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As he waited, he gazed around, grateful to find a few pieces of firewood by the hearth, along with a flint and several tapers. Two candles sat within iron stands atop the mantle. They’d at least have heat and light.
Perhaps once she’d warmed herself, she’d be more amenable to searching the kitchen for some food, if any remained. His stomach growled at the mere idea. He hadn’t eaten since morning, and the dim orange glow of sunset glinted through the windows. Nightfall arrived early this time of year. There would be no more traveling today.
Would someone be looking for Emma? A husband? Parents?
And what would they say if they discovered him alone with her?
* * *
The nerve of that man!Priscilla stomped from the cottage, wishing the ground beneath her were his head.
What a day! Forced to deliver a baby. Lost in a snowstorm. How foolish to think her day could get no worse. And yet, here she was, stranded in a cottage with Mr. Timothy Marbry.
A moment of panic had seized her at the mention of his surname. Although she had never met him, she remembered Lord Saxton had a son named Timothy. Concerned he had heard of her blackened reputation, she struggled for a name to provide him which would allow her to maintain her anonymity. It would not do at all to have him racing from her presence for fear of compromise when he realized her true identity. Or worse, send her out into the cold on her own.
Which, at the moment, she in fact was.
Instead, she fabricated a name from a novel she recently read by Miss Jane Austen. Emma was such a lovely name, unlike Priscilla.
She hated her name.
Since it was highly unlikely she would ever cross paths with Mr. Timothy Marbry again once he went on his way, she seized the opportunity and created a whole new persona.
In fact, it might be most enjoyable to pretend to be someone else. It could become a cherished memory she would recall while sentenced to a secluded life in the country as Mrs. Abner Netherborne.
She exhaled a sigh, her breath forming puffs of white clouds, and strode toward the horse.
The animal neighed and shifted sideways as she approached.
She didn’t really like horses. Truth be told, she’d never given them much thought. They pulled carriages and men liked to ride them. God knew why. She untied the bag from the saddle straps, and with two hands, flung it against the cottage door.
“I hope all your clothes fall out, you big oaf!”
“I heard that.” His voice traveled through the walls. It seemed she wasn’t the only one yelling.
Steam came from the horse’s nostrils as it gave a sound snort, then tossed its head.
“Very well, you.” She took a cautious step toward the beast, then untied it from the tethering post. “Let’s find you somewhere warm.”
As if answering her, the horse nodded its head. Perhaps they weren’t so dumb after all.
She’d only been at Mr. Thatcher’s twice, the last time distributing food baskets shortly before he’d passed, and she didn’t remember if he had a stable or barn. With a quick scan around the back of the house, she noticed an outbuilding sitting a respectable distance away.
The snow covered her ankles, and in drifts reached her shins. Each step required more effort. After trudging through and barely clearing the shadow of the house cast from the setting sun, she gave in and lifted her cloak and skirts enough to place her foot in the stirrup.
Once she was seated in the saddle, her feet no longer reached the stirrups, which had been adjusted for Timothy’s long legs.Timothy. Such a nice name for such a despicable man!
With her feet dangling, she nudged the horse forward with the heels of her half-boots. She barely had to guide him with the reins, as he seemed to sense their destination.
Although not warm, the stable was shelter, and she found some hay left in a storage area by the stall. Hands on her hips, she studied the horse, never having had to tend to one herself. With more than a little difficulty, she removed the tack, hoping that Timothy—ugh—would recover enough to brush the poor creature down later.
By the time she returned to the cottage, every muscle in her body, especially her legs, screamed. Without the aid of the horse, trudging back had been torturous, and she practically whooped for joy when she reached the front door.
Luckily for him,Timothy’s—ugh—bag no longer sat by the open doorway. If it had, she would have tossed it at his head as she had his boot. The scent of woodsmoke greeted her as she stepped inside. The delicious warmth of being in the shelter of the cottage would alone have been enough—almost, but fledgling flames blazed with light and nipped at the logs in the hearth, the comforting crackling music to her ears. Candles burned atop corner tables, adding additional light to the growing dimness of the room.
Timothy—ugh—had wrapped his foot and ankle with a cloth, and half hopped, half hobbled from the hearth back to the chair from where he’d so unceremoniously placed his foot against her person.
Without removing her cloak, she took his place in front of the hearth, and after removing her gloves, held her hands before the fire. “Ah.” She flexed her fingers, grateful they still moved. Once feeling came back into her fingertips, she removed her cloak, her back still toward him.
