Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (27 page)

Clenching his fists, Marcus took a single step forward, then stopped.

‘Had you been a man, you would have paid dearly
for that insult,’ he ground out. ‘Let me assure you that you’ll get your passageway, Miss Flint—even if I have to carve it out with my bare hands. Might I suggest that you take yourself off and devote your efforts to attending to the needs of those who clearly appreciate your company more than I do?’

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the door of the stable, from which were already emerging the elderly coach driver and his guard, each of them carrying an assortment of tools.

‘Did you hear it?’ called the guard, as he rolled up his sleeves and started to shovel at the softening snow. ‘That be the four o’clock mail out of Bath, sure as my name’s Gus Hastings. Trifle tardy, to be sure, but they allus keeps the mails runnin’, no matter what! Bit o’ fierce diggin’ and we’ll be out of here before the cat can spit!’ Then, turning to the Viscount, he added, ‘How’s about it, sir? You’ll be up for it, I’m sure.’

‘Lead on, Macduff,’ murmured Marcus resignedly, as he divested himself of both his greatcoat and jacket, at once revealing the hefty muscles in his arms and thighs, courtesy of his many hours spent in Jackson’s parlour, sparring against the great man himself. ‘At a guess, I’d say it’s about fifty or sixty yards to the turnpike.’

With a brief nod, the driver screwed up his eyes and stared across the snow-covered terrain in front of them. ‘Uphill, too,’ he said tersely, as he gathered together his chosen implements. ‘We’ll be slippin’ an’ sliding all the way—puts me in mind o’ that winter when we was holed up in Lisbon, Gus. Do you recall?’

‘Hard to forget!’ came his companion’s cheerful reply. ‘Still, at least we don’t ‘ave to cross a flooded Douro on this occasion!’

Laughing together, the pair set to, but it soon occurred
to Sophie, who had been unable to drag herself away from the scene, that the advanced ages of the driver and his guard would eventually tell against them, for in spite of their obvious courage and determination it was clearly all they could do to stay abreast of Marcus, who was shovelling away as though his very life depended on it. Which, in the terms of bolstering up his dented pride and filling him with a much-needed sense of achievement, perhaps it did.

‘I’ll show the cold-hearted shrew,’
he muttered to himself, as he tossed yet another hefty shovelful of snow to one side.
‘I’ll have her out of here by morning, if it’s the last thing I do!’

The sight of the damp shirt clinging to his rippling muscles was more than enough for Sophie to begin to regret her earlier outburst, for it was becoming increasingly clear that Marcus Wolfe was hardly the chicken-hearted poltroon that she had all but accused him of being. After watching him for some minutes she turned away and, with hot tears pricking at the back of her eyes, re-entered the inn to do as he had suggested and concentrate her attentions on the needs of the three invalids—at least they seemed to appreciate her efforts, she thought as, with a plaintive sniff, she wiped away the unbidden tears.

The snow-clearing operation continued well into the evening, when the lack of light brought such proceedings to a halt. Even Lucan had insisted upon taking his turn, and had done sterling work for almost an hour, despite the fact that neither he nor his wife were likely to be in any position to complete their own journey for some days. Even the doughty Captain managed a couple of feet or so, before a violent bout of coughing sent him back into the welcoming warmth of the inn’s kitchen.
Throughout the entire range of shift-changing, however, Marcus pressed on, oblivious to the various recommendations that he should stop and take a well-earned rest. Sheer dogged determination drove him on—to give up now would be to admit defeat, and there was no way he was going to allow Sophie to witness failure at this stage of the game!

In the end, however, despite the fact that the ever-cheerful Gus Hastings had brought out a lantern to help the Viscount carve his way through the waist-deep drifts that had formed throughout the previous night and earlier part of the day, the growing darkness finally overcame even his obdurate resolution.

‘Best jack it in now, mate,’ advised the guard. ‘A good night’s sleep and we can ‘ave at it again come first light—less than twenty yards to go now, by my reckonin’.’

