She glared at him.
He glared right back, and she was forced to admit she was in no position to refuse him. But, if she relinquished her mount, she stood every chance of being a victim of this god-awful weather. As if to punctuate her concern, the snow began to fall in earnest.
Snowandsleet? Whoever heard of such a thing? Her brother had been right about this Godforsaken place.
Without warning, the man urged his horse—a very fine-looking animal, easily sixteen hands, with good muscle tone and a sleek chocolate-colored coat—too close for the comfort of the mare on which she rode.
“I’ll just help myself, shall I?” the man said, his scarf slipping enough to reveal a bold nose and the upper half of a sneer. He reached one large, gloved hand beneath the fold of her cloak to snatch a handful of her gown. He yanked, hard.
She teetered, nearly toppling her from saddle.
This had gone far enough. Annabelle reacted on instinct. She pulled her reticule from her muff and tossed it with all her might. The wind caught it and sent it sailing.
The man grunted in surprise and strove to catch the small, ornate bag—one of her favorites, damn the villain—but luck was with her and it catapulted toward the dunes.
With his attention averted, Annabelle shifted her weight forward, pressed her heel into Buttercup’s side, and the two surged onto the causeway. She did not look back.
Minutes later, huddling over her horse’s neck as snow fell in a thick curtain as far as the eye could see, effectively blinding her, she concluded two things: One, the villains had not pursued her. And, two, making it across the tidal flat without breaking her or her horse’s neck would be a miracle. The far-from-even surface was not exactly solid earth. One minute slush, the next ice.
If not for the posts, this would be an effort in futility—and a death trap.
She slowed Buttercup’s pace to a crawl and silenced the niggling fear that her decision to venture forth at any cost might just end in disaster for the poor creature. She would not let that happen.
She craned around to gauge the distance she’d come. As far as she could tell, peering through the blanket of white, she was equidistant from the mainland behind and the island ahead.
That settled it. No sense going back and risking delivering herself into the hands of the blackguards who had robbed her at gunpoint. She and Buttercup would have to soldier on. But not like this.
She swung her right leg over the pommel, tightening her thighs to better direct her mount, then, with no choice, removed her cloak. After all, she had her fur-lined gloves and heavy scarf. The horse had no protection from the elements. She laid the expensive garment over the mare’s neck and shoulders,then leaned forward into the damp cloak and urged her mare forward.
Buttercup obeyed, her breathing growing more normal, her gait steadying.
“I’ll get us across, I vow,” she murmured, and focused on keeping the next pole in her sights.
***
“You’re certain? A lone rider, crossing in this mess?” Sterling Randall, Viscount of Stoneford, demanded of his footman, Chip.
“See for yourself, milord,” Chip replied.
Sterling waved the man aside and pressed his eye to the looking glass—not that he actually doubted the footman. It simply made no sense that someone would risk the path in this wretched storm.
He spotted the slow-moving horse and rider at once. The crimson cloak helped. But if he wasn’t mistaken, the horse, and not the rider had the benefit of the garment.
Damnation. A crimson cloak. A woman, then. His sister, Caroline? Doubtful. She’d know she’d earn a stern lecture for doing something so foolhardy, not to mention, rather than indicating any intent to visit in her last correspondence, she’d demanded to know when he meant to return to London.
He straightened away from the scope and considered his next move. Whoever she was, she must have good reason for venturing forth during a blizzard.
Or else, she might simply be a fool. Or lost. Or any number of things.
He cursed under his breath. “I’ll have to ride out and meet her. Whoever she is, much longer in this exposure, and she’ll be in trouble. Mount up Zeus. I’m ready to go in five.”
***
They’d made it over the passage, no panic nor any broken bones to speak of.
Annabelle would smile if her face weren’t frozen. She managed a low murmur in the mare’s ear. “There now, steady on girl. That’s it. That’s a good lass.”
It occurred to her that she’d been shivering, but was no longer. Although a nuisance to endure, not shivering meant her body had given up the fight, andthatwas not a good thing. She might, even now, be in process of freezing to death. They did say freezing was a painless way to go, though no one who had ever frozen to death had returned to confirm this supposition.
