Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (15 page)

Lord Winn returned on horseback, bundled in his military greatcoat and wearing boots with no polish and deep scratches in the leather. He dismounted as she opened the door.

"I thought we'd both ride Ney," he explained. "Helen tells me you're not much of an equestrienne."

"She's right," Roxanna agreed as she pulled on her mittens. "Is Ney up to this?"

"Roxie, you don't weigh much," he said. "And he has a grand, brawny heart. Besides all that, we'll keep each other warm. Are you ready?"

No, she thought, I am not. She hesitated at the door, and knew that he could tell exactly how she felt.

"Ready or not, madam, you haven't a choice," he reminded her, his voice firm, even a little hard.

She took a deep breath and closed the door behind her. "Then I am certainly ready."

He mounted again, then held out his hand to her, pulling her up in front of him in the saddle. "It's a tight fit," he said in her ear as his arms went around her and he grasped the reins tighter. "Too many cinnamon buns, Roxie."

She chuckled because he expected it, then stared in surprise as Tibbie came toward them in the gig, dressed in Lord Winn's greatcoat and low-crowned beaver hat. He waved a gloved hand at them, and turned the gig toward the lane overlooking the Plain of York.

"He says he and his missis were followed to Moreland," Lord Winn said as they watched the bailiff drive slowly south. "Let's watch from here a moment."

He backed Ney off the lane and into the orchard, with its concealing hedgerow. "Happen he was right," he whispered in her ear. "Your brother-in-law is not taking any chances," he observed as two horsemen followed the gig at a distance. "He still thinks either you or I will be making a break to the magistrate in York, and he means to stop you even before you reach the mail coach."

"But why is Tibbie doing this?" she asked.

"Diversionary tactic, my dear. He'll give the men someone to follow while we try another road." He wheeled Ney around toward the hills nearby. "We will ride east for a few miles then turn west and north, in case anyone else is curious." His cheek was next to hers. "I trust you know some back trails, Roxie."

She nodded. "I can guide us through to Richmond without getting on the main road."

"Good girl! You'd have been an asset in Spain."

They entered Richmond as the clock in the church there chimed two. The road was closed, true to Tibbie's prediction. Without even pausing, Lord Winn ignored the warning of the road crew and continued steadily toward the great bulk of the Pennines, that spine of England so green and inviting in the summer, but white now, and stark with winter. The road was a narrow lane between shoulder-high drifts, a mire of freezing mud that Ney picked his way through carefully, slipping occasionally, but guided by Lord Winn's firm hand on the reins. He steered mainly with his knees, digging in sometimes with his spurs when Ney hesitated. Roxie admired his horsemanship, even as she blinked at the glare of the snow and kept her chin down in Anthony's muffler.

She had never been so cold before, even crammed up against Lord Winn in the saddle they shared. The inside of her nose prickled; she tried to breathe through her mouth, but that pained her lungs. She gasped for breath several times, and then Lord Winn pulled her muffler up over her nose.

"Breathe through your nose," he ordered, his own voice muffled. "Keep your head down. And let me know if you can't feel your fingers or toes."

They continued steadily upward, never looking back, but concentrating on the road before them that wound past villages sleeping in the grip of winter. As they plodded toward Scotland, Roxanna imagined people in their houses decorated for the holiday, toasting the season with loved ones, warming themselves with a Yule log. In the distance, through fields bare now of roads, and with stone fences scarcely showing above the snow, she saw lonely crofters' cottages, the smoke brave against the sky.

The sun was low and still they had not reached the summit. She protested when the marquess handed her down and made her walk. He joined her as he led Ney along, his arm tight around her shoulders. "My feet were getting numb," he said. "Keep your head down, Roxie." She nodded, too cold to speak, until he prodded her. "Yes," she replied distinctly, knowing that he wanted to hear her voice.