Utterly spent, and with every muscle in his body crying out for reprieve, Marcus at last agreed that it was time to quit, and, after virtually dragging himself back to the sanctuary of the kitchen, he collapsed into the chair by the fireside and thankfully accepted Mrs Webster’s offer of a hot toddy.

‘I’ll take myself off to my bed now, if you have no objections,’ he croaked wearily, after he had downed half of the spicy mixture. ‘If you could manage to dry my shirt by morning, I’d be most grateful.’

‘No problem at all, sir,’ Mrs Webster assured him, as she draped a large towel over his heaving shoulders. ‘I’ve put extra rugs and cushions on the settle, so you should get a fairly decent sleep tonight. Just pass me out your shirt and I’ll have it clean and ready for you when you need it.’

Ignoring the rest of the assembled company, the
Viscount headed for his makeshift bed in the parlour, unbuttoning his soaking wet shirt as he went. Once inside his room, he peeled it off and passed it out to the waiting landlady, bidding her a weary goodnight as he closed the door.

‘Young fool was practically killing himself out there,’ observed the Captain, with a concerned shake of his head. ‘Must be desperate keen to get on his way.’

Desperately keen to get away from me, more likely,
was Sophie’s forlorn thought, as she finished drying the last of the supper dishes. Having been watching Marcus out of the corner of her eye, in the vain hope of seeing some sign of conciliation from him, it had been made clear to her that he had no intention of giving her any chance to apologise for her recklessly hurtful remarks, the constant memory of which now filled her with a burning sense of self-recrimination. She found herself thinking that even the fact that he appeared to have been about to suggest that living under his protection might be preferable to the penury of her present position could not really be regarded as ample justification for the unbridled discourtesy of her response. Her six-month tenure with the Crayfords had left her with few illusions as to how the so-called
haut monde
conducted their lives. Indeed, she had soon learned that many females in circumstances similar to her own would have been only too glad to jump at such a generous offer especially—as she found herself obliged to admit, albeit with a somewhat rueful sigh—from so personable a man as Marcus Wolfe!

But then, she reasoned, as she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders in preparation to bidding her fellow travellers goodnight and quitting the room, her parents had brought her up to place a high regard on her
self-respect, and, although it was true that her situation within the Crayford family was far from ideal, she was not yet reduced to selling herself in order to survive!

This spirited resolve was doomed to falter slightly as she made her way past the door to Marcus’s sleeping quarters and was unable to prevent herself from conjuring up a picture of his bronzed and muscular torso—shirtless now, of course—only to find herself then wondering if he slept in those thigh-hugging leather breeches or …!

Pulling herself up sharp, she all but fled up the stairs to her own bedchamber, where she was more than pleased to find that her young charge, having been liberally dosed with Mrs Webster’s willow-bark powders throughout the day, was now almost back to her normal petulant self. So much so that she was quite adamant in her refusal to allow her governess to borrow one of her many nightgowns, forcing Sophie to spend yet another night in her flimsy shift.

Rolling off his cushioned settle well before any sensible-minded lark would even consider the possibility of rising, Marcus flexed his aching muscles, pulled on his breeches and opened his bedroom door—to find there on the floor, just as promised, his shirt, newly washed and ironed. Even the hardly surprising discovery that none of the other stalwart navigators had yet risen from their beds did not deter the Viscount from rescuing his discarded shovel from where he had tossed it the previous evening and applying himself once more to his gruelling self-appointed task.

Having spent much of the night doing his best to dismiss all thoughts of Sophie from his mind, he had found himself racked with an unfathomable remorse at
having treated her in such a cavalier manner.
What in God’s name could I have been thinking of?
he had asked himself over and over again. With two perfectly satisfactory mistresses already at his disposal and any number of bored young matrons indicating their willingness to make themselves available to him, his needs in that particular direction were more than adequately served. So what it was about this chestnut-haired, startlingly blue-eyed nobody that had managed to get under his skin he was hard pressed to comprehend. It was true that he had been without a woman for almost a week now, but surely, he thought savagely, as he dug his shovel into the snow, his sexual proclivities were not so all-consuming that he needed to latch on to the first pretty wench that he came across after a mere seven days? If so, heaven help him! He must really be turning into the godforsaken wastrel that his father had dubbed him! At that thought he could not help but let out a deep chuckle. If the old man could but see him now—knee-deep in a snowdrift! Knee-deep? He paused, leant on his shovel and stared at the blanketed terrain around him, suddenly realising that the snow’s depth, which had been well over three feet down at the lower part of the dig, was now down to less than two the closer he got to the highway. In just a couple of yards it would be possible to simply scrape it to one side to allow the carriage free access.

