on our way. That could cause some problems.”
”Aye, especially when we get that new foot o' snow me achin' knee is predicting.”
”Perhaps. Let's check the lead horse's hock. He seemed to limp as they brought him from the stables, and I don't want him drawing up lame in this snowstorm of yours.”
Their voices faded as they moved to the front of the carriage.
Triona cautiously slipped inside the coach, careful not to rock the well-sprung vehicle.
The inside was as opulent as she'd expected. The seats were covered with thick velvet, the walls a deep oak with heavy silver lamps adorning each corner. The window curtains were fastened down and a foot warmer rested on the floor, its gentle hiss evidence that it had just been filled with hot coals.
Triona bent down against one of the seat boxes. ”Cait?” she whispered.
There was no answer. She must be under the other seat. Triona moved over, pressed her cheek to the seat and whispered as loudly as she dared, ”Cait? Can you hear me?”
Silence loomed. She reached for the seat latch, her ears locked on the sounds around her-the occasional jingle of the harnesses, the faint wind whipping through the trees. Over that, she heard something that made her blood run cold-the coachman's voice growing louder, MacLean's deep voice answering.
They were returning! She struggled to open the latch, but it was stuck.
Directly outside the door, the coachman's voice seemed unnaturally loud. ”Scoff if ye will, m'lord, but I can smell the snow. 'Twill be eight, nine inches at least.”
MacLean laughed softly, and Triona s.h.i.+vered again at the velvet brush of his low voice. ”Ferguson, that's more snow than they've had here in the last five years combined.”
”Trust me b.u.m leg, m'lord. 'Tis never wrong.”
The latch finally gave with a faint sc.r.a.pe of metal on metal. Triona lifted the seat and peered inside. No Cait. Her sister had obviously been here, though, for her favorite thick m.u.f.f sat in one corner beside a bandbox and a silver opera cloak lined with ermine.
Triona frowned. None of it looked disturbed. If Caitlyn had stowed aboard the coach, wouldn't the cloak have been mussed, the m.u.f.f flattened, the bandbox bent or crushed? There would have been barely enough room for Caitlyn herself, with so much baggage.
Triona closed the lid and crossed to the other seat. She slid the hook open and carefully lifted it, the latch creaking the tiniest bit. Outside there was the faintest pause in conversation; then the two men continued to talk, this time about the best route to take.
Breathing easier, she peered inside. The box was filled to the brim with thick blankets, extra cus.h.i.+ons, a leather desk box, and a traveling chess set.
Frowning, Triona silently lowered the seat and sat back on her heels. Cait, where are you? She had to have been here; someone had stowed the cloak, m.u.f.f, and bandbox inside the- ”We're ready, m'lord!” called one of the footmen from the front of the coach.
”Let's go, then,” came MacLean's voice. ”Ferguson, bring my horse. I'm going to ride a bit before it grows too dark.”
”Yes, m'lord.” The groom called to someone; then Triona heard the sound of approaching footsteps crunching in the packed snow.
Someone's coming! Triona reached for the door to escape, but just as she touched the handle, the coach lurched forward and threw her into the door, her knee hitting the floor hard. She gasped as pain lanced up her leg.
Tears clouded her vision, but she swiped them away and crawled to the seat as the coach rolled on.
Dear G.o.d! What could she do? Exposing herself would be horribly embarra.s.sing. How did one explain one's uninvited presence in a coach?
Gritting her teeth, she held onto the strap and stood to knock on the roof of the coach.
Nothing happened.
Frowning, she did it again, much harder. Maybe the coachman couldn't hear over the creak of the coach, which had picked up its pace.
”Blast, blast, blast!” Still holding on to the strap, she lowered herself to the seat and undid the leather curtain to look out. They careened down a narrow, snow-covered road in the settling darkness, white-capped trees blurring by. The carriage was moving so fast, she couldn't leap out if she wished to.
As she started to replace the curtain, a golden horse rode into view. The horse's color was unusual, but the sight of the rider completely wiped the horse from her mind.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, and even in the dim light she could see the lines of his face: the firm jaw, the sensual mouth, the faintly aquiline nose. All of it bespoke power and masculinity of a sort Triona had never encountered before.
