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Voices drifted across the white expanse from what, presumably, was the snow-covered road. As quickly as he could move on his injured foot, he hurried around the stable, hoping to catch their attention, yet stopping short when he heard one man call out.
“Miss Pratt!”
Was that Emma’s last name? Timothy didn’t recall her mentioning it, but it sounded vaguely familiar. Had he heard it from her or from someone else? He prepared to step forward and opened his mouth to call back, but the clarity of the situation halted him. It would ruin her if they discovered she had spent the night alone with him in the cottage, regardless of the fact nothing untoward had happened.
Except for that kiss.
As tempting and exciting as it had been, one kiss wasn’t enough to give up his freedom as a bachelor. Not to mention what Emma wanted. Her request to leave her outside of town clearly indicated she desired their predicament remain a secret. Although she admitted she didn’t harbor a tendre for her Mr. Netherborne, it would be unfair of Timothy to presume she wished out of the betrothal.
Instead, he remained hidden—and silent, but ready to spring into action should she need him.
The other man, who appeared older, pointed to the cottage. Wisps of smoke from the dying embers of the fire rose from the chimney. The men moved their horses toward the cottage, and the younger man called out once more. “Miss Pratt! Are you inside?”
Emma stepped outside, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She glanced around, her movements frantic and jerky, and although Timothy couldn’t see her well, he imagined her panic, thinking they’d discovered her in a compromising situation.
The younger man dismounted and approached.
Strange, he didn’t run toward her, gathering her in his arms in relief as Timothy expected, but instead, motioned about with his arm, speaking to her in words Timothy couldn’t hear.
Emma shook her head, and once the other man dismounted, they joined her and entered the cottage.
* * *
Icy chills havingnothing to do with the weather snaked up Priscilla’s spine as she faced Mr. Netherborne and Mr. Wilson. Hearing someone call her by her last name—which she had purposely kept from Timothy, had set her on the verge of panic.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as Mr. Netherborne approached.
“Thank the heavens, Miss Pratt. We’ve been looking for you for hours.” Mr. Netherborne pointed a finger toward her face. “You’re injured.”
Memories of Timothy’s gentle touch as he tended to her scratches flooded her mind. “No, I’m fine. Cold and hungry, but unharmed.”
Mr. Wilson sent her a sheepish and apologetic glance. “I hadn’t even realized you left until late last night. When I arrived at your home this morning to ensure you had returned safely, your poor mother panicked and insisted I enlist Mr. Netherborne in a search.”
Mr. Netherborne nodded. “Praise God Mr. Wilson noticed the smoke from Mr. Thatcher’s cottage. Perhaps we should step inside and warm ourselves a mite before returning you safely home?”
Priscilla nodded and led them inside. She quickly scanned the room, grateful that Timothy’s boots, coat, scarf, and hat weren’t lying about. What was keeping him? She cast a quick glance around again, worried he would appear any second and cause her ruination.
A small part of her almost hoped for it. Timothy Marbry seemed a much more amiable and exciting prospect for a husband than Abner Netherborne. But she had serious doubts he would offer to marry her. Especially when he discovered her true identity.
The fire in the living room hearth had long since died. The smoke Mr. Netherborne had mentioned must have come from the upstairs fireplace. “I’m afraid it’s not very warm in here. I started a fire upstairs in the bedroom.” At least that part was true.
Mr. Netherborne gazed around the room, his expression calm, his demeanor unflappable. “What happened, Miss Pratt?” Even his voice seemed serene, as if he had little concern for her welfare.
Rather than answer Mr. Netherborne directly, she turned toward Mr. Wilson, who seemed more concerned than her fiancé. “I’m sorry to have worried you. It appeared you no longer had need of me, and I didn’t want to intrude further. I thought I could make it home by myself, but I became disoriented from the snow and wandered off the road.”
“It’s a blessing you remembered Mr. Thatcher’s place here,” Mr. Wilson said. “You could have frozen to death.”
Mr. Netherborne grew pensive, his eyes focused on something behind her. “You started the fire yourself?” he asked, turning his attention back to her.
Did she note a touch of suspicion in his tone?
She squared her shoulders. “I did. I’m not completely useless.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
Priscilla grew tired of the interrogation. But more importantly, she needed to remove herself before Timothy reappeared.
Where the devil is he?
