Twelve Kisses to Midnight: A Novella (The Oxenburg Princes) Page 4

Scowling, she pressed on, her nose, fingers, and toes already so numb that she could barely feel them. She could taste the clean flavor of the snow in each biting breath and it worried her. There is more coming. But surely I’ll be at Calzeane Castle in another half hour or so, and before a warm fire. She was just glad Father had chosen to winter at the castle this year, as he didn’t trust his man of business to oversee the long list of improvements he’d ordered for the new wing. Father never trusted anyone with important decisions.

  The trail made a sharp right bend and as she came around the corner, she pulled her horse to a stop. A huge fallen oak tree blocked the path. Even on its side, it was taller than she was on horseback. Grimacing at the inconvenience, she turned her nervous horse so they could pick their way through the dense forest to the other side of the felled tree.

  The whicker of another horse stopped her, and Marcus appeared on the path, his large bay blowing steam from its nose.

  “What are you doing here?” She almost winced at the ungracious note in her voice.

  “I’m riding. Nothing more.”

  “You followed me here.”

  “I followed the trail here. You, my dear, were nae supposed to be upon it. Remember?” His gaze flickered past her to the tree, and then back. “So what have we here?”

  Blast it, why did he have to always be so right? This particular trait had annoyed her before, although not as much as it seemed to irk her now. She scowled at him. “It’s not a problem. I’ll ride around.”

  “Through the shrubberies? With a nervous mount?”

  As if it understood Marcus, at that very moment her horse began to shy away from the tree. She tightened her hold on the reins, quickly bringing her mount under control.

  “This trail will take you just as long, perhaps longer than the main road, but it’s nae safe,” he pointed out annoyingly. “I daresay this isna the only tree that’s fallen.” His stern gaze pinned her in place. “That’s a problem. And ’tis already snowing.”

  It was indeed, the flakes falling faster and beginning to stick to the browned leaves and iced stones alike. “This tree is not a problem,” she insisted. “I’ll just ride around it.”

  “And the next one? And the one after that?” He pulled his horse beside hers and sent her a flat look before standing in his stirrups to see over the fallen trunk.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye, noting the differences between this Rothesay and the one she used to know. They were far more different than she’d originally realized. The Rothesay she used to know wasn’t as muscular, his face unlined, his expression less dark. The years had strengthened him; experiences had hardened him.

  There was yet another change: he used to smile more. He used to tease and laugh, and when he wasn’t talking, he’d always had a faint smile resting on his lips. Now, he seemed to scowl all of the time.

  She didn’t like that particular change, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it had come from his past. Their past.

  She sent him a look from under her lashes, saddened by the thought. How had they come to hurt each other so much? At one time, she’d thought no one could be as in love as they’d been. But then that illusion—for what else could it have been?—had shattered, slicing them both deeply, and altering everything. It was so tragic, so foolish, and so . . . wasted.

  He settled back into his saddle. “There’s no clear path around this tree. We’ll have to lead the horses, rather than ride.”

  What a bother! But looking at the tangle of broken branches and the heaviness of the surrounding shrubbery, she had to admit he was right. The ground was too uneven, filled with holes from the tree’s fall. “Fine. We’ll walk.” She glanced up at the sky, and grimaced when the snow hit her cheeks but didn’t melt so quickly. Perhaps I should have taken the main road, after all.

  The thought soured her mood as she hurried to dismount. Her horse, free of her controlling touch, instantly began to back up, snorting nervously. Kenna grasped the reins tightly and held him in place. “Easy.”

  Marcus, who’d already dismounted, frowned at her horse. “The groom should be shot for giving you such a nervy beast. It’s obvious it hasna been properly exercised.”

  “So I’ve been thinking the last ten minutes. He’s been well enough, but I can tell he’d like to run, with me or without me.”

  “Here, I’ll lead him. You take my mount. He’s large, but he’s steady.” Marcus held out his reins.

  “That’s kind of you, but I can handle my own horse. I’ve ridden my entire life and—”

  “Stop arguing.” He took her reins. “We havena time to argue. The snow is coming faster.”