It was dark when they reached the summit. The wind picked up then as the sun fled from the freezing Yorkshire sky, and whipped around them until her head began to ache. Can we see to go on? she wondered, and then noticed the full moon rising.

"Think of it as the retreat from Moscow," Lord Winn said as they struggled on in the early dusk. "Speak to me, Roxanna."

"You weren't there, were you?"

"Lord, no, my dear. That was Napoleon's little blunder. It was cold enough over the Pyrenees." He managed a dry chuckle. "And here I thought my campaigning days were behind me." He put his cheek next to hers for a moment. "At least you smell better than my lieutenants."

They rode slowly into the night then, the air so cold that it almost hummed around them. Lord Winn pummeled her once to point out the northern lights. She gazed at their green splendor, her mind too dull to appreciate the beauty before her. She thought of Helen and Felicity asleep in their bed, and closed her eyes.

He wouldn't let her sleep, but prodded her awake again and again. "Keep your eyes open, Roxie, or I'll make you walk," he insisted, his own voice slurred with exhaustion.

The moon was beginning its descent when she finally noticed that they, too, were traveling down hill. The thought gave her heart and she sat up straighter in the saddle, grateful for what little warmth Lord Winn gave off. Minutes or hours later—she could not tell—he pointed with his riding crop.

"Penrith," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. "By God, Roxie, we've done it."

Penrith before dawn was as still as the crofters' cottages on the high passes. They traveled the quiet street and Lord Winn dismounted before an inn proclaiming itself The King and Prince. He pounded on the door a long time before the keep stuck his head out of an upstairs window.

"Come back when it's morning," the man protested. "I've got no room."

"Typical for Christmas, wouldn't you agree?" Lord Winn murmured as he stepped back in the street. "Let us in, anyway," he ordered. "We've come from Richmond tonight."

The window slammed shut, and Roxanna's heart sank. To her vast relief, the door opened in a few minutes.

"Richmond?" the keep asked as he tucked his nightshirt into his breeches. "You must be daft. The road is closed."

"It certainly is," Lord Winn murmured. "For God's sake, build us afire."

In a few more moments, they stood before a roaring fire, ale in hand. The landlord pointed to the settle against the wall. "No room, but you can rest there. I'll take your horse around back."

"Stable him there for a day," the marquess said as he reached slowly into his coat. "Lord, but my fingers hardly work," he grumbled as he took out a handful of coins with stiff hands. "When does the mail coach from the west road come through to Scotland?"

"Two hours. You can rest here."

Lord Winn made her drink the ale, then led her to the settle. He sat down and pulled her head into his lap. She protested, even as her eyes closed. "Shut up, Roxie," was the last thing she remembered hearing.

The mail coach was late, and she hardly recalled climbing onto it. They slept, leaning against each other, until they crossed the Scottish border. When she finally opened her eyes, the sun was blinding on the snow, and they were in Gretna Green. She looked over at Lord Winn, who still slumbered. Here we are, she thought. I will hold hands with this strange man and be married by a blacksmith. She pulled out the charm he had given her and held it up to the light, hoping the luck had not disappeared with the end of the war.

"Well, so far our good fortune is holding," Lord Winn commented as he watched her.

"I thought you were asleep," she said, shy again. She tucked the necklace back into her dress, where it rested against her skin.

"No, no, madam," he said lightly. "I've got wedding jitters." He smiled at her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Well, let's get off and find the blacksmith."

The village blacksmith was dawdling over a late breakfast when they interrupted him. He came to his door with his napkin still tucked into his shirt and a thick slice of ham in his fist. Roxanna stared at the meat as her mouth watered. She remembered goose, but it seemed years ago.

"Come back tomorrow," he growled and started to close the door.

Lord Winn stuck his foot in the door and shouldered his way in. He strode to the table and slapped down a handful of guineas. "Now!" he demanded, his voice full of command. He leveled a stare at the blacksmith that probably had struck terror into many a soldier from Spain to Belgium. Roxanna felt herself standing up straighter.