And so it was that, shortly after ten o’clock that same morning, the three other men having applied themselves to the task with extra vigour once they realised that their goal was no longer as insurmountable as it had seemed eighteen hours earlier, the passage was pronounced navigable. A hasty breakfast was gulped down as quickly as was humanly possible by those intending to travel, and
by eleven o’clock the horses were poled up, the luggage strapped on to the roof and the driver declared the coach ready to depart.

With her four shillings and ninepence still intact—Mrs Webster having waved away all attempts at any sort of payment from her, on the grounds that she had achieved far more in the past two days than the absent local girl usually managed in a week—Sophie climbed into the carriage and took one of the window seats, with the well-wrapped-up Lydia at her side and Gibbons and Palfrey seated opposite. The Lucans, of course, would not be travelling to the Maidenhead post with them, but Sophie had promised to get a message to Mrs Lucan’s anxiously waiting mother, in order that that lady might set about organising her family’s safe removal from the little inn.

Looking out of the window, she could see that Jack Lucan and Marcus were standing ready to apply their shoulders to the rear of the vehicle, should the precipitous slope prove difficult to negotiate. She tried focussing her gaze on the back of Marcus’s head, desperately willing him to turn and look in her direction so that she could at least wave him farewell, but to no avail.

After two failed attempts to chivvy the lead horses up the slope, the coach at last began to move, and with Gus Hastings encouraging the horses at the front, and Marcus and Lucan hefting their backs at the rear, the ancient vehicle gradually began to lumber slowly through the man-made passageway.

Once on the turnpike, however, it was clear that the going had been made easier by the passage of several other vehicles already. Added to which, the sun had finally come out from behind the clouds and the snow was now beginning to melt quite rapidly. By mid-afternoon,
Marcus hazarded, as he stood at the top of the incline trying to get his breath back, most of it would in all likelihood have disappeared completely, leaving him with nothing but a few painful memories that he could well do without. Time to saddle Jupiter and continue his own interrupted journey, he reminded himself dismally. On to London, his original destination, or back to Bradfield to try and make peace with his father? At this point, he had no real idea of what he wanted to do.

Heaving a deep sigh, he turned to watch Gus climbing up on to the box next to Lapworthy. In doing so, he was unable to prevent himself casting a quick glance towards where Sophie was sitting, next to the carriage’s already misted-up window. Having made up his mind to avoid all contact with her since their altercation in the yard, he had not even joined in the round of farewells that had taken place when the travellers were ready to depart, electing instead to busy himself with the strapping on of the luggage. But now, as his eyes made contact with hers, his heart stopped, his stomach seemed to turn over and a sudden disquieting panic threatened to overwhelm him.

Barely stopping to think, he stepped forward, wrenched open the door of the carriage and, dipping his hand into his jacket pocket, extracted one of his calling cards. Thrusting it into the startled Sophie’s hand, he exhorted her to contact him should she ever require his help, then, slamming the door shut before she could deny him, he stepped away from the vehicle just as the driver gave the lead horse the office to move on.

A heartening surge of relief seemed to flood through his veins as he stood back and watched as the coach pulled away. Now, at least, she was not lost to him for
ever. By giving Sophie his card he had made it possible for him to call on her in the socially accepted manner. After that—well, who knew what Fate might have in store for them? But even as the Viscount sought to console himself with this comforting thought, the cold trickle of impending disaster proceeded to sweep it abruptly away as all at once it came to him that he had not the slightest idea of Sophie’s place of residence—nor did he even know the name of the people who employed her! Any thoughts that he might have had about contacting her within the next few days were clearly doomed to failure!