  It was. The flakes were larger now, too. She swallowed the impulse to argue and took the reins of his mount.

  Marcus turned and led her horse down the side of the felled tree, carefully picking his way, Kenna behind him.

  They walked in silence, their feet crunching on the dead, frozen leaves. At one point, Kenna’s horse shied away from a looming branch, but Marcus held the horse firm and calmed the beast with a stern command.

  They were just rounding the top of the tree when the horse Kenna led stepped on a rock that rolled beneath its hoof, throwing it off balance. The horse whinnied and backed up. Though Kenna clung to the reins and held him in check, the noise and confusion set off the mount Marcus was leading, and it reared up.

  Kenna’s heart thudded to a halt as Marcus struggled to control the horse. It bucked, then bucked again, yanking its head this way and that. Finally it reared wildly, lashing the air with sharp hooves.

  “Marcus!” she gasped.

  He turned in surprise just as the horse reared again. Before Kenna’s horrified gaze, one of the horse’s hooves glanced off the side of Marcus’s head and he fell to the icy ground, deathly still.

  Chapter Four

  Marcus awoke slowly, roused from the deepest of sleeps by a sharp pain in his forehead. He clenched his eyes tightly, his head aching like Satan’s swordfire. Bloody hell, how much whiskey did I drink last night?

  He reached up to press his fingertips to his forehead and unexpectedly encountered a bandage. He cracked his eyes open. What’s this? How did I— Memory flooded back.

  Kenna. The horse rearing. And then . . . nothing more. He carefully looked around and realized he was lying on his side on the floor, facing a fireplace. The fire danced, warming him, but the light worsened his headache. Why am I not in a bed? At least someone gave me a pillow.

  Then he became aware of a warm body curled against his back, an arm thrown over his waist, the faint scent of vanilla and rose. Kenna.

  Her deep breathing told him she was asleep, so he cautiously looked over his shoulder to find her dark head pressed snugly against his shoulder. She was still dressed in her riding habit, her heavy skirt and cloak draped over them both. They obviously hadn’t made it to her father’s home, nor were they at Stormont’s. So where are we?

  Ignoring the stabbing pain behind his eyes, he glanced about the room. It was a smallish room with one sitting area around the fire and another near two windows. The curtains were tightly drawn, most likely to keep in the heat, since the room was chilly despite the blazing fire.

  He carefully lifted Kenna’s arm from his waist and she sighed in her sleep, her warm breath teasing him. Grateful his headache put such wasted thoughts to rest, he carefully arose, fighting a wave of dizziness that made him seek the closest chair.

  From there, he looked at Kenna, who was now huddling into herself, obviously cold. He looked around for a blanket. Finding none, he arose, took off his coat, and placed it over her. A faint smile curved her lips as she rubbed her cheek against the wool and then fell back into a deep sleep.

  Marcus looked around the small room. Though the house appeared smallish, it was luxuriously appointed. The curtains were of thick, rich velvet; the floor covered with high-quality Persian rugs; the furnishings fine enough for a royal palace; the walls hung with paintings in large gilt frames.
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  His stomach growled and he rubbed it absently as he went toward the drawn curtains. Turning his head so he wouldn’t look directly into the light, he twitched back the curtain and let the sunlight spill into the room. Then, squinting, he steeled himself and peered outside. A heavy snow fell silently, and he was surprised at how much had already fallen. Two, perhaps three feet of the stuff had piled up, bending the smaller trees and weighing down shrubs. A brutal wind blasted the snow into swirls, depositing it against the house, and he looked down to see a drift so deep that it had already reached the bottom of the window and was threatening to begin covering it. It had to have taken hours for the snow to fall so deep.

  A noise behind him made him drop the curtain and turn around. Kenna had just arisen from the floor. She was sleep-mussed, her thick brown hair falling about her face, her cheeks pink from sleep. Her gaze flickered to him as she hooked the loop of her riding skirt over her wrist. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

  “I have a headache, but nae more.”

  “Good. I hoped you’d feel more the thing when you awoke.” She started to pick up a pillow from the floor but winced and put her hands on her back. “I’m so stiff.” She stretched, her arms twined over her head, her now-wrinkled riding habit pulling tightly across her breasts. “What time is it?”

  The clock on the mantel chimed as if in answer. He glanced it, more to look away from Kenna than to check the time. “A quarter after nine.” Even focusing on the clock made his eyes ache, and he pressed his fingers to the side of his head.

  Her gaze darkened. “You should sit.”

  “I’m fine. How did we get here?”

  She bent down again to collect the pillows from the floor. “You don’t remember?”

  “Nay. I remember the horse rearing, but that’s all.”

  She tossed the pillows onto a chair and then picked up his coat, carefully folding it before she placed it across the back of the settee. “We walked here. I helped you, because you were dizzy.”

  “I— Nay. That canna be right.”

  Her brows arched.

  “I could nae have walked here,” he insisted. “I dinna remember anything.”

  “Well, I couldn’t have carried you. And the trail isn’t close.”

  “The horses?”

  “They ran away.”

  “Both horses ran? My mount is not usually so jittery.”

  “Aye, but the beast I was riding took off and charged your mount, spooking him. I tried to hold him but couldn’t. I had hoped the horses would run back to Stormont’s and alert the grooms that we needed assistance, but no one has come.”

  “Give them time. If the horses ran straight for the barn, they would have just arrived. A hue and cry will be raised and then they will send a search party.”

  “Marcus.”

  He glanced back at her, surprised to find her gaze filled with concern. “Aye?”

  “We arrived here more than a few hours ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Much longer.”

  Something in her voice made him look at her. Really look at her. “But it’s only nine in the morning, so how—” He stopped, his gaze flickering back to the clock. “Bloody hell. I was unconscious for a full day?”

  “And night,” she affirmed. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever wake up.”

  He pressed his fingertips to his temple, trying to accept the astonishing fact. An entire day. I suppose that explains the deep snow, but . . . He raised his gaze to hers. “Damn it, what will everyone think?” Lila would be furious, although at the moment he didn’t really care.

  “You know exactly what everyone will think.” Kenna’s voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away.

  Years ago, he’d admired the control she always had over herself. But since he’d first caught sight of her in Stormont’s ballroom, he’d seen a difference in her—an air of vulnerability, of uncertainty, the suggestion that she’d lost some of the cool, calm composure that used to be such an integral part of her.

  What caused her to lose her confidence in such a way? Was it Montrose? Had their marriage been difficult for her?

  In the past, when Marcus had thought of her marriage, he’d felt nothing but fury. Now he found himself wondering what the cost had been.

  She caught his gaze and lifted her chin. “Just so you don’t worry too much over this, even if we are found here and there’s a scandal, I’ve no desire to marry again. Especially not you.”

  He raised his brows.

  She flushed. “I’m sorry; that sounded ungracious. I only meant that we already know we don’t suit, so I’ve no wish to stir that pot again.”

  Which was what he wanted to hear. Until she said it aloud. Then his pride began to sting, as if she’d slapped him. “That’s fine. I’ve nae desire to wed, either.” He didn’t add “especially not you,” but he was certain by the way her lips thinned that she knew he thought it.

  “Good.” Kenna turned away to the mirror and attempted to put her hair into a semblance of order, doing more harm than good.

  She’s never been without a lady’s maid for a day in her life. He’d traveled, often to faraway reaches, and over the years he’d learned to do without the help of a servant. But Kenna had stayed here, cosseted and protected.

  She gave her hair an impatient glance before turning away from the mirror, but not before he caught her expression—worry over their predicament, concern about the reactions they might face, and something else . . . a deep sadness that turned down the corners of her mouth and shadowed her brown eyes. And he wondered about that sadness, even as he reminded himself he shouldn’t care.

  And he didn’t care. Not at all.

  Suddenly as restless as a wolf in a cage, he walked to the fireplace and regarded the fire. “Where are we?”

