Page 22 of The Betrothal

Snow piled up, spilling over the window ledges, waves and drifts visible, but even looking over to the barns, there was no way it was below three and a half to four feet deep.

“I have to get to Saint Margaret’s,” I whispered, checking and finding a clock behind me.

“I have to be in Saint Margaret’s, by noon.” My voice was louder now.

Neither of the men replied, Ben had taken up a seat by the table, his sunglasses had lightened in colour but remained tinted and he removed them, twisting them around between his fingers.

Now his glasses were off, the rest of his face became clear, and angelic was insufficient. His high cheekbones were overshadowed by the ice blue of his eyes, framed by thick lashes.

He was watching me, blinking slowly.

The light in the room had brought the other man into clear focus. And where Ben was light, Alex was dark.

Brown hair and stubble on tan skin. Dark eyes, not brown, maybe a grey from what I could see. He wore a thick brown coat over tattered blue jeans and sodden boots, which were all dusted with snow. His face was marked with what could have been grease, his hands too.

“Well, that won’t be possible,” Alex ground out, as if the inconvenience for him was even close to mine.

Panic shifted into adrenaline and I began to yank the joggers over my pyjamas.

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.” I tried to stop the irritation at how Alex now observed me, openly disapproving, from bleeding into my tone.

Unfortunately, women often got further if they were perceived as needing assistance.

“But you must have a mode of travel? A truck?” I hopped, forcing my other leg into the trousers, the Stitch pyjamas sliding up my leg forcing me to dig around inside the bottoms to try to straighten them out.

Ben tilted his head, slipping his glasses back over his eyes, obscuring them. It was bright, but we were inside. What was the need for sunglasses?

“There’s the snowmobiles.” His reply was soft.

“Could one of you take me to the bay on that?” I asked, hopeful. “I can pay?”

Alex snorted and my hope died.

“The snowmobiles can’t make it to the bay. They can barely make it to the manor in this, Ben.”

“Then no, sorry.” Ben stood, brushing his hands down his clothes and strolling over to a staircase I realised occupied the far wall of the house, disappearing from view.

“But–” My words faltered and I swallowed, dread chilling me. “What do I do? I have to be in town. I have to. Midday. I’m meeting them at midday.”

Prickling behind my eyes warned me I was perilously close to crying.

“When will it pass? I need to get to town.” My voice finally cracked.

The hulking form of Alex rose, unfolding to his full height, at least six-foot, and broad.

“A storm that looks like it’ll get somewhere near six-foot snow drifts?” he snorted. “Last time we had weather like this was decades ago.”

I blinked at him, waiting.

“Then it took two, maybe three weeks to lift.”

“Three weeks?” Desperation definitely laced my tone.

He simply laughed, and it wasn’t a happy one.

“In the towns, yeah. But up here? Oxney bowl? A dead zone and a weather trap.” His lip curled. “It could clear in six weeks. I’d be surprised if it was a day under four.”

My jaw hung in horror.