Page 87 of Go, Rogue

Chapter

34

“Where are we going?” Catherine asks as they travel a long way across the island on a dusty, hot road.

“Barclay’s estate,” Rogers says, as the carriage turns onto another winding drive. This one is less potholed, at least, and the vegetation grows high and bright along its sides.

“I beg your pardon?” Catherine’s eyebrows shoot skyward and even that little movement makes her sweat. Every movement does. “We’re going to see the duke?”

“We are.”

They slow to a stop and Rogers and McNeil alight from the carriage, helping Catherine down. The coachman, a short, ginger-headed man, joins them from the bench. Rogers introduces him as Childers.

“One of mine,” he adds.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Catherine says, giving the man a brisk nod while eyeing the enormous mallet he holds in his hands. “Shall I ask what that’s for?”

“The wheel, Miss,” Childers replies and leans over to swing the mallet against the wooden spokes of the hind carriage wheel with a great deal of force.

Catherine watches silently as Childers works, hitting the wheel over and over again until the wood splinters. The sun is hot on the top of her bonnet, and there are, she thinks, a great many more bugs residing in Jamaica than in England.

McNeil, meanwhile, has unbuckled the horses from their harnesses and tied them both to a nearby tree, while Rogers scatters the debris from Childers’s work across the drive.

She looks from one man to the other, waiting impatiently for one of them to explain to her what they’re doing. When none of them do, she finally has to ask, “Will someone please explain to me what is happening?”

“Carriage accident,” Rogers says. “You and I will go to the nearest estate, which just happens to be Barclay’s, for help. Meanwhile, Childers and McNeil will have a look around the grounds. Quickly now, muss up your hair and pat a little dirt onto your dress and we’ll be ready.”

Catherine glances down at the white muslin concoction she’s borrowed. It’s too lovely by half to destroy with dirt, but she does it anyway.

Only for you, Andrew, she thinks as she smears the hem and adds a bit of dust to her sleeves.

She hates destroying beautiful things, but she will. Of course she will. And after the wreckage she created of her wedding gown, a little dust on muslin frankly isn’t much to be concerned over.

She leans down and picks up her hem, giving it a hard tug so the fabric tears, then nods in satisfaction.

“There,” she says to Rogers. “Ready.”

He peruses her work and then returns her nod.

“Discretion, please,” he says to McNeil and Childers. “I don’t need to remind you whose land we stand on.”

“Aye,” McNeil agrees as the two men make their way into the thick underbrush that lines both sides of the road. “No making a ruckus unless we must.”

“Exactly.” Rogers turns to Catherine. “Are you ready, Miss Hope?”

“I suppose so, Mr. Hawthorne,” she says, and the two begin to walk down the long drive.

It’s only mid-morning and already the heat is blazing. Sweat—there’s certainly no other word for it than that—is running down her back and after only a few steps, pooling between her thighs and gathering in the crooks of her knees as well. Her bonnet, a dark navy that she chose to match the sash of her dress, acts as a kind of magnifier for the heat on top of her head, trapping the dampness along her brow and hairline. Sweat films her upper lip, and when she tries to discreetly wipe it off, she manages to swipe dirt across her face.

She is, all in all, irritated and uncomfortable and sticky and worried. She glances back down the road to where they left McNeil and Childers, hoping to see how they’re faring—but they are long gone, swallowed up by the unruly vegetation growing high on both sides of the drive.

“Almost there,” Rogers mutters after a few more minutes. “Let me look at you.” He stops and turns her toward him. “Yes, very good. The dirt on your face is a nice touch.”

She glares at him while he loosens his own cravat and grinds dirt into his coat and trousers too.

“Scruff up your boots,” she says. If she’s going to have dirt on her face, he’s not getting out of this with pristine boots on his feet.

He does as instructed and says, “Now then, we certainly look the part. Benevolently disheveled.”