As he galloped by, he should have been surprised to see a stranger sitting in his coach. Instead, the look he tossed her was one of lazy insolence, as if he'd known she was there, could see her worth, and deemed her below his notice.
Triona's hands fisted about the window. ”Stop the coach!” she shouted, but the wind and the rumble of the carriage whipped away her voice. Though he must have seen her attempting to speak, her captor rode on with a mocking smile.
Unbelieving, Triona sank back onto the seat, resting her feet on the warming box. She didn't understand. MacLean had looked at her as if he knew her, as if he'd expected to see her there. But how- The truth hit her with sickening quickness. He thinks I'm Caitlyn. Triona covered her face. He knew Caitlyn was supposed to be here, in his carriage.
She dropped her hands and stared ahead unseeingly. But if that's so, then why is he continuing away from London? If he'd expected to find Caitlyn hiding in his coach, wouldn't he be anxious to return her home? He would-unless...Triona blinked. Was this not a trick, after all, but an elopement? Or worse, a trick turned on Caitlyn? Did MacLean plan on seducing her?
Triona rubbed her forehead shakily. What a coil! Cold blew in around the flapping leather curtain. Teeth almost chattering, she closed it and attached it to keep in what little warmth remained, then opened the seat box and pulled out her sister's cloak to wrap about herself. The wild pace of the carriage hindered her and once she was even tossed onto the other seat, twisting her already pained knee.
Triona finally wedged herself into a corner with one foot pressed against the edge of the opposite seat, both hands clenched about the door strap. As the chill increased, she realized how unsuitable her sister's cloak was. ”Trust Caitlyn to bring such a useless piece of clothing,” Triona muttered. Taking her life in her hands, she tossed the cloak to the floor, opened the other seat box, and pulled out two thick blankets. Grateful for their warmth, she bundled into them.
Trying to stay calm, she took stock of her situation. Nurse must be frantic by now. Would she and Fletcher try to follow the coach? No, there was no way Father's old carriage could keep up this mad pace. Not only were their horses older and far from fresh, but the equipment wasn't made for speed.
Undoubtedly, Nurse would return to Aunt Lavinia's and put out an alert. Help would be on the way soon, so all she had to do was wait.
She touched her throbbing knee through her skirts and frowned to find it unnaturally warm. It was swelling, too; she could already feel it. Gritting her teeth, she gingerly lifted her leg and settled her foot on the cus.h.i.+oned seat opposite.
That was all she could do for now. One good thing about springing the horses was that they couldn't maintain this pace for long-not without changing the animals.
The thought calmed her somewhat. As soon as they stopped, she'd explain her presence to MacLean. Once he realized she wasn't Caitlyn-a strong light would reveal that-he'd arrange for her to be returned to London. She might even arrive at Aunt Lavinia's before Nurse, who was traveling in Father's decrepit old coach.
Outside, the light faded until Triona was sitting in near darkness. Surely we'll stop soon. We can't keep- The carriage swung abruptly to one side, throwing Triona across the carriage, her sore knee striking the edge of the seat. She cried out, tears springing to her eyes.
The coach halted. Triona blinked back her tears and heaved a relieved sigh as the door opened, moonlight spilling inside.
MacLean climbed in and slammed the door behind him, enveloping her once again in near darkness. She heard him toss his hat beside her as he sat on the opposite seat.
”My lord, there's been an error,” Triona began. The coach lurched forward. ”No! Wait-”
It was too late. They were moving, returning to their original pace.
Triona grabbed the door strap once more, glaring at MacLean's shadowy form. He seemed even larger inside the confines of the carriage.
Indeed, at this close distance, everything about him was more. He seemed to fill the entire s.p.a.ce, his long legs pressed against hers. Though she couldn't see his expression, she could feel the seething danger that warmed the air about them. ”My lord, there has been a horrible mistake.”
No answer came.
Triona took a calming breath. ”My lord, I am not who you think I am.”