  “A cottage deep in the woods. We stumbled on it by accident.”

  He pinged his finger against an ornate silver candelabra that decorated the mantel. “It’s certainly luxurious. Tell me more aboot our walk here. Maybe it will help me regain my memory.”

  “A little while after the horses ran off, I was finally able to rouse you. But you were pale and shaking, and you weren’t making sense.” Kenna shot Marcus a glance from under her lashes.

  “Delirious, was I?”

  She nodded, remembering those long, frightening moments. Then the long walk here, trying to keep him upright as they trudged through the snow. And the tense hours with Marcus unconscious by the fire, while she had nothing to do but worry whether he’d ever awaken again, as the snow sealed them into the house as surely as boards and nails.

  When she’d awoken this morning, she’d been so happy to see him standing by the window that her heart still ached with the bittersweetness of that relief, even as she cautioned herself not to put too much store in it. It was only natural she was glad to have some company while they awaited rescue. It kept her from thinking about other things—Father’s fury, Stormont’s disappointment. Things she had no wish to remember, much less examine.

  Marcus broke the silence. “When I was suffering from delirium . . . what did I say?”

  “You thought we were in a battle. The one at Salamanca.”

  Marcus’s thick lashes dropped low, his mouth tightening. “Indeed.”

  She waited, but he offered nothing more. Secretive as always. Well, she was no longer a young innocent who would allow questions to go unanswered. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  Marcus turned, walked back to the window, and tied open the curtains. Though the sky was gray, the room brightened in the white light. He stood for a long moment, watching snow drift down.

  Perhaps he didn’t need to answer, though, for she’d never been so certain of anything in her life. It explained the differences she had begun to notice. He’s harder, and more arrogant. “Your cousin Robert was at Salamanca, wasn’t he? It was where he was wounded.”

  A long, deep sigh tore through Marcus. After an obvious struggle, he
said, “Aye. I was with him, at the battle. What . . . what did I say?”

  “So it wasn’t delirium, but a memory. You thought we were there, that we were on the move during the battle. You kept saying we had to find shelter, to fall back and find a better position from which to fight.” She noted his expression growing grim and she tentatively added, “I’m sorry about Robert’s injuries. I know they were severe.”

  “He lost his leg, but he’s doing better than expected.” Marcus placed his hand on the window frame and then rested his bandaged head against his fist, looking out at the snow. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”

  She moved to the side of the settee so she could see his profile. “How did you come to be at Salamanca?”

  “I’d been assigned to deliver a missive to Wellington from the Oxenburg king—a promise of their best troops and the use of their general, Nik’s brother Max.”

  “I’ve heard of Nik’s brother. He just married into the Muir family.”

  Marcus nodded. “When I arrived at Wellington’s camp, I dinna realize the battle was aboot to begin. I could have delivered my message and left, but when I met the general, he was with his brigade leaders.” Marcus gazed out the window, as if he could see what he saw that day. “I knew them all. Campbell, Pakenham, Hope, Alten—they were each leading a brigade. My cousin Robert was Pakenham’s aide de camp. So young and so excited. He had no idea what he was aboot to face.”

  “But you did.”

  “I’d been traveling throughoot Europe for months, gathering information and sending it to Wellington and back home to the Foreign Office. And where Napoleon’s armies had marched, there were miles and miles of nothing but smoke and bodies. It was . . .” He shook his head. “When I saw Robert and his blind enthusiasm, I knew I had to stay.”

  “The two of you were always close.”

  “He is like a brother to me.” Marcus smiled tightly. “I convinced Pakenham to let me join his forces so I could fight beside Robert. It dinna take much persuasion; they were short on men and I had a horse and weapons. So, I loaded my pistols and joined in. I was there for the charge, at Robert’s side. We won, but it was a costly battle. Thousands killed, injured, and maimed. And Robert—” His voice thickened. “His horse fell on his leg and crushed it. I knew the second I saw it that he wouldna be able to keep it, but he kept hoping . . .”