The blacksmith stuffed the ham in his mouth and strolled to his table. He fingered the coins, letting them drop through his hand. "Maude," he bawled over his shoulder finally. "We've got some customers. Look lively." He glanced from Lord Winn to Roxanna. "You must really want to get married today," he commented. He winked at Roxanna as he still chewed the ham. “I like winter weddings, myself, dearie. Good cuddling afterward."

Roxanna blushed and he laughed, his mouth still full. "Oh, Maude, you've got to see this one! When did we last have a blushing bride?"

"That's quite enough," Lord Winn snapped.

The blacksmith almost came to attention. He swallowed the great lump of ham. "Hurry up, Maudie!" he called, when he could speak.

The blacksmith's wife joined them from the kitchen, wiping her flour-covered hands onto her apron. She nodded to Roxanna and then riveted her eyes to the pile of gold coins on the table. She nudged the marquess. "Pound for pound, couldn't ye have snabbled a bigger one for all that money?"

His jaw working, the marquess stared at her until she retreated to stand beside the blacksmith, muttering, "I didn't mean nothing by it."

Her nose in the air, she pulled out a piece of paper and plumped herself down at a writing desk by the fireplace. She dipped the quill in the ink and looked at Roxanna. "Name and age?" she demanded.

"Roxanna Maria Estes Drew, twenty-seven," Roxie said, her voice a whisper. She reached for Lord Winn's hand and clutched it in her fear. The pen scratched on the paper.

"You, laddie?"

The marquess's hand tightened around hers. She looked at him in surprise. You are as frightened as I am, she marveled.

"Fletcher William George Winfrey Rand, Marquess of Winn, thirty-eight," he said, and repeated it when the blacksmith's wife looked up in surprise.

"We don't get too many lords up here," the blacksmith commented, rubbing his hands together. "Spinster or widow?" he asked Roxanna.

"Widow," she said.

"You, sir? Bachelor or widower?"

"Does it matter?" Lord Winn asked, his voice grating like sandpaper.

"For the book, my lord."

"I am divorced." He reached in his pocket and slapped down an official-looking document.

The blacksmith read it through carefully as the marquess's grip tightened around her fingers. He looked down at her hand and loosened his hold when he noticed her pained expression. "Sorry," was all he said.

"So this is why you came to Scotland?" the blacksmith asked as he gestured to the document.

"Why else, sir?" Lord Winn answered, trying to keep a lid on his irritation.

"It appears in order," the man said at last. He looked toward the door. "It's too cold for the anvil, my lord. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," he replied. "Just marry us."

The blacksmith motioned to his wife to hand him his jacket. He pulled it on, trying to brush off the more obvious stains, and picked up a well-thumbed book from the table. He looked at his wife in irritation. "For God's sake, Maudie, take off your apron! This is a marquess!"

Lord Winn turned his head slightly, and Roxanna felt his shoulders shake.

“I could sing a wee hymn," Maudie offered.

Lord Winn couldn't help himself. He started to laugh, then looked down at her. "Oh, my," he said. "Roxie, were you ever in a stranger situation?"

She shook her head and took a firm grip on his hand. "Marry us, sir," she told the blacksmith. "We'll manage without the wee hymn."

It was the service of the Church of England, read with the glottal stops of a lowland Scot, standing before a peat fire. The stately words rolled off her like rain and she admired them all over again, despite the bone weariness that was even now making her eyelids droop. She only had the courage to glance at Lord Winn once and discovered, to her embarrassment, that he was looking at her with an expression that, if it was not tenderness, was a close relative.

We are safe, she thought as she murmured yes, and the marquess answered in the affirmative, too, his response more confident. The blacksmith assured them that they were man and wife now, and was there a ring?

The marquess reached into his waistcoat. He held the ring out to her. "Will this do?" he asked.

It was a plain gold band, wide and softly glowing in the light of the fire.