He studied her for a beat, then smiled thinly. “You miss the mark, my love. You are as cunning as a fox, but I know every trick you might play.” He seized her wrist again. “Come.”
She flinched at his touch, but he only tightened his grip, steering her through along the passage and out into the yard where the carriage waited, dark and square against the snow. The driver sat hunched on the box, muffled to the chin.
The moment she stepped inside, she knew escape would be near impossible. There was little space to manouevre, and the single lamp threw light over the front seat only. Tremaine followed, slammed the door, pulled out a flask and drank heavily. The night only wanted him heavy with drink.
“Now,” he said, tucking the flask inside his coat before beginning to loop another length of rope through the door handle and around her wrists. “No foolishness. I cannot have you throwing yourself out like some romantic heroine.”
The humiliation burned almost hotter than the fire had. “You aremaking a fine mess of yourself, Barnaby,” she said quietly. “You will regret this before the day is out.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I am far beyond regrets. By the time they find us, you will be my wife, and all of this will have become quite respectable.”
Her throat tightened. “Is that what you told Lady Lydia, too? The lady in the sleigh? Was she part of your plan?”
He froze, then shot her a look so cold it startled her. “Watch your tongue, Merry.”
She stared at him, the last fragile thread of hope fraying. “How much do you owe, Barnaby?”
He gave a short, ugly laugh. “Enough to make my name worth nothing in London. Enough that marriage is the only credit left to me.” He took the flask back out and drained it.
“Then there is no hope for love at all,” she said softly.
He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with something close to madness. “It is what love becomes when one is desperate. You will learn to forgive it—or not, as you choose.”
And then, as if the words—or drink—had exhausted him, he shut his eyes and leaned against the seat. Within minutes, the rattling rhythm of the wheels and swaying coach deepened into a coarse snore.
Merry sat motionless, every muscle poised. The rope at her wrists rubbed raw against her skin, but she began to work at it anyway—tiny, careful movements; twisting, easing the knots loose a fraction at a time. Her heart thudded so loudly she feared it would wake him.
The carriage rocked over a rut; the jolt loosened one knot further. She felt the first trace of air on her skin as the rope slipped half an inch.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees. She could see nothing but the faint gleam of moonlight through the small window.
Another jolt—another inch. She kept her breathing shallow, every fibre intent on the slow, secret motion of her hands.
At last, the rope gave way. She sat still, scarcely daring to believe it. Tremaine stirred, muttered something incoherent, then settled again.
Merry waited for a count of ten, then twenty. Slowly, silently, she slid her hands free.
Then she got to work. Once she was satisfied that Barnaby could not easily give chase, she glanced towards the door.
It was now or never.
Merry drew a deep breath, gathered what was left of her strength, and reached for the door latch.
The cold rushed in, sharp and bright. Barnaby did not stir that time, the drink having made him insensate.
Thankfully, the pace was slow, and the jump would be softened by the snow.
She looked once at Tremaine, slumped and snoring, then eased herself forward, her pulse hammering in her ears.
“God help me,” she whispered, and slipped her hands through the opening, feeling for the edge to grasp. The wind tore at her hair, but she didn’t stop. Inch by inch, hanging on to the rim of the roof, she forced herself through the door and shut it behind her.
The wheels hit a rut. The carriage swayed. She took her chance, drew in one breath, and threw herself out into the snow.
The world went white, spinning around her. Then came the shock of cold, the hard slap of ground, and the roaring silence of the night.
She rolled once, twice, until a snow drift stopped her. For a moment she could not move, only lie where she was, gasping. Then she heard the carriage rolling on, unaware, the sound fading into the wind.
Merry pushed herself up onto her knees. Her cloak was gone, her hands were frozen with slush and her whole body was trembling from the fall—but she